Highgate Rise - Anne Perry [80]
“Over Flora Lutterworth? Possibly. She’s a handsome girl, and can expect a lot of money. But I doubt Flora had any part in it. Now go home and sleep—and get that hand attended to. If that blister breaks and you get it dirty, God knows what infection you could get. Good night, Murdo.”
“Good night, sir.” And Murdo turned and made his way hastily across the road and past the firemen up towards Highgate.
It took Pitt nearly half an hour to find a cab, and then he only succeeded because some late-night junketer had failed to pay his fare and the cabby was standing on the pavement calling after him instead of making a hasty return to his own bed. He grumbled, and asked for extra, but since Bloomsbury was more or less on his way, he weighed exhaustion against profit and came out on the side of profit.
Charlotte came flying down the stairs almost before Pitt had the door shut, a shawl caught half around her shoulders and no slippers on. She stared at him, waiting for the answer.
“Amos Lindsay’s dead,” he said, taking off his boots and moving frozen toes inside his socks. Really he ought to put his socks in the kitchen to dry out. “Shaw was out on a call again. He got back soon after we arrived.” His coat fell off the hook behind him and landed in a heap on the floor. He was too tired to care. “The servants are all right.”
She hesitated only a moment, absorbing the knowledge. Then she came down the rest of the stairs and put her arms around him, her head against his shoulder. There was no need to talk now; all she could think of was relief, and how cold he was, and dirty, and tired. She wanted to hold him and ease out the horror, make him warm again and let him sleep, as if he had been a child.
“The bed’s warm,” she said at last.
“I’m covered in smut and the smell of smoke,” he answered, stroking her hair.
“I’ll wash the sheets,” she said without moving.
“You’ll have to soak them,” he warned.
“I know. What time do you have to go back?”
“I told Murdo ten o’clock.”
“Then don’t stand here shivering.” She stood back and held out her hand.
Silently he followed her upstairs and as soon as his outer clothes were off, fell gratefully into the warm sheets and held her close to him. Within minutes he was asleep.
Pitt slept late and when he woke Charlotte was already up. He dressed quickly and was downstairs for hot water to shave within five minutes and at the breakfast table in ten to share the meal with his children. This was a rare pleasure, since he was too often gone when they ate.
“Good morning, Jemima,” he said formally. “Good morning, Daniel.”
“Good morning, Papa,” they replied as he sat down. Daniel stopped eating his porridge, spoon in the air, a drop of milk on his chin. His face was soft and the features still barely formed. His baby teeth were even and perfectly formed. He had Pitt’s dark curls—unlike Jemima, two years older, who had her mother’s auburn coloring, but her hair had to be tied in rags all night if it were to curl.
“Eat your porridge,” Jemima ordered him, taking another spoonful of her own. She was inquisitive, bossy, fiercely protective of him, and seldom stopped talking. “You’ll get cold in school if you don’t!”
Pitt hid a smile, wondering where she had picked up that piece of information.
Daniel obeyed. He had learned in his four years of life that it was a lot easier in the long run than arguing, and his nature was not quarrelsome or assertive, except over issues that mattered, like who had how much pudding, or that the wooden fire engine was his, not hers, and that since he was the boy he had the right to walk on the outside. And the hoop was also his—and the stick that went with it.
She was agreeable to most of these, except walking on the outside—she was older, and taller, and therefore it only made sense that she should.
“Are you working on a very important case, Papa?” Jemima asked, her eyes wide. She was very proud of her father, and everything he did was important.
He smiled at her. Sometimes she looked so like Charlotte must have at the same age, the