by Anne Perry
“Balderdash!” Shaw snapped. “Virtue isn’t in any danger—and prancing about on the heath with swords certainly isn’t going to defend anything at all.”
“There is no legal way to prevent the pernicious views and the dangerous and degrading ideas he propagates,” Pascoe shouted across Prudence’s instructions, his lips white with pain.
Lally was already setting off again towards the road on her errand. Her upright figure, shoulders back, was well on its way.
“There should be.” Hatch shook his head. “It is part of our modern sickness that we admire everything new, regardless of its merit.” His voice rose a little and he chopped his hands in the air. “We get hold of any new thought, rush to print any idea that overturns and makes mock of the past, the values that have served our forefathers and upon which we have built our nation and carried the faith of Christ to other lands and peoples.” His shoulders were hunched with the intensity of his emotion. “Mr. Pascoe is one of the few men in our time who has the courage and the vision to fight, however futilely, against the tide of man’s own intellectual arrogance, his indiscriminate greed for everything new without thought as to its value, or the result of our espousing it.”
“This is not the place for a sermon, Josiah.” Shaw was busy working on Dalgetty’s cheek and did not even look up at him. Murdo was assisting him with considerable competence. “Especially the arrant rubbish you’re talking,” he went on. “Half these old ideas you’re rehearsing are fossilized walls of cant and hypocrisy protecting a lot of rogues from the light of day. It’s long past time a few questions were asked and a few shoddy pretenses shown for what they are.”
Hatch was so pale he might have been the one wounded. He looked at Shaw’s back with a loathing so intense it was unnerving that Shaw was oblivious of it.
“You would have every beautiful and virtuous thing stripped naked and paraded for the lewd and the ignorant to soil—and yet at the same time you would not protect the innocent from the mockery and the godless innovations of those who have no values, but constant titillation and endless lust of the mind. You are a destroyer, Stephen, a man whose eyes see only the futile and whose hand holds only the worthless.”
Shaw’s fingers stopped, the swab motionless, a white blob half soaked with scarlet. Dalgetty was still shaking. Maude Dalgetty had appeared from somewhere while no one was watching the path across the field.
Shaw faced Hatch. There was dangerous temper in every line of his face and the energy built up in the muscles of his body till he seemed ready to break into some violent motion.
“It would give me great pleasure,” he said almost between his teeth, “to meet you here myself, tomorrow at dawn, and knock you senseless. But I don’t settle my arguments that way. It decides nothing. I shall show you what a fool you are by stripping away the layers of pretense, the lies and the illusions—”
Pitt was aware of Prudence, frozen, her face ashen pale, her eyes fixed on Shaw’s lips as if he were about to pronounce the name of some mortal illness whose diagnosis she had long dreaded.
Maude Dalgetty, on the other hand, looked only a little impatient. There was no fear in her at all. And John Dalgetty, half lying on the ground, looked aware only of his own pain and the predicament he had got himself into. He looked at his wife with a definite anxiety, but it was obvious he was nervous of her anger, not for her safety or for Shaw in temper ruining her long-woven reputation.
Pitt had seen all he needed. Dalgetty had no fear of Shaw—Prudence was terrified.
“The whited sepulchers—” Shaw said viciously, two spots of color high on his cheeks. “The—”
“This is not the time,” Pitt interrupted, putting himself physically between them. “There’s more than enough blood spilled already—and enough pain. Doctor, get on with treating your patients. Mr. Hatch, perhaps you would be good enough to go back to the street and fetch some conveyance so we can carry Mr. Pascoe and Mr. Dalgetty back to their respective homes. If you want to pursue the quarrel on the merits or necessities for censorship, then do it at a more fortunate time—and in a more civilized manner.”
For a moment he thought neither of them was going to take any notice of him. They stood glaring at each other with the violence of feeling as ugly as that between Pascoe and Dalgetty. Then slowly Shaw relaxed, and as if Hatch had suddenly ceased to be of any importance, turned his back on him and bent down to Dalgetty’s wound again.
Hatch, his face like gray granite, his eyes blazing, swiveled on his heel, tearing up the grass, and marched along the footpath back towards the road.
Maude Dalgetty went, not to her husband, with whom she was obviously out of patience, but to Prudence Hatch, and gently put her arm around her.
10
“I SUPPOSE we should have expected it—had we bothered to take the matter seriously at all,” Aunt Vespasia said when Charlotte told her about the duel in the field. “One might have hoped they would have more sense, but had they any proportion in things in the first place, they would not have become involved in such extremes of opinion. Some men lose track of reality so easily.”
“Thomas said they were both injured,” Charlotte went on. “Quite unpleasantly. I knew they said a great deal about the subject of freedom of expression, and the need to censor certain ideas in the public interest, but I did not expect it to come to actual physical harm. Thomas was very angry indeed—it all seems so farcical, in the face of real tragedy.”
Vespasia sat very upright and her concentration seemed to be entirely inward, as if she did not see the graciousness of the room around her, or the gentle movement of the bronzing beech leaves outside the window, dappling the light.
“Failure, disillusion and love rejected can all make us behave in ways that seem absurd, my dear—perhaps loneliness most of all. It does not lessen the pain in the slightest, even if you are one who is able to laugh while you weep. I have thought at times that laughter is man’s greatest salvation—and at other times that it is what damns him beneath the animals. Beasts may kill one another, they may ignore the sick or distressed—but they never mock. Blasphemy is a peculiarly human ability.”
Charlotte was confused for a moment. Vespasia had taken the thought much further than anything she had intended. Perhaps she had overdramatized the scene.
“The whole quarrel was about the rights of censorship,” she said, starting to explain herself. “That wretched monograph of Amos Lindsay’s, which is academic now, since the poor man is dead anyway.”
Vespasia stood up and walked over towards the window.
“I thought it was the question as to whether some men have the right to make mock of other men’s gods, because they believe them to be either vicious or absurd—or simply irrelevant.”
“One has the right to question them,” Charlotte said with irritation. “One must, or there will be no progress of ideas, no reforming. The most senseless ideologies could be taught, and if we cannot challenge them, how are we to know whether they are good or evil? How can we test our ideas except by thinking—and talking?”
“We cannot,” Vespasia replied. “But there are many ways of doing it. And we must take responsibility for what we destroy, as well as for what we create. Now tell me, what was it Thomas said about Prudence Hatch being so mesmerized with fright? Did she imagine Shaw was going to let slip some appalling secret?”
“That is what Thomas thought—but he has never persuaded Shaw to tell him anything at all that would indicate any secret he knows worth killing to hide.”
Vespasia turned to face Charlotte.
“You have met the man—is he a fool?”
Charlotte thought for several seconds, visualizing Shaw’s dynamic face with its quick, clear eyes, the power in him, the vitality that almost overflowed.
“He’s extremely intelligent,” she replied frankly.
“I daresay,” Vespasia agreed dryly. “That is not the same thing. Many people have high intelligence and no wisdom at all. You have not answered m
e.”
Charlotte smiled very slighüy. “No, Aunt Vespasia, I am not sure that I can. I don’t think I know.”
“Then perhaps you had better find out.” Vespasia arched her brows very gently but her eyes were unwavering.
Very reluctantly Charlotte rose to her feet, a quiver of excitement inside her, and a very real sense of fear which was getting larger with every moment. This time she could not hide behind a play of innocence as she had done so often in the past when meddling in Pitt’s cases. Nor would she go with some slight disguise as she had often done, the pretense of being some gentlewoman of no account, up from the country, and insinuate herself into a situation, then observe. Shaw clearly knew exactly who she was and the precise nature of her interest. To try to deceive him would be ridiculous and demean them both.
She must go, if she went at all, quite openly as herself, frank about her reasons, asking questions without opportunity of camouflage or retreat. How could she possibly behave in such a way that it would be anything but intrusive and impertinent—and hideously insensitive?
It was on the edge of her tongue to make an excuse, simply say all that was in her mind; then she saw Vespasia’s slender shoulders stiff as a general commanding a charge to battle, and her eyes as steady as a governess controlling a nursery. Insubordination was not even to be considered. Vespasia had already understood all her arguments, and would accept none of them.
“ ‘England expects that every man will do his duty,’ ” Charlotte said with a ghost of a smile.
A spark of laughter lit Vespasia’s eyes.
“Quite,” she agreed relentiessly. “You may take my carriage.”
“Thank you, Aunt Vespasia.”
Charlotte arrived at the lodging house where Shaw was temporarily resident exactly as the landlady was serving luncheon. This was ill-mannered in the extreme, but most practical. It was probably the only time when she could have found him present and not either in the act of repacking his bag to leave again or trying to catch up with his notes and messages.
He was obviously surprised to see her, when the landlady showed her in, but the expression on his face showed far more pleasure than irritation. If he minded being interrupted in his meal he hid it with great skill.
“Mrs. Pitt. How very agreeable to see you.” He rose, setting his napkin aside, and came around to greet her, holding out his hand and taking hers in a strong, warm grip.
“I apologize for calling at such an inconvenient time.” She was embarrassed already, and she had not yet even begun. “Please do not allow me to spoil your luncheon.” It was a fatuous remark. She had already done so by her mere presence. Whatever she said, he would not allow her to wait in the parlor while he ate in the dining room, and even if he were to, it could hardly be a comfortable repast in such circumstances. She felt her face coloring with awareness of the clumsy way she had begun. How could she possibly ask him all the intimate and personal questions she wished? Whether she ever learned if he was a fool—in Aunt Vespasia’s terms of reference—she herself most certainly was.
“Have you eaten?” he asked, still holding her hand.
She seized the opportunity he offered.
“No—no, I have somehow mislaid time this morning, and it is much later than I had realized.” It was a lie, but a very convenient one.
“Then Mrs. Turner will fetch you something, if you care to join me.” He indicated the table set for one. Whatever other lodgers there were resident, they appeared to take their midday meal elsewhere.
“I would not dream of inconveniencing Mrs. Turner.” She had only one answer open to her. She cooked herself; she knew perfectly well any woman with the slightest economy in mind did not prepare more than she knew would be required. “She cannot have been expecting me. But I should be most happy to take a cup of tea, and perhaps a few slices of bread and butter—if she would be so good. I had a late breakfast, and do not wish for a full meal.” That was not true either, but it would serve. She had eaten a considerable number of tomato sandwiches at Aunt Vespasia’s.
He swung his arms wide in an expansive gesture and walked over to the bell, pulling it sharply.
“Excellent,” he agreed, smiling because he knew as well as she did that they were reaching a compromise of courtesy and truth. “Mrs. Himer!” His voice rang through the room and must have been clearly audible to her long before she had even entered the hall, let alone the dining room.
“Yes, Dr. Shaw?” she said patiently as she opened the door.
“Ah! Mrs. Turner, can you bring a pot of tea for Mrs. Pitt—and perhaps a few slices of bread and butter. She is not in need of luncheon, but some slight refreshment would be most welcome.”
Mrs. Turner shook her head in a mixture of doubt and acceptance, glanced once at Charlotte, then hurried away to do as she was requested.
“Sit down, sit down,” Shaw offered, drawing out a chair for her and holding it while she made herself comfortable.
“Please continue with your meal.” She meant it as more than good manners. She knew he worked hard, and hated to think of him obliged to eat his boiled mutton, potatoes, vegetables and caper sauce cold.
He returned to his own seat and began to eat again with considerable appetite.
“What can I do for you, Mrs. Pitt?” It was a simple question and no more than courtesy dictated. Yet meeting his eyes across the polished wood set with dried flowers, a silver cruet stand and assorted handmade doilies, she knew any evasion would meet his immediate knowledge, and contempt.
She did not want to make a fool of herself in his estimation. She was surprised how painful the idea was. And yet she must say something quickly. He was watching her and waiting. His expression had a remarkable warmth; he was not seeking to find the slightest fault with her, and her sudden realization of that only made it worse. Old memories of other men who had admired her, more than admired, came back with a peculiar sharpness, and a sense of guilt which she had thought forgotten.
She found herself telling the truth because it was the only thing that was tolerable.
“I followed Mrs. Shaw’s work,” she said slowly. “I began with the parish council, where I learned very little.”
“You would,” he agreed, his eyes puzzled. “She started from my patients. There was one in particular who did not get better, regardless of my treatment of her. Clemency was concerned, and when she visited her she began to realized it was the condition of the house, the damp, the cold, the lack of clean water and any sanitation. She never would recover as long as she lived there. I could have told her that, but I didn’t because I knew there was nothing that could be done to better it, and it would only cause her distress. Clem felt people’s misery very much. She was a remarkable woman.”
“Yes I know,” Charlotte said quickly. “I went to those same houses—and I asked the same questions she had. I have learned why they didn’t complain to the landlord—and what happened to those who did.”
Mrs. Himer knocked briskly on the door, opened it and brought in a tray with teapot, cup and saucer and a plate of thin bread and butter. She put it down on the table, was thanked, and departed.
Charlotte poured herself a cup of tea, and Shaw resumed his meal.
“They got evicted and had to seek accommodation even less clean or warm,” Charlotte continued. “I followed them down the scale from one slum to another, until I saw what I think may be the worst there is, short of sleeping in doorways and gutters. I was going to say I don’t know how people survive—but of course they don’t. The weak die.”
He said nothing, but she knew from his face that he understood it even better than she did, and felt the same helplessness, the anger that it should be, the desire to lash out at someone—preferably the clean and comfortable who chose to laugh and look the other way—and the same pity that haunted both of them whenever the eyes closed and the mind relaxed vigilance, when the hollow faces came back, dull with hunger and dirt and weariness.
“I followed her all the
way to one particular street she went where the houses were so crammed with people old and young, men and women, children and even babies, all together without privacy or sanitation, twenty or thirty in a room.” She ate a piece of bread and butter because it had been provided—memory robbed her of appetite. “Along the corridor and up the stairs was a brothel. Down two doors was a gin mill with drunken women rolling about on the steps and in the gutter. In the basement was a sweatshop where women worked eighteen hours a day without daylight or air—” She stopped, but again she saw in his eyes that he knew these places; if not this particular one, then a dozen others like it.
“I discovered how hard it is to find out who owns such buildings,” she continued. “They are hidden by rent collectors, companies, managers, lawyers’ offices, and more companies. At the very end there are powerful people. I was warned that I would make enemies, people who could make life most unpleasant for me, if I persisted in trying to embarrass them.”
He smiled bleakly, but still did not interrupt. She knew without question that he believed her. Perhaps Clemency had shared the same discoveries and the same feelings with him.
“Did they threaten her also?” she asked. “Do you know how close she came to learning names of people who might have been afraid she would make their ownership public?”
He had stopped eating altogether, and now he looked down at his plate, his face shadowed, a painful mixture of emotions conflicting within him.
“You think it was Clem they meant to kill in the fire, don’t you?”
“I did,” she admitted, and saw him stiffen. His eyes lifted instantly and met hers, searching, startled. “Now I’m not sure,” she finished. “Why should anyone wish to kill you? And please don’t give me an evasive answer. This is too serious to play games with words. Clemency and Amos Lindsay are dead already. Are you sure there will be no more? What about Mrs. Turner and Mr. Oliphant?”