Highgate Rise - Anne Perry [32]
He strode out along the footpath and was so lost in thought that the first cab passed him by and was over the rise in the hill and disappearing before he realized it.
In the morning he returned to Highgate to see if Murdo had discovered anything of interest, but he was already out hot on the scent, and had left only the briefest notes to that effect. Pitt thanked the desk sergeant, who still grudged him his interference in a local matter which he believed they could well have handled themselves. Pitt left and went back to the hospital to speak to the Shaws’ butler.
The man was propped up in bed looking haggard, his eyes deep socketed with shock and pain, his face unshaved and his left arm bound in bandages. There were raw grazes on his face and one scab beginning to form. It was unnecessary for the doctor to tell Pitt that the man had been badly burned.
Pitt stood by the bedside and in spite of the fact that it was blood, carbolic, sweat and the faint odor of chloroform that he could smell in the air, the sharp stench of smoke and wet cinders came back to him as if he had stood by the ruined house only a few minutes since, and then seen the charred wreck of Clemency Shaw’s body lying on a stretcher in the morgue, barely recognizable as human. The anger inside him knotted his stomach and his chest till he found it hard to form the words in his mouth or force the breath to make speech.
“Mr. Burdin?”
The butler opened his eyes and looked at Pitt with no interest.
“Mr. Burdin, I am Inspector Pitt of the Metropolitan Police. I have come to Highgate to find out who set the fire that burned Dr. Shaw’s house—” He did not mention Clemency. Perhaps the man had not been told. This would be a cruel and unnecessary shock. He should be informed with gentleness, by someone prepared to stay with him, perhaps even to treat his grief if it worsened his condition.
“I don’t know,” Burdin said hoarsely, his lungs still seared by the smoke. “I saw nothing, heard nothing till Jenny started screaming out. Jenny’s the housemaid. Her bedroom’s nearest the main house.”
“We did not imagine you had seen the fires started.” Pitt tried to sound reassuring. “Or that you knew anything obvious. But there may have been something which, on reflection, could be of importance—perhaps when put together with other things. May I ask you some questions?” It was a polite fiction to seek permission, but the man was badly shocked, and in pain.
“Of course.” Burdin’s voice dropped to a croak. “But I’ve already been thinking, turning it over and over in my mind.” His face furrowed now with renewed effort. “But I don’t remember anything different at all—not a thing. Everything was just as—” The breath caught in his throat and he began to cough as the raw lining hurt anew.
Pitt was confused for a moment, panic growing inside him as the man’s face suffused with blood as he struggled for air, tears streaming down his cheeks. He stared around for help, and there was none. Then he saw water on the table in the corner and reached for it, tipping it into a cup clumsily in his haste. He clasped Burdin around the shoulders and eased him up and put the cup to his lips. At first he choked on it, spluttering it over himself, then at last enough trickled down his burning throat and cooled it. The pain was eased and he lay back, exhausted. It would be cruel and pointless to require him to speak again. But the questions must be asked.
“Don’t speak,” Pitt said firmly. “Turn your hand palm up if the answer is yes, and down if it is no.”
Burdin smiled weakly and turned his palm up.
“Good. Did anyone call on the doctor at his house that day, other than his surgery appointments?”
Palm up.
“Tradesmen or business?”
Palm down.
“Personal acquaintance?”
Palm on its side.
“Family?”
Palm up.
“The Worlingham sisters?”
Palm down, very definitely.
“Mr. or Mrs. Hatch?”
Palm up.
“Mrs. Hatch?”
Palm down.
“Mr. Hatch? Was there a quarrel, raised voices, unpleasantness?” Although Pitt could think of nothing that could aggravate a temperamental difference into murder.