Highgate Rise - Anne Perry [83]
Pitt did not reply, knowing there was no good response and choosing to listen.
Pascoe’s eyes wrinkled up. “He questions all the foundations we have built up over centuries, he casts doubt on the very origin of man and God, he makes the young believe they are invulnerable to the evil of false ideals, the corrosion of cynicism and irresponsibility—and at the same time strips them of the armor of faith. They want to break up and change things without thought. They think they can have things without laboring for them.” He bit his lip and scowled. “What can we do, Mr. Pitt? I have lain awake in the night and wrestled with it, and I know less now than when I started.”
He stood up and walked towards the window, then swung around and came back again.
“I have been to him, of course, pleaded with him to withhold some of the publications he sells, asked him not to praise some of the works he does, especially this Fabian political philosophy. But to no avail.” He waved his hands. “All he says is that information is sacred and all men must have the right to hear and judge for themselves what they believe—and similarly, everyone must be free to put forward any ideas they please, be they true or false, good or evil, creative or destructive. And nothing I say dissuades him. And of course Shaw encourages him with his ideas of what is humorous, when it is really at other people’s expense.”
Murdo was unused to such passion over ideas. He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
“The thing is,” Pascoe continued intently, “people do not always know when he is joking. Take that wretched business of Lindsay. I am profoundly grieved he is dead—and I did not dislike him personally, you understand—but I felt he was deeply wrong to have written that monograph. There are foolish people, you know”—he searched Pitt’s face—“who believe this new nonsense about a political order which promises justice by taking away private property and paying everyone the same, regardless of how clever or how diligent they are. I don’t suppose you’ve read this miserable Irishman, George Bernard Shaw? He writes so divisively, as if he were trying to stir up contention and make people dissatisfied. He talks of people with large appetites and no dinner at one end, and at the other, people with large dinners and no appetites. And of course he is all for freedom of speech.” He laughed sharply. “He would be, wouldn’t he? He wants to be able to say anything he pleases himself. And Lindsay reported him.”
He stopped suddenly. “I’m sorry. I know nothing that can be of help to you, and I do not wish to speak ill of others when such an issue is at stake, especially the dead. I slept deeply until I was awoken by the fire bells, and poor Lindsay’s house was a bonfire in the sky.”
Pitt and Murdo left, each in his own thoughts as they stepped out of the shelter of the porch into the icy wind. All through an unfruitful visit to the Clitheridges they said nothing to each other. Lindsay’s manservant could give them no help as to the origin of the fire, only that he had woken when the smell of smoke had penetrated his quarters, at the back of the house, by which time the main building was burning fiercely and his attempts to rescue his master were hopeless. He had opened the connecting door to be met by a wall of flame, and even as he sat hunched in Clitheridge’s armchair, his face bore mute witness to the dedication of his efforts. His skin was red and wealed with blisters, his hands were bound in thin gauze and linen, and were useless to him.
“Dr. Shaw was ’round here early this morning to put balm on them and bind them for him,” Lally said with shining admiration in her eyes. “I don’t know how he can find the strength, after this new tragedy. He was so fond of Amos Lindsay, you know, apart from the sheer horror of it. I think he must be the strongest man