Resurrection Row (10 page)

Charlotte wanted to laugh; perhaps it was a relief from nervousness, especially after last evening’s wretched, silly conversation with Pitt.

“Yes,” she agreed warmly. “Dominic came to see me yesterday, you know. He is very afraid the continued investigation may cause a lot of unkind speculation.”

“No doubt,” Vespasia said drily. “And most of it to the effect that either he or Alicia killed him—or both together.”

She had said it so immediately Charlotte’s mind flew to the obvious. “Does that mean they have started already?”

“They are bound to have,” Vespasia replied. “There is little enough else to talk about at this time of the year. At least half of Society is in the country, and those of us who are left are bored to stupidity. What more exciting than the rumor of a love
affaire
or a murder?”

“That’s vicious!” Charlotte was angry at the callousness of it, the enjoyment of other people’s tragedies, almost as if the gossipers were willing it to be true.

“Of course.” Vespasia looked at her with amusement and regret under her hooded eyelids. “Nothing much changes; it is still bread and circuses. Why do you think they baited bears or bulls?”

“I’d hoped we had learned better,” Charlotte replied. “We are civilized now. We don’t throw Christians to the lions anymore.”

Vespasia raised her eyebrows, and her face was perfectly straight. “You are out of date, my dear, far out: Christians are passé now; it is Jews who are the fashion. They are the stuff for the circuses.”

Memories of delicate social cruelty came back to Charlotte. “Yes, I know. And I suppose if there isn’t a Jew or a social climber to hand, then Dominic will do as well.”

The maid came in with a tray with hot chocolate in a silver pot and very small cakes. She set it in front of Vespasia and waited for acceptance.

“Thank you.” Vespasia regarded it down her nose. “Very good. I’ll call if I wish for you again. For the time being, I am not at home.”

“Yes, m’lady,” and the girl departed, her face still wide open with surprise. Why in goodness’ name should her ladyship treat this Mrs. Pitt, whom no one had ever heard of, with such extra-ordinary regard? She could hardly wait to regale the other servants with the news and discover if anyone knew the answer.

Charlotte sipped the chocolate; she had a weakness for it, but it was something she could not often afford.

“I suppose someone must think he was murdered,” she said presently. “Or they would not keeping digging him up!”

“It seems the most likely explanation,” Vespasia agreed with a frown. “Although I cannot for the life of me imagine who would do such a thing. Unless, of course, it is the old woman.”

“What old woman?” For the moment Charlotte could not think whom she meant.

“His mother, the old dowager Lady Fitzroy-Hammond. Fearful old creature, lives in her bedroom most of the time, except Sundays, when she goes to church and watches everyone. She has ears like a ferret, although she affects to be deaf so people will not be discreet in front of her. She never comes anywhere near me; in fact, she took to her bed for a week when she heard I had come to live in the Park, because I am nearly as old as she is, and I can remember her perfectly well fifty years ago. She is forever recalling her youth and what a splendid time she had, the balls and the carriage rides, the handsome men and the love
affaires.
Only her memory has in it a great deal more than mine has, and a good deal more highly spiced. I recall her as a mouse-colored girl far too short in the leg for elegance, who married above herself, rather later than most. And winters were just as cold then, orchestras just as out of tune, and the handsome men just as vain and every bit as silly as they are now.”

Charlotte smiled into her chocolate cup. “I’m sure she must hate you soundly, even if you never say anything at all about it. No doubt part of her remembers the truth. Poor Alicia. I suppose she is in a constant comparison, a moth to the memories of a butterfly?”

“Very well put.” Vespasia’s eyes glittered in appreciation. “If it were the old woman who had been killed, I would hardly have blamed her.”

“Did Alicia love Lord Augustus—I mean in the beginning?” Charlotte asked.

Vespasia gave her a long stare. “Don’t be ingenuous, Charlotte. You are not so long out of society as that! I dare say she was fond enough of him; he had no intolerable habits, so far as I am aware. He was a bore, but no more so than many men. He was not generous, but neither was he mean. He certainly kept her well enough. He seldom drank to excess, nor was he indecently sober.” She sipped at her chocolate and looked Charlotte straight in the eye. “But he was no match for young Dominic Corde, as I dare say you know for yourself!”

Charlotte felt the color sweep up her face. Vespasia could not possibly know of her infatuation with Dominic, unless Pitt had told her; or Emily? But they would not! Vespasia must know he had been her brother-in-law. Thomas would say so. She knew he liked Vespasia and would tell her that much of the truth.

Charlotte chose her words very slowly. To lie would be pointless and lose Vespasia’s regard. She made herself look up and smile.

“No, I should imagine not,” she answered lightly. “Especially if he was her father’s choice rather than her own. There is nothing to put one off anything like not having chosen it yourself, even if you might have liked it well enough otherwise.”

Vespasia’s smile lit up her face, going all the way to her eyes. “Then you did well, my dear. I’m sure Thomas Pitt was not your father’s choice!”

Charlotte found herself grinning, a tide of memories coming back to her; although to be fair, Papa had not fought her nearly as hard as might have been expected. Perhaps he was glad enough she had at last made a choice at all? But she had not come here merely to enjoy herself. She must get back to the purpose.

“Do you think the old lady could have hired someone to dig up Lord Augustus, just to spite Alicia?” she asked a little too bluntly. “Jealousy can be very obsessive, especially in someone who has nothing else to occupy herself with but the past. Perhaps she has even convinced herself it is true?”

“It may be true.” Vespasia weighed it in her mind. “Although I doubt it. Alicia does not seem to have the desperation in her actually to have murdered the old fool, even for Dominic Corde. But then, one seldom knows what fires may burn underneath a comparatively passive exterior. And perhaps Dominic is greedier than we think, or more urgently pressed by creditors. He dresses extremely well. I should think his tailor’s bill is no small matter.”

The thought was ugly, and Charlotte refused to entertain it. She knew she might well have to eventually—but not yet, not until they had tried every other answer.

“What possibilities are there, apart from that?” she said cheerfully.

“None that I know of,” Vespasia admitted. “I cannot imagine anyone else of his social acquaintance either hating him enough to kill him, or loving him enough to wish him avenged. He was not the sort of man to inspire passion of any sort.”

Charlotte could not give up. “Tell me about the other people in the Park.”

“There are several who would be of no interest to you; they are away for the winter. Of those who are here, I can see no reason why any should be involved, but you may as well consider them. Sir Desmond and Lady Cantlay you have already met; they are pleasant enough, quite harmless, I should have judged. If Desmond has anything more to him, he should be on the stage; he is the finest actor I have seen. Gwendoline may be a little bored, like many women of her station with everything provided for her and nothing to complain of, but if she took a lover it would most assuredly not have been Augustus, even had he unbent himself so far as to be willing. He was a great deal more boring than Desmond.”

“Could it have anything to do with money?” Charlotte was clutching at extremes.

Vespasia’s eyebrows went up. “Not likely, my dear. Everyone in the Park has more than adequate means, and I don’t believe anyone lives significantly beyond them. But if one is temporarily embarrassed, one goes to the Jews, not to Augustus Fitzroy-Hammond. And there are no fortunes to be inherited, except by the widow.”

“Oh.” It was disappointing. As always, it led back to Dominic and Alicia.

“The St. Jermyns were well acquainted,” Vespasia continued. “But I cannot conceive of any reason why they should wish him harm. In fact, Edward St. Jermyn is far too involved in his own affairs to have time or effort for anyone else’s.”

“Romantic
affaires
?” Charlotte’s hopes rose.

Vespasia pulled a small, dry face. “Certainly not. He is a member of the House of Lords and has great ambitions for office. At the moment he is drafting a private member’s bill to reform conditions in workhouses, particularly with regard to children. Believe me, Charlotte, it is very much needed. If you have any idea of the suffering of children in such places, that may well affect them all their lives— He will achieve a great thing if he succeeds, and a good deal of regard throughout the country.”

“Then he is a reformer?” Charlotte said eagerly.

Vespasia looked at her down her long nose. She sighed a little wearily, “No, my dear, I fear he is no more than a politician.”

“You are being unkind! That is quite cynical!” Charlotte accused.

“It is quite realistic. I have known Edward St. Jermyn for some time, and his father before him. Nevertheless, it is an excellent bill, and I am giving it every support I can. Indeed, we were discussing it when Thomas came here last week. I see he did not mention it.”

“No.”

“He seemed to feel strongly about it; in fact, I felt it was hard for him to be civil. He looked at my lace and Hester’s silk as if it had been a crime in itself. He must see a great deal more of poverty than any of us imagine, but if we did not buy the clothes, how would the seamstresses get even the few pence they do?” Her face tightened, and for the first time all the wit was gone out of her voice. “Although Somerset Carlisle says that even sewing eighteen hours a day, till their fingers bleed, they still do not earn enough to live. Many of them are driven to the streets, where they can make as much in a night as they would in a fortnight on the sweatshop floor.”

“I know,” Charlotte said quietly. “Thomas seldom speaks of it, but when he does I cannot rid myself of the visions it brings for nights afterwards: twenty or thirty men and women huddled together in a room, probably below the street, with no air and no sanitation, working, eating, and sleeping there, just to make enough to cling to life. It is obscene. God alone knows what a workhouse must be like, if they still prefer the sweatshop. I feel so guilty because I do nothing—and yet I go on doing nothing!”

Vespasia’s face warmed to her honesty. “I know, my dear. Yet there is very little we can do. It is not an isolated instance, or even a hundred instances; it is a whole order of things. You cannot relieve it by charity, even had you the means. It needs law. And to initiate laws, you must be in Parliament. That is why we need men like Edward St. Jermyn.”

For some time they sat silently; then at last Charlotte brought herself back to the thing that she could accomplish, or at least could try. “That doesn’t answer why Lord Augustus was dug up, does it?”

Vespasia took the last cake. “No, not in the least. Nor do I think the other people in the Park will enlighten the situation. Somerset Carlisle never showed anything for Augustus beyond the courtesy required of good manners; he, like St. Jermyn, is far too occupied with the bill. Major Rodney and his two sisters are very retiring. They are maiden ladies and will assuredly remain so. They busy themselves with domestic chores, largely of a refined nature, such as fine sewing and the making of endless preserves, and I think rather a lot of homemade wine from quite dreadful ingredients like parsnips and nettles. Perfectly appalling! Not that I have tasted it above once! Major Rodney has left the army now, of course, and collects butterflies, or something small that crawls around on dozens of legs. He has been writing his memoirs of the Crimea for the last twenty years. I had no idea so much had happened out there!”

Charlotte hid a smile.

“And there is a portrait artist,” Vespasia continued, “Godolphin Jones, but he has been absent for some little while, in France, I believe, so he could not have dug up Augustus. And I can think of no possible reason why he should wish to.

“The only other person,” she concluded, “is an American called Virgil Smith! Quite outrageous, of course. Society will abhor him if he is brazen enough to remain here next Season, but then on the other hand he is laden with money from something quite uncouth, like cattle, out in wherever it is he comes from, so they will not be able to refrain from courting him at the same time. It should be greatly entertaining. Except that I hope the poor creature does not get too hurt. He really is very good-natured and seems to be quite without airs, which is such a change. Of course, his manners and his appearance are both disasters, but money covers a multitude of sins.”

“And kindness even more,” Charlotte pointed out.

“Not in Society!” Vespasia stared at her. “Society is all to do with what seems, and nothing to do with what is. That is one of the reasons you will find it uncommonly difficult to discover whether Augustus was killed, by whom, or why—and still less if anybody cares!”

While Charlotte was sitting in Vespasia’s carriage being driven home, feeling self-conscious but utterly pampered, turning over in her mind the fruits of the journey, or rather the lack of them, in the churchyard of St. Margaret’s two gravediggers were standing in the rain for a moment’s respite from the long and heavy duty of preparing the earth to receive Augustus Fitzroy-Hammond yet again.

“I dunno, ’Arry,” one of them said, wiping the drop off the end of his nose. “I’m beginning to think as I could make me livin’ purely out o’ this, just buryin’ ’is lordship. No sooner does we ’ave ’im down there as some great fool goes an’ digs ’im up again!”

“I know what you mean,” Harry sniffed. “I dreams about this, I does! Spend me life goin’ in an’ out o’ this bleedin’ grave. You should ’ear what my Gertie says about it! She says it’s only them wot’s murdered as won’t rest, an’ I tell you, Arfur, I’m beginnin’ to think as she’s right! I don’t suppose this is the last time we’ll be in an’ out of ’ere!”