Resurrection Row (23 page)

He ran out into the street, shouting at the next cab as it approached, and reluctantly it pulled to a halt.

“Resurrection Row!” he bellowed at the driver.

The man pulled a fearsome face but wheeled his horse round and started back, muttering angrily under his breath about darkness and graveyards, and what he hoped would happen to residents of such places if they hired cabs they could not pay for.

Pitt almost fell out at the other end, shoving coins at the alarmed driver, and strode down along the barely lit pavement to find number fourteen, where Horrie Snipe’s widow lived.

He had to knock and shout loudly enough to make a nuisance and send windows opening along the street with cries of abuse before she came to the door.

“All right!” she said furiously. “All right!” She opened it and glared at him; then, as she recognized him, her expression changed. “What do you want?” she said incredulously. “ ’Orrie’s dead, and buried twice! You oughta know that! It was you w’ot came wiv ’im the second time. Don’t say someone’s dug ’im up again?”

“No, Maizie, everything’s fine. Can I come in?”

“If you ’ave to. What do you want?”

He squeezed in past her. The room was small, but there was a fire burning strongly, and it was much cleaner than he would have expected. There was even rather a good pair of candlesticks on the mantel shelf, polished pewter, and lace antimacassars over the backs of the chairs.

“Well?” she demanded impatiently. “I ain’t got nuffink in ’ere as isn’t mine—if that’s what you’re thinking!”

“It wasn’t what I was thinking.” He pulled out the picture. “Do you know her, Maizie?”

She took it between her finger and thumb gingerly. “An’ what if I do?”

“There’s ten shillings in it for you,” he said rashly. “If you give me her name and where I can find her.”

“Bertha Mulligan,” she said, without hesitation. “Lodges with Mrs. Cuff, down at number one thirty-seven, straight down on the left-’and side. But you won’t find ’er at ’ome this time o’ the evening. I shouldn’t wonder. Beginning work about now.”

“Doing what?”

She gave a snort of disgust at his stupidity for asking. “On the streets, o’ course. Probably up in one of them cafes near the ’Aymarket. Good-lookin’ girl, Bertha.”

“I see. And does Mrs. Cuff have other lodgers?”

“If you mean does she run an ’ouse, then I says go and look for yourself. I don’t talk about me neighbors, same as I don’t expect no gossip about me, nor poor ’Orrie, when ’e was alive.”

“I see. Thank you, Maizie.”

“Where’s my ten bob?”

He fished in his pocket and brought out string, a knife, sealing wax, three pieces of paper, a packet of toffees, two keys, and about a pound’s worth of change. He counted out ten shillings for her, reluctantly; it had been a promise made in the heat of discovery. But her hand was out, and there was no going back on it. She snatched it, checking it minutely.

“Thank you.” She closed her grip on it like a dying man’s and put it into the reaches of her underskirts. “That’s Bertha, all right. Why do you want to know?”

“Her picture was found in a dead man’s house,” he replied.

“Murdered?”

“Yes.”

“Who was it, then?”

“Godolphin Jones, the artist.” She might not have heard of him. Probably she could not read, and the murder would be of little interest in this quarter.

She did not seem in the least surprised.

“Stupid girl,” she said imperturbably. “I told ’er not to go posin’ for ’im; better to stick to what she knows. But not ’er, would try to better ’erself. Greedy, she was. I never like things on paper, meself; only leads to trouble.”

He grabbed at her arm without thinking, and she pulled away sharply.

“You knew she posed for Godolphin Jones?” he demanded, holding onto her.

“Of course I did!” she snapped. “Do you take me for a fool? I know what goes on in that shop of ’is!”

“Shop! What shop?”

“That shop of ’is a number forty-seven, of course, where ’e takes all the photographs and sells them. Disgusting, I calls it. I can understand a man who wants a girl and can’t get one for ’isself, like what ’Orrie used to provide for; but one what gets ’is fun out o’ lookin’ at pictures, now that’s what I call un’ealthy!”

A flood of understanding washed over Pitt, and a whole world of possibilities opened.

“Thank you, Maizie.” He clasped her hand with a warmth that positively alarmed her. “You are a jewel among women, a lily growing in a rubbish yard. May heaven reward you!” And he turned and charged out of the door into the thick darkness of Resurrection Row, crowing with delight.

A
LICIA FIRST HEARD
of the death of Godolphin Jones from Dominic. He had spent a morning with Somerset Carlisle, going over the names of those they could count on to support them when the bill came before the House in a few days’ time, and the news had come, whispered from servant to servant around the Park. Carlisle’s kitchen maid had been keeping company with Jones’s footman and had been among the first to hear.

Dominic arrived at the Fitzroy-Hammond house before luncheon, looking breathless and a little white. He was shown straight into the room where Alicia was writing letters.

As soon as she saw him, she knew something else was wrong. The joy she had expected to feel evaporated, and she was aware only of anxiety.

“What is it?”

He did not take her hands as usual. “They found the body of Godolphin Jones this morning. He was murdered.” He made no attempt to tell her gently or evade the unpleasantness. Perhaps association with Somerset Carlisle and the workhouse in Seven Dials had made such qualities ridiculous, even an offense against reality. “He was strangled to death about three or four weeks ago,” he went on, “and buried in someone else’s grave—the man who fell off the cab and you first thought was Augustus. He turned out to be someone’s butler.”

She was stunned, bemused by the rapidity of fact after fact, all new and jarringly ugly. She had never even thought of Godolphin Jones as having anything to do with the corpses. In fact, since Augustus was buried again, she had tried to dismiss the whole matter from her thoughts. Dominic was far more important, and over the last week her feelings about him had been becoming gradually less complete, tinged with an unhappiness, or perhaps an anxiety, that she had tried alternately to resolve or to put from her mind. Now she simply stared at him.

“Naturally, they’ll be looking in the Park,” he went on.

She was still confused, not understanding him.

“Why? Why should anyone in the Park kill him?”

“I don’t know why anyone at all should kill him,” he said a trifle tersely. “But since you cannot strangle yourself, even by accident, obviously someone did.”

“But why here?” she persisted.

“Because he lived here, and Augustus lived here, and Augustus’s corpse turned up here.” He sat down suddenly. “I’m sorry. It’s wretched. But I had to warn you because Pitt is bound to come. Did you know him—Godolphin Jones?” He looked up at her.

“No, not really. I met him once or twice; he was socially acquainted. He seemed pleasant enough. He painted Gwendoline, and Hester, you know. And I believe all three of the Rodneys.”

“He didn’t paint you?” he asked, frowning a little.

“No, I didn’t really care for his work. And Augustus never expressed any wish for a portrait.” She turned away a little and moved closer to the fire. She was thinking of the murder, but it seemed very impersonal. No one she knew appeared to be involved; no one was threatened by an investigation. She remembered how terrified she had been when it had been Augustus—afraid other people would suspect her, then even worse, that they would suspect Dominic. To begin with, the idea had been something outside herself, outside both of them, and she had felt they stood together facing an undeserved suspicion from those whose ignorance or malice would eventually be proved wrong.

Then the old woman had sowed seeds in her mind of doubt that the circle was really so simple. Assuredly, there was the circle that enclosed both of them in a common motive and held them apart from others; but there was also another circle that enclosed her alone, and it was a double barrier. She was ashamed and frightened by it—but the thought had crept into her mind that Dominic might have killed Augustus. The old woman had said he did, and she had not brought the whole heart, the absolute conviction to denying it that she would have wished, indeed, expected. There was a streak in him, a childlike reaching for his wants, that had allowed her to believe it possible, even if only for an instant.

How well did she know him? She turned away from the fire to look at him now. He was still as handsome, with the elegant head and shoulders, the way the hair grew on his neck, strong, neatly curved to the nape. His face was the same, the lines of his smile, But how much more was there? What did he think, behind the face? Did she know those things, and did she love them, too?

When she looked at her own face in the glass, she saw even features, fine hair. When she moved closer, in the morning light, she saw all the tiny flaws, but she also knew how to disguise them. The whole was pleasing, even beautiful. Did Dominic see any more than that? Did he see the flaws and still love her, or would they disturb him, even repel him because it was not what he had looked for, believed in?

All he knew was the careful face she presented to him; her best. And perhaps she was at fault for that. She had taken so much trouble to hide all the other facets, the weaknesses and failings, because she wanted him to love her.

Had he wondered if she had killed Augustus? Was that why he had been cooler lately and so absorbed in this bill of Carlisle’s, not sharing it with her? She could have helped! She had every bit as many connections as he, in fact, more! If he had trusted her, felt that unity she believed was love, then he would have told her how he felt, what fear or pity Seven Dials had stirred in him. He would have tried to explain the confusion, in terms not of social wrong but of his own emotions.

He was looking at her now, waiting.

“I don’t suppose it has anything to do with us,” she said at last. “If Mr. Pitt comes here I shall see him, of course, but I cannot tell him anything of value.” She smiled, the nervousness all gone. Her stomach was as calm as sleep. They both knew what had happened, and it was a kind of release, like silence after a crescendo of music, too long and too loud—now she was back to reality again. “Thank you for coming. It was kind of you to tell me. It is always easier to learn of bad news from a friend than a stranger.”

He stood up very slowly. For a moment she thought he was going to argue, to try to pull back the threads; but he smiled, and for the first time they looked at each other without pretense or the delusionary quickening of the heart, the flutter, the urgent breath.

“Of course,” he said quietly. “Perhaps it will be solved before it needs to trouble us. Now I must go and see Fleetwood. The bill comes up very soon now.”

“I know several people I might approach,” she said quickly.

“Do you?” His face was keen, Jones forgotten. “Would you ask them? Anything you want to know, call on Carlisle; he’ll be terribly grateful.”

“I have already written a few letters—”

“That’s marvelous! You know, I think we really have a chance!”

After he had gone she felt a loneliness, but it was not a painful, anxious thing as it used to be, a longing to know when he would return, worrying about all she had said and done, whether she had been foolish, or too cold, or too forward, wondering what he felt, or thought of her. This was more like the emptiness of a summer morning when the whole sky is clear with the day before you, and you have no obligations and no idea what you intend to do.

The morning after he had spoken to Maizie Snipe, Pitt was back in Resurrection Row with a constable and a warrant to search the premises of number forty-seven.

It was what he had expected, a photographic studio complete with all the props necessary for rather glossy pornography: colored lights, animal skins, a few lengths of fabric of various vivid dyes, headdresses of feathers, strings of beads, and an enormous bed. The walls were covered with very skilled and very varied photographs, all of them highly erotic.

“Cor!” The constable breathed out tremulously, not sure what emotion he dare express. His eyes were as round as boiled sweets, and twice as glazed.

“Precisely,” Pitt agreed. “A flourishing business, I should say. Before you disturb anything, look at everything very carefully and see if you can see any marks of blood, or evidence of violence. He may well have been killed here. I should think there are a couple of hundred motives hanging on these walls or stuffed in the drawers.”

“Oh!” The constable stood motionless, appalled by the thought.

“Get on with it,” Pitt urged. “We’ve a lot to do. When you’ve searched everything, start putting those photographs in order; see how many different faces we’ve got.”

“Oh, Mr. Pitt, sir! We’re never going to try and identify all them lot! It’ll take years! And who’s going to admit to it, anyway? Can you see any young girl saying ‘Yes, that’s me’? I ask you!”

“If it’s her face in the picture, she can’t very well argue, can she?” Pitt pointed to the far corner and jerked his head expressively. “Get on with it!”

“My wife’d have a fit if she knew I was doing this!”

“Then don’t tell her,” Pitt said sharply. “But I’ll have one if you don’t, and I’m much more of a force to be reckoned with than she is!”

The constable pulled a face and squinted at the photographs with one eye.

“Don’t you believe it, sir,” he said, but he obeyed and within a few minutes had discovered marks of blood on the floor and on an overturned stool. “This is where ’e was killed, I reckin,” he said decisively, pleased with himself. “See it plain, if you know where to look. Reckin ’e was likely ’it with this.” He touched the stool.

It was after the examination and the measuring that Pitt left the constable to begin the immense task of sorting the photographs to identify the girls. It was for Pitt to consider the other half of the trade—the clients. Naturally, Jones was more discreet than to write down names of those who might be sensitive, even violent, about their association, but Pitt thought he knew at least where he might begin: with the book of numbers and insects from Jones’s desk in his house. He had seen four of those elegant little hieroglyphics on pictures in Gadstone Park. Now he would go and question their owners,. Perhaps they held an explanation to at least one mystery: why anyone should pay so highly for the work of an artist that was at best of very moderate talent.