Resurrection Row (19 page)

“Never stopped him before!” The old lady took another mouthful of fish and spoke round it. “Seen him come here at Christmas when there was snow in the streets! Don’t make a fool of yourself, girl!”

Alicia was too angry to be polite any more. “Last week you were saying he killed Augustus himself!” she snapped. “If he did it, how could he be thinking I did? Or do you imagine we both did it quite independently? If that is the case, then you should be delighted to see us marry—we deserve each other!”

The old lady glared at her, pretending to have her mouth too full to speak, while she thought of a suitable reply.

“Perhaps he thinks you did it?” Alicia went on, gathering impetus with the idea. “After all, the digitalis is yours, not mine! Maybe he is afraid to come and live here in the same house with you?”

“And why should I poison my own son, pray?” The old lady swallowed her mouthful and immediately put in more. “I don’t want to marry some handsome young philanderer!”

“It’s as well,” Alicia snapped. “Since you don’t have the least opportunity.” She was appalled at herself, but years of good behavior had finally snapped, and it was a marvelous feeling, exhilarating, like riding too fast on a good horse.

“Neither do you, my girl!” The old lady’s face was scarlet. “And you’re a fool if you imagine you have. You’ve poisoned your husband for nothing!”

“If you think me a poisoner”—Alicia looked straight into her old eyes—“I am surprised you dine so voraciously at the same table with me and yet pursue my enmity so hard. Are you not afraid for yourself?”

The old lady choked, and her face went livid white. Her hand flew to her throat.

Alicia laughed with real and bitter humor. “If I were going to poison anyone, it would have been you in the beginning, not Augustus; but I am not, which you know as well as I do, or you would have thought of it long ago. You would have had Nisbett tasting everything before you put it in your mouth! Not that I wouldn’t cheerfully have poisoned Nisbett, too!”

The old lady coughed and went into a spasm.

Alicia ignored her. “If you have had sufficient of that fish,” she said coldly, “I’ll have Byrne bring in the meat!”

Pitt knew nothing about the soirée. He was determined to find the identity of the corpse from the cab, and as soon as he received the result of the postmortem he snatched it from the delivery boy and tore it open. He had worn himself out speculating what it might be, something exotic and individual, damning to someone, to account for the extraordinary circumstances. If it were not connected to some crime or scandal, why should anyone perform the grisly and dangerous job of disinterring him and leaving him on the box of a hansom cab? Naturally, they had traced the cab, only to find it had been removed while its owner had been refreshing himself a little too liberally at a local tavern. Not an entirely uncommon occurrence and, on a January night, one for which Pitt had considerable sympathy. Only policemen, cabbies, and lunatics frequented the streets all night long in such weather.

He read the piece of paper from the envelope. It was as ordinary as possible—a stroke. It was a common and utterly natural way to die. There were no marks of violence on the body; in fact, nothing to comment on at all. He had been a man of late middle years, in generally good health, well nourished and well cared for, clean, a little inclined to overweight. In fact, as the morgue attendant had said, precisely what one might expect a dead lord to look like.

Pitt thanked the boy and dismissed him; then put the paper into the drawer of his desk, jammed his hat on his head, tied his muffler up to his ears, and, taking his coat off the stand, went out the door.

There was no open grave. That was perhaps the most sinister part about it; he had three graves and four bodies: Lord Augustus, William Wilberforce Porteous, Horrie Snipe—and this unknown man from the cab. Where was his grave, and why had the grave robber chosen to fill it in again so carefully that it remained hidden?

The other graves had all been within a fairly small perimeter. He would begin looking in the same area. Obviously he could not search all the recent graves for an empty one—he would have to question all the doctors who might have certified a death from stroke within the last four to six weeks. He might be able to narrow it down until he had a mere one or two who could then be taken to see the very unpleasant remains still lying at the morgue.

It took him until the afternoon of the following day before, tired, cold, and very ragged of temper, he climbed the stone stairs to the office of one Dr. Childs.

“He doesn’t see patients this time o’ the day!” his housekeeper said sharply. “You’ll have to wait. ’E’s just ’avin’ ’is tea!”

“I’m not a patient.” Pitt made an effort to control his voice. “I am from the police, and I will not wait.” He met the woman’s eyes and stared until she looked away.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you want ’ere,” she said with a lift of her shoulder. “But I suppose you ’ad better come in. Mind you wipe your feet!”

Pitt followed her in and disturbed a somewhat startled doctor sitting with his boots off in front of the fire, crumpet in his hand and butter on his chin.

Pitt explained his errand.

“Oh,” the doctor said immediately. “Bring another cup, Mrs. Lundy. Have a crumpet, Inspector—yes, that would be Albert Wilson, I imagine. Warm yourself, man, you look perished. Mr. Dunn’s butler, poor fellow. Still, don’t know why I say that, very quick way to go. Dare say he never knew anything about it. Your boots are wet, man; take ’em off and dry your socks out. Can’t bear this weather. Why do you want to know about Wilson? Perfectly normal death. No relation and nothing to leave, anyway. Just a butler, good one, so I hear, but perfectly ordinary fellow. That’s right, make yourself comfortable. Have another crumpet; watch the butter, runs all over the place. What’s the matter with Wilson?” He raised his eyebrows and looked at Pitt curiously.

Pitt warmed to him as much as to the fire. “There was a disinterred corpse found on the box of a hansom cab outside the theatre about three weeks ago—”

“Good God! You mean that was poor old Wilson?” The doctor’s eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline. “Now, why on earth should anybody do that? Your case, is it? Thank you, Mrs. Lundy; now pour the inspector a cup of tea.”

Pitt took the tea gracefully and waited till the housekeeper was reluctantly out of the room.

“Terrible curious woman.” The doctor shook his head at her departing back. “But it has its uses—knows more about my patients than they ever tell me. Can’t cure a man if you know only half of what’s wrong with him.” He watched the steam rise from Pitt’s socks. “Shouldn’t walk around with wet feet. Not good for you.”

“Yes, it is my case.” Pitt could not help smiling. “And the odd thing is, there’s no open grave left. Albert Wilson was buried, I presume?”

“Oh, certainly! Of course he was. I can’t tell you where, but I’m sure Mr. Dunn could.”

“Then I shall ask him,” Pitt replied without moving. He bit into another crumpet. “I’m greatly obliged to you.”

The doctor reached for the teapot.

“Think nothing of it, my dear fellow. Professional duty. Have some more tea?”

Pitt went to the Dunns’ and learned the name of the church, but there was no use going to look for graves in the dark. It was the following morning when he found the grave of Albert Wilson, butler deceased, and obtained permission to open it. By eleven o’clock he was standing beside the gravediggers, watching as they took out the last of the black earth from the coffin lid. He passed the ropes down, waited as they poked them under the box and tied them, then stood back as they climbed out and began to haul. It was an expert job, a matter of balance and leverage. They seemed to find it heavy, finally laying it on the wet earth beside the cavity with a sigh of relief.

“That were rotten ’eavy, guv,” one of them said soberly. “It didn’t ’ardly feel like it were empty to me.”

“Not me.” The other shook his head and stared at Pitt accusingly.

Pitt did not reply but bent and looked at the fastenings on the lid. After a moment he fished in his pocket and pulled out a screwdriver. Silently, he started to work, moving round the coffin till he had all the screws in his hands. He put them in the other pocket, then inserted the blade between the lid and the box and lifted it up.

They were right. It was not empty. The man lying in it was slight, with thick red hair. He wore a loose-fitting white shirt, and there was paint on his fingers, thin, watercolor paint, such as an artist uses.

But it was the face that held Pitt. His eyes were closed, but the skin was bloated and puffy, the lips blue. Under the surface of the skin were dozens of tiny pinprick red marks where the capillaries had burst. But the most obvious of all were the dark bruises on the throat.

Here at last was the one who had been murdered.

S
O MUCH HAD
already centered on Gadstone Park it did not take Pitt long to discover the identity of the man buried in Albert Wilson’s grave. There had been only one artist mentioned—Godolphin Jones. It was but a short step to see if this was his body.

Pitt put down the lid again and stood up. He called over the constable waiting at the end of the path and told him to have the body taken immediately to the morgue; he himself would repair to Gadstone Park and fetch a butler or footman to look at it. He thanked the gravediggers and left them angry and confused, staring at the earth-stained coffin, while he tied his muffler still tighter, pulled his hat forward to keep the drizzle off his face, and went out into the street.

It was a short, grim business. It was a distinctive face, even under the puffing and the marks, and the butler needed only one look.

“Yes, sir,” he said quietly. “That is Mr. Jones.” Then he hesitated. “Sir—he”—He swallowed hard—” he does not look as if he met with a natural death, sir?”

“No,” Pitt said gently. “He was strangled.”

The man was very pale, indeed. The morgue attendant reached for the glass of water.

“Does that mean he was murdered, sir? And there will be an investigation?”

“Yes,” Pitt answered. “I’m afraid it does.

“Oh, dear.” The man sat down on the chair provided. “How very unpleasant.”

Pitt waited for a few minutes while the man collected his composure again; then they both went back to the hansom that was waiting and returned to Gadstone Park. There was a great deal to be done. No other event so far had included Godolphin Jones in any way. He had had no apparent relationship with Augustus Fitzroy-Hammond, or with Alicia or Dominic. In fact, he did not figure in anything that had been mentioned, not even the bill that Aunt Vespasia was so concerned with. No one had claimed any acquaintance with him beyond professional, or the merest sort that one has with any person who lives in the immediate neighborhood.

Charlotte had said Aunt Vespasia thought his paintings a little muddy and highly priced, but that was no cause for personal dislike, far less murder. If one did not like paintings, one simply did not purchase them. And yet he had been popular and, if his house was anything to judge by, of very considerable means.

The house was the place to begin. Possibly it was where he had been murdered, and if that could be established, it was a point from which to pursue time and witnesses. At the very least he would discover the last occasion Godolphin Jones was there, if he was seen leaving, who had called upon him, and when. Servants frequent knew a great deal more about their masters than their masters would have chosen to believe. Discreet and well-judged questioning might elicit all sorts of information.

And, of course, a thorough search must be made of his belongings.

Pitt, in company with a constable, began the long task.

The bedroom yielded nothing. It was orderly, a little consciously dramatic for Pitt’s taste, but clean and unremarkable in every other way. It held all the usual effects: washstand, mirror, chests of drawers for underwear and socks. Suits and shirts were kept in a separate dressing room. There were several guest bedrooms, unoccupied and out of use.

Nor did any of the downstairs rooms offer anything unusual until they came to the studio. Pitt opened the door and stared inside. There was nothing posed or indulgent about this room; the floor was uncarpeted, the windows enormous and taking up the most part of two walls. There was a clutter of odd pieces of statuary in one corner, and what looked like a white garden chair. A Louis Quinze chair was half draped with a length of pink velvet, and an urn lay on its side on the floor. On the wall beside the door were shelves stacked with brushes, pigments, chemicals, linseed oil, spirits, and several bundles of rags. On the floor underneath were a number of canvases, and in the center of the room an easel with two palettes beside it and a half-worked canvas propped on the pegs. There was nothing else immediately visible, except a shabby rolltop desk and a hard-backed kitchen chair beside it.

“Artist,” the constable said obviously. “Reckon to find anything here?”

“I hope so.” Pitt walked in. “Otherwise there’s nothing left but questioning the servants. You start over there.” He pointed and began to go through the canvases himself.

“Yes, sir,” the constable replied, dutifully climbing over the urn to begin and knocking the chair off its balance. It fell over and rolled onto its side with a clatter, carrying a vase of dried flowers with it.

Pitt refrained from comment. He already knew the constable’s opinion of art and artists.

The canvases were mostly primed but unused. There were only two with paint on, one with background and outline of a woman’s head, the other almost completed. He sat them up and stepped back to consider them. They were, as Vespasia had said, a little muddy in color, as if he had used too many pigments in the mixing, but the balance was good and the composition pleasing. He did not recognize the almost completed one, nor the one on the easel, but probably the butler would know who they were, and no doubt Jones himself kept a record, for financial purposes if nothing else.

The constable knocked over a piece of pillar and swore under his breath. Pitt ignored him and turned to the desk. It was locked, and he was obliged to fiddle for several minutes with a wire before getting it open. There were few papers inside, mostly bills for artist’s supplies. The household accounts must be kept somewhere else, probably by the cook or the butler.