Highgate Rise - Anne Perry [9]
Pitt ignored the remarkable curios on the walls, and his eyes went immediately to the man standing by the hearth, whose face was drained of emotion, but whose body was still tense, waiting for some action or demand upon it. He turned as he heard the door latch, but there was no interest in his eyes, only acknowledgment of duty. His skin had the pallor of shock, pinched at the sides of the lips and bruised around the eye sockets. His features were strong, and even bereavement in such fearful circumstances could not remove the wit and intelligence from him, nor the caustic individualism Pitt had heard others speak of.
“Good evening, Dr. Shaw,” Pitt said formally. “I am Inspector Pitt, from Bow Street, and this is Constable Murdo from the local station. I regret it is necessary that we ask you some distressing questions—”
“Of course.” Shaw cut off his explanations. As Murdo had said, he was a police surgeon and he understood. “Ask what you must. But first, tell me what you know. Are you sure it was arson?”
“Yes sir. There is no possibility that the fire started simultaneously in four different places, all accessible from the outside, and with no normal household reason, such as a spark from the hearth or a candle spilled in a bedroom or on the stairs.”
“Where did they start?” Shaw was curious now and unable to remain standing on the spot. He began to move about, first to one table, then another, automatically straightening things, compulsively making them tidier.
Pitt stood where he was, near the sofa.
“The fire chief says it was in the curtains,” he replied. “In every case.”
Shaw’s face showed skepticism, quick and even now with a vestige of humor and critical perception which must normally be characteristic in him. “How does he know that? There wasn’t much”—he swallowed—“left of my home.”
“Pattern of the burning,” Pitt answered gravely. “What was completely consumed, what was damaged but still partially standing; and where rubble and glass falls shows to some extent where the heat was greatest first.”
Shaw shook himself impatiently. “Yes, of course. Stupid question. I’m sorry.” He passed a strong, well-shaped hand over his brow, pushing straight fair hair out of his way. “What do you want from me?”
“What time were you called out, sir, and by whom?” He was half aware of Murdo by the door, pencil and notebook in hand.
“I didn’t look at the clock,” Shaw answered. “About quarter past eleven. Mrs. Wolcott was in childbirth—her husband went to a neighbor’s with a telephone.”
“Where do they live?”
“Over in Kentish Town.” He had an excellent voice with clear diction and a timbre that was unique and remarkably pleasing. “I took the trap and drove. I was there all night until the child was delivered. I was on the way home about five o’clock when the police met me—and told me what had happened—and that Clemency was dead.”
Pitt had seen many people in the first hours of loss; it had often been his duty to bear the news. It never failed to distress him.
“It’s ironic,” Shaw continued, not looking at anyone. “She had intended to go out with Maude Dalgetty and spend the night with friends in Kensington. It was canceled at the last moment. And Mrs. Wolcott was not due for another week. I should have been at home, and Clemency away.” He did not add the obvious conclusion. It hung in the silent room. Lindsay stood somber and motionless. Murdo glanced at Pitt and his thoughts were naked for a moment in his face. Pitt knew them already.
“Who was aware that Mrs. Shaw had changed her mind, sir?” he asked.
Shaw met his eyes. “No one but Maude Dalgetty and myself,” he replied. “And I assume John Dalgetty. I don’t know who else they told. But they didn’t know about Mrs. Wolcott. No one did.”
Lindsay was standing beside him. He put his hand on Shaw’s shoulder in a steadying gesture of friendship. “You have a distinctive trap, Stephen. Whoever it was may have seen you leave and supposed the house empty.”
“Then why burn it?” Shaw said grimly.