Highgate Rise - Anne Perry [82]
“Yes sir. We got an arsonist who done this kind o’ thing before. Never killed anyone, but reckon that was more luck than anything. Method’s the same—fuel oil. Done it over Kentish Town way up ’til now, but that’s only a step away. Got too ’ot for ’im there an’ ’e moved north, I reckon.”
Pitt was startled and he tried without success to keep the disbelief out of his face. “Have you arrested him?”
“Not yet, but we will. We know ’is name an’ where ’e lodges. Only a matter of time.” The man smiled and met Pitt’s eyes. “Seems like they didn’t need to send a top officer from Bow Street to ’elp us. We done it ourselves: just solid police work—checkin’ an’ knowin’ our area. Mebbe you’d best go an’ give them an ’and in Whitechapel—seems this Jack the Ripper’s got the ’ole city in a state o’ terror.”
“Takin’ photographs o’ the dead women’s eyes,” another constable added unhelpfully. “ ’Cause they reckon that the last thing a person sees is there at the back o’ their eyes, if you can just get it. But we got no corpses worth mentioning—poor devils.”
“And we’ve got no murderer worth mentioning yet either,” Pitt added. He remembered to exercise some tact just in time. He still had to work with these men. “I expect you are already looking into who owned the other property this arsonist burned? In case there is insurance fraud.”
The officer blushed and lied. “Yes sir, seein’ into that today.”
“I thought so.” Pitt looked back at him without a flicker. “Arsonists sometimes have a reason beyond just watching the flames and feeling their own power. Meanwhile I’ll get on with the other possibilities. Where’s Murdo?”
“In the duty room, sir.”
“Thank you.”
Pitt found Murdo waiting for him just inside the door of the duty room. He looked tired and had his hand bandaged and held stiffly at his side. He still looked uncertain whether to like Pitt or resent him, and he had not forgotten Pitt’s treatment of Flora Lutterworth, nor his own inability to prevent it. All his emotions were bare in his face, and Pitt was reminded again how young he was.
“Anything new, apart from the arsonist?” he asked automatically.
“No sir, except the fire chief says this was just like the last one—but I reckon you know that.”
“Fuel oil?”
“Yes sir, most likely—and started in at least three places.”
“Then we’ll go and see if Pascoe is fit to talk to this morning.”
“Yes sir.”
Quinton Pascoe was up and dressed, sitting beside a roaring fire in his withdrawing room, but he still looked cold, possibly from tiredness. There were dark circles under his eyes and his hands were knotted in his lap. He seemed older than Pitt had thought when they last met, and for all his stocky body, less robust.
“Come in, Inspector, Constable,” he said without rising. “I am sorry I was not able to see you last night, but I really cannot tell you anything anyway. I took a little laudanum—I have been most distressed over the turn of events lately, and I wished to get a good night of rest.” He looked at Pitt hopefully, searching to see if he understood. “So much ugliness,” he said with a shake of his head. “I seem to be losing all the time. It puts me in mind of the end of King Arthur’s table, when the knights go out one by one to seek the Holy Grail, and all the honor and companionship begins to crumble apart. Loyalties were ended. It seems to me that a certain kind of nobility died with the end of chivalry, and courage for its own sake, the idealism that believes in true virtue and is prepared to fight and to die to preserve it, and counts the privilege of battle the only reward.”
Murdo looked nonplussed.
Pitt struggled with memory of Morte d’Arthur and Idylls of the King, and thought perhaps he saw a shred of what Pascoe meant.
“Was your distress due to Mrs. Shaw’s death?” Pitt asked. “Or other concerns as well? You spoke of evil—a general sense—”
“That was quite appalling.” Pascoe’s face looked drained, as if he were totally contused and overcome by events. “But there are other things as well.” He shook his head a little and frowned. “I know I keep returning to John Dalgetty,