Resurrection Row (3 page)

The constable was staring at him, eyes skeptical. “You know ’er, then, do you, sir?”

“Another case.” Pitt did not want to explain. “Have you seen anyone here who doesn’t live in the Park, or know the widow or the family?”

“No, no one ’ere except what you’d expect. Maybe grave robbers don’t come back to the scene o’ the crime? Or maybe they come at night?”

Pitt was not in the mood for sarcasm, especially from a constable on the beat.

“Perhaps I should post you here?” he said acidly. “In case!”

The constable’s face fell, then lightened again as suspicion hit him that Pitt was merely exercising his own wit.

“If you think it would be productive, sir?” he said stiffly.

“Only of a cold in the head,” Pitt replied. “I’m going to pay my respects to Lady Cumming-Gould. You stay here and watch for the rest of the afternoon,” he added with satisfaction. “Just in case someone comes to have a look!”

The constable snorted, then turned it into a rather inefficient sneeze.

Pitt walked away and, lengthening his stride, caught up with Aunt Vespasia. She ignored him. One does not speak to the help at funerals.

“Lady Cumming-Gould,” he said distinctly.

She stopped and turned slowly, preparing to freeze him with a glance. Then something about his height, the way his coat hung, flapping at his sides, struck a note of familiarity. She fished for her lorgnette and held it up to her eyes.

“Good gracious! Thomas, what on earth are you doing here? Oh, of course! I suppose you are looking for whoever dug up poor Gussie. I can’t imagine why anyone should do such a thing. Quite disgusting! Makes a lot of work for everyone, and all so unnecessary.” She looked him up and down. “You don’t appear to be any different, except that you have more clothes on. Can’t you get anything to match? Wherever did you purchase that muffler? It’s appalling. Emily had a son, you know? Yes, of course you know. Going to call him Edward, after her father. Better than calling him George. Always irritating to call a boy after his father; no one ever knows which one you are talking about. How is Charlotte? Tell her to call upon me; I’m bored to tears with the people in the Park, except the American with a face like a mud pie. Homeliest man I ever saw, but quite charming. He hasn’t the faintest idea how to behave, but rich as Croesus.” Her eyes danced with amusement. “They cannot make up their minds what to do about him, whether to be civil because of his money or cut him dead because of his manners. I do hope he stays.”

Pitt found himself smiling, in spite of the rain down his neck and the wet trouser cuffs sticking to his ankles.

“I shall give Charlotte your message,” he said, bowing slightly. “She will be delighted that I have seen you, and you are well.”

“Indeed,” Vespasia snorted. “Tell her to come early, before two, then she won’t run into the social callers with nothing to do but outdress each other.” She put her lorgnette away and swept down the path, ignoring the skirts of her gown catching in the mud.

O
N
S
UNDAY
A
LICIA
Fitzroy-Hammond rose as usual, a little after nine, and ate a light breakfast of toast and apricot preserve. Verity had already eaten and was now writing letters in the morning room. The dowager Lady Fitzroy-Hammond, Augustus’s mother, would have her meal taken up to her as always. On some days she got up; far more often she did not. Then she lay in her bed with an embroidered Indian shawl around her shoulders and reread all her old letters, sixty-five years of them, going back to her nineteenth birthday, July 12, exactly five years after the battle of Waterloo. Her brother had been an ensign in Wellington’s army. Her second son had died in the Crimea. And there were old love letters from men long since gone.

Every so often she would send her maid, Nisbett, down to see what was going on in the house. She required a list of all callers, when they came and how long they stayed, if they left cards, and most particularly how they were dressed. Alicia had learned to live with that; the thing she still found intolerable was Nisbett’s constant inquiry into the running of the house, passing her finger over the surfaces to see if they were dusted every day, opening the linen cupboard when she thought no one was looking to count the sheets and tablecloths and see if all the corners were ironed and mended.

This Sunday was one of the old lady’s days to get up. She enjoyed going to church. She sat in the family pew and watched everyone arrive and depart. She pretended to be deaf, although actually her hearing was excellent. It suited her not to speak, except when she wanted something, and occasional failure to know what was said could be not inconvenient.

She was dressed in black also, and she leaned heavily on her stick. She came into the dining room and banged sharply on the floor to attract Alicia’s attention.

“Good morning, mama-in-law,” Alicia said with an effort. “I’m glad you are well enough to be up.”

The old lady walked towards the table, and the ever-present Nisbett pulled out her chair for her. She stared at the sideboard with displeasure.

“Is that all there is for breakfast?” she demanded.

“What would you like?” Alicia had been trained all her life to be polite.

“It’s too late now,” the old lady said stiffly. “I shall have to put up with what there is! Nisbett, fetch me some eggs and some of that ham and kidneys, and pass me the toast. I assume you are going to church this morning, Alicia?”

“Yes, Mama. Do you care to come?”

“I never shirk church, unless I am too ill to stand upon my feet.”

Alicia did not bother to comment. She had never known precisely what ailed the old lady, or if indeed there was anything at all. The doctor came to call regularly and told her she had a weak heart, for which he prescribed digitalis; but Alicia privately thought it was little more than old age and a desire to command both attention and obedience. Augustus had always catered to her, possibly out of lifelong habit and because he hated unpleasantness.

“I presume you are also coming?” the old lady asked with raised eyebrows, then put an enormous forkful of eggs into her mouth.

“Yes, Mama.”

The old lady nodded, her mouth too full to speak.

The carriage was called at half-past ten, and Alicia, Verity, and the old lady were helped into it one by one, and then out again at St. Margaret’s Church, where for over a hundred years the family had had its own pew. No one who was not a Fitzroy-Hammond had ever been known to sit in it.

They were early. The old lady liked to sit at the back and watch everyone else arrive, then go forward to the pew at one minute before eleven. Today was no exception. She had survived the deaths of every member of her own blood, except Verity, with the supreme composure required of an aristocrat. The reburial of Augustus would not be different.

At two minutes before eleven she stood up and led the way forward to the family pew. At the end she stopped short. The unthinkable had happened. There was someone else already there! A man, with collar turned up, leaning forward in an attitude of prayer.

“Who are you?” the old lady hissed. “Remove yourself, sir! This is a family pew.”

The man did not stir.

The old lady banged her stick sharply on the ground to attract his attention. “Do something, Alicia! Speak to him!”

Alicia squeezed past her and touched the man gently on the shoulder. “Excuse me—” She got no further. The man swayed and fell sideways onto the seat, face up.

Alicia screamed—at the very back of her mind she knew what the old lady would say, and the congregation—but it tore out of her throat beyond her helping. It was Augustus again, his dead face livid and bloodless, gaping up at her from the wooden seat. The gray stone pillars wavered round her, and she heard her own voice go on shrieking like a quite disembodied sound. She wished it would stop, but she seemed to have no control over it. Blackness descended; her arms were pinned to her sides, and something had struck her in the back.

The next thing she knew she was lying propped up in the vestry. The vicar, pasty-faced and sweating, was crouching next to her, holding her hand. The door was open, and the wind rushed in, in an icy river. The old lady was opposite, her black skirts spread round her like a grounded balloon, her face scarlet.

“There, there,” the vicar said helplessly. “You’ve had a most appalling shock, my dear lady. Quite appalling. I don’t know what the world is coming to, when the insane are allowed loose amongst us like this. I shall write to the newspapers, and to my member of Parliament. Something really must be done. It is insupportable.” He coughed and patted her hand again. “And of course we shall all pray.” The position became too uncomfortable for him; he was beginning to get a cramp in his legs. He stood up. “I have sent for the doctor for your poor mama. Dr. McDuff, isn’t it? He will be here any moment. A pity he was not in the congregation!” There was a note of affront in his voice. He knew that the doctor was a Scot and a Presbyterian, and he disapproved vehemently. A physician to such an area as this had no business to be a nonconformist.

Alicia struggled to sit up. Her first thoughts were not for the old lady, but for Verity. She had not seen death before, and Augustus had been her father, even though they had not been close.

“Verity,” she said with a dry mouth. “What about Verity?”

“Don’t distress yourself!” His voice became agitated at the thought of imminent hysteria. He had no idea how to cope with such a thing, especially in the vestry of the church. The morning service was already a complete disaster; the congregation had either gone home or was standing outside in the rain, impelled by curiosity to watch the last gruesome act of the affair. The police had been sent for, right here to the church, and the whole business was become a scandal beyond retrieval. He dearly wanted to go home and have luncheon, where there would be a fire and a sensible housekeeper who knew better than to have “emotions.”

“My dear lady,” he started again, “please be assured Miss Verity has been taken care of with the utmost sensibility. Lady Cumming-Gould took her home in her carriage. She was most distressed, of course; who would not be—it is all quite dreadful! But we must bear these burdens with the grace of God to help us. Oh!” His face lit up with something akin to delight as he saw the thick figure of Dr. McDuff come in and slam the vestry door. Professional responsibility could be shed at last—perhaps even shifted entirely. After all, the doctor must care for the living, and he himself was duty-bound to see to the dead, because no one else was properly qualified.

McDuff went straight to the old lady, ignoring the other two. He took her wrist and felt it for several seconds, then peered at her face.

“Shock,” he said succinctly. “Severe shock. I advise you to go home and take as much rest as you feel you need. Have all your meals brought up, and don’t receive any visitors except the immediate family, and not them, if you don’t choose. Do nothing strenuous, and do not allow yourself to become upset about anything at all.”

The old lady’s face eased with satisfaction; the fierce color ebbed a little.

“Good,” she said, climbing to her feet with his help. “Knew you would know what to do. Can’t take any more of this—I don’t know what the world is coming to—never had anything like this when I was young. People knew their places then and kept them. Too busy working to go around desecrating graves of their betters. Too much education of the wrong people nowadays; that’s what’s responsible, you know. Now they’ve got curiosities and appetites that are no good for them. It isn’t natural! See what’s happened here! Even the church isn’t safe anymore. It’s worse than if the French had invaded, after all!” With that parting shot she stumped out, banging her stick furiously against the door.

“Poor dear lady,” the vicar muttered. “What a quite dreadful shock for her—and at her age, too. One would think she had earned a little respite from the sins of the world.”

Alicia was still sitting on the vestry bench in the cold. She suddenly realized how much she disliked the old lady. She could never recall a moment since the time she had become betrothed to Augustus when she had felt at ease with her. Until now she had hidden it from herself, for Augustus’s sake. But there was no need any longer. Augustus was dead.

With a lurch she remembered his body in the pew, and on the slab in that bitter mortuary with the little man in the white coat who was so terrifyingly happy all the time in his room full of corpses. Thank goodness the policeman at least had been a little more sober; in fact, quite pleasant, in his way.

As if she had conjured him out of her thoughts the door swung open, and Pitt appeared in front of her, shaking himself like a great wet dog and spraying water from his coattails and off his sleeves. She had not thought of the police coming, and now all sorts of ugly fears crowded into her mind. Why? Why had Augustus risen out of his grave again like some persistent, obscene reminder of the past, preventing her from stepping out of it into the future? The future could hold so much promise; she had met new people, especially one new person, slim, elegant, with all the laughter and charm Augustus had lost. Perhaps he had been like that in his youth, but she had not known him then. She wanted to dance, to make jokes of trivial things, to sing something round the spinet other than hymns and solemn ballads. She wanted to be in love and say giddy and uproarious things, have a past worth remembering, like the old lady who sat rereading her youth from a hundred letters. No doubt there was sadness in them, but there was passion, too, if there was any truth in her retelling.

The policeman was staring at her with bright gray eyes. He was the untidiest creature she had ever seen, not fit to be in a church.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I thought we’d seen the end of it.”

She could think of no answer.

“Do you know of anyone who might be doing this, ma’am?” he went on.

She looked up at his face, and a whole abyss of new horror opened up in front of her. She had presumed it was an anonymous crime, the work of insane vandals of some sort. She had heard of grave robbing, body snatchers; but now she realized that this extraordinary man thought that it might be personal, deliberately directed at Augustus—or even at her!