Resurrection Row (4 page)

“No!” She gulped, and the breath caught in her throat. She swallowed hard. “No, of course not.” But she could feel the heat burning up her face. What would other people think? Twice Augustus had been uncovered out of his grave, almost as if someone were unwilling to let him rest—or, more pointedly, unwilling to let her forget him.

Who would do such a thing? The only one she knew was the old lady. She would certainly be annoyed if she thought Alicia could marry again, and so soon, this time for love!

“I have no idea,” she said as calmly as she could. “If Augustus had any enemies, he never spoke of them; and I find it hard to imagine that anyone he was acquainted with, whatever their feelings, would do such a thing as this.”

“Yes.” Pitt nodded. “It is beyond ordinary vengeance, even to us. It’s wretchedly cold in here; you’d better go home and warm yourself, take some food. There’s nothing you can do now. We’ll take care of it, see he’s handled decently. I think your vicar’s already ordered the proper observations.” He walked toward the door, then turned. “I suppose you are quite sure it was your husband, ma’am? You did see his face quite clearly—it wasn’t someone else, perhaps?”

Alicia shook her head. She could see the corpse with its gray-white skin in front of her sharply, more real than the cold walls of the vestry.

“It was Augustus, Mr. Pitt. There is no doubt of that at all.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I’m extremely sorry.” He went out and closed the door behind him.

Outside, Pitt stopped for a moment to glance at the remnants of the congregation, all affecting attitudes of sympathy, or else pretending to be there by chance and about to move; then he strode down the path and out into the street. The business had shaken him far more than the relative seriousness of the crime warranted. Far worse things were going on daily—beatings, extortions, and murders—and yet there was a relentless obscenity about this that disturbed some previously silent portion of his mind, an assumption that death at least was untouchable.

Why on earth should anyone keep on digging up the body of some elderly aristocrat whose death had been perfectly natural?

Or was this a bizarre but unignorable way of saying that it had not? Was it conceivable that Lord Augustus had been murdered, and someone knew it?

After a second disinterment it was a question he could not overlook. They could not simply replace him again—and wait!

There was nothing he could do today; it would be indiscreet. He needed to observe decorum or he would get no cooperation at all from those closest to him, and most likely to know or suspect. Not that he expected much help. No one wanted murder. No one wanted police in the house, investigations and questions.

Added to which, Sunday was his own day off. He wanted to be at home. He was making an engine for Jemima that pulled along on a string. It was proving harder than he had expected to make wheels round, but she was delighted with it anyway and talked to it incessantly in a mixture of sounds quite unintelligible to anyone else, but obviously of great significance to her. It gave him immeasurable happiness.

Late on Monday morning he set out through a fine, thick mist to ride to Gadstone Park and begin the questions. It was not as dismal as might be supposed, because he intended to call first upon Great-Aunt Vespasia. The memory of her in Paragon Walk brought a glow of pleasure to his mind, and he found himself smiling, alone in the hansom cab.

He had chosen his time with care, late enough for her to have finished breakfast but too early for her to have left the house for any morning business she might have.

Surprisingly, the footman informed him that she already had company, but he would acquaint her ladyship with Pitt’s arrival, if he desired.

Pitt felt a surge of disappointment and replied a little tartly that yes, he did desire, and then allowed himself to be taken into the morning room to wait.

The footman came back for him unexpectedly soon and ushered him into the withdrawing room. Vespasia was sitting in the great chair, her hair piled meticulously on her head and a chin-high blouse of Guipure lace giving her a totally deceptive air of fragility. She was about as delicate as a steel sword, as Pitt knew.

The others in the room were Sir Desmond Cantlay, Lady St. Jermyn, and Somerset Carlisle. Closer to, Pitt observed their faces with interest. Hester St. Jermyn was a striking woman; the silver streak in her hair appeared quite natural and was startling against its black. Somerset Carlisle was not so thin or so angular as he had seemed in black by the graveside, yet there was still the same suggestion of humor about him, the slightly aquiline nose and the sharp brows.

“Good morning, Thomas,” Vespasia said drily. “I was expecting you to call, but not quite so soon, I admit. I imagine you have already made yourself acquainted with the rest of the company, if not they with you?” She glanced round them. “I have met Inspector Pitt before.” Her voice crackled with a world of unexplained meaning. Hester St. Jermyn and Sir Desmond both looked at him with amazement, but Carlisle kept his face impassive except for a small smile. He caught Pitt’s eye.

Vespasia apparently did not intend to explain. “We are discussing politics,” she offered to Pitt. “An extraordinary thing to do in the morning, is it not? Are you familiar with workhouses?”

Pitt’s mind flew to the dour, airless halls he had seen crammed with men, women, and children picking apart and re-sewing new shirts from old for the price of their keep. Their eyes ached and their limbs stiffened. In the summer they fainted from heat, and in the winter bronchitis racked them. But it was the only shelter for those with families, or women alone who were too old, too ugly, or too honest to go on the streets. He looked at Vespasia’s lace and Hester’s minuscule pin tucks.

“Yes,” he said harshly. “I am.”

Vespasia’s eyes gleamed in instant recognition of his thoughts. “And you do not approve,” she said slowly. “Abominable places, especially where the children are concerned.”

“Yes,” Pitt agreed.

“Nevertheless, necessary, and all the poor law allows,” she continued.

“Yes.” The word came hard.

“Politics have their uses.” She barely moved her head to indicate the others. “That is how things are changed.”

He reversed his opinion of her, mentally apologizing. “You are moving to change them?”

“It is worth trying. But no doubt you have come about that disgusting business yesterday in the church. A piece of the most appalling distaste.”

“If you please. I would appreciate speaking with you, if you will; certain investigations might be accomplished more—discreetly.”

She snorted. She knew perfectly well he meant that they might be accomplished with a good deal less trouble, and probably more accurately, but the presence of the others prevented her from saying so. He saw it in her face and smiled.

She understood precisely, and her eyes lit up, but she refused to smile back.

Carlisle stood up slowly. He was more solid and probably stronger than he had appeared at the internment.

“Perhaps there is little more that we can do at the moment,” he said to Vespasia. “I will have our notes written up, and we can consider them again. I fancy we have not yet all the information. We must supply St. Jermyn with everything there is; otherwise he will not be able to argue our case against those who have a few contradictions to it, however ill conceived.”

Hester rose also, and Desmond followed her.

“Yes,” he agreed. “I’m sure you are correct. Good morning, Lady Cumming-Gould—” He regarded Pitt indecisively, not able to address a policeman as a social equal, and yet confounded because he was apparently a fellow guest in the withdrawing room of his hostess.

Carlisle rescued him. “Good morning, Inspector. I wish you a rapid success in your business.”

“Good morning, sir.” Pitt bowed his head very slightly. “Good morning, ma’am.”

When they had gone and the door was closed, Vespasia looked up at him. “For goodness’ sake sit down,” she ordered. “You make me uncomfortable standing there like a footman.”

Pitt obeyed, finding the overstuffed sofa more accommodating than it appeared; it was soft and spacious enough for him to spread himself.

“What do you know about Lord Augustus Fitzroy-Hammond?” he asked. Suddenly the lightness had evaporated, and there was only death left—and perhaps murder.

“Augustus?” She looked at him long and steadily. “Do you mean do I know anyone who might hire lunatics to disinter the wretched man? No, I do not. He was not a person I cared for; no imagination, and therefore, of course, no sense of humor. But that is hardly a cause to dig him up—rather the opposite, I would have thought.”

“So would I,” Pitt agreed very softly. “In fact, every reason to wish him in his grave.”

Vespasia’s face changed. It was the only time he could recall her losing that magnificent composure.

“Good God!” She breathed out a long sigh. “You don’t think he was murdered!”

“I have to consider it,” he answered. “At least as a possibility. He was dug up twice now; that is more than coincidence. It may be insanity, but it is not random insanity. Whoever it is means Lord Augustus to remain unburied—for whatever reason.”

“But he was so very ordinary,” she said with exasperation and a touch of pity. “He was wealthy, but not exceptionally so; the title is not worth anything, and anyway, there is no one to inherit it. He was pleasing enough to look at, but not handsome, and far too pompous to have a romantic
affaire.
I really can think of—” She stood with a tired little gesture of her hands.

He waited. There was sufficient understanding between them that it would have been faintly insulting for him to have reasoned with her. She was as capable as he of seeing the nuances, the shadings of suspicion and fear.

“I suppose it is better that I tell you than you learn it from backstairs gossip,” she said irritably, angry not with him but with the circumstances.

He understood. “And probably more accurate,” he agreed.

“Alicia,” she said simply. “It was an arranged marriage, as what else could it be between a sheltered girl of twenty and a comfortable, unimaginative man in his mid-fifties?”

“She has a lover.” He stated the obvious.

“An admirer,” she corrected him. “To begin with, no more than a social acquaintance. I wonder if you have any idea how small London Society really is? In time one is bound to meet practically everybody, unless one is a hermit.”

“But now it is more than an acquaintance?”

“Naturally. She is young and has been denied the dreams of youth. She sees them parading in the ballrooms of London—what else do you expect her to do?”

“Will she marry him?”

She raised silver eyebrows very slightly, her eyes bright. There was a dry recognition of social difference in them, but whether there was amusement at it or not, he was not sure.

“Thomas, one does not remarry, or even allow oneself to be seen considering it, within a year of one’s husband’s death; whatever one may feel, or indeed do in the privacy of the bedroom. Provided, of course, that the bedroom is in someone else’s house, at a weekend, or some such thing. But to answer your question, I should imagine it is quite likely, after the prescribed interval.”

“What is he like?”

“Dark and extremely handsome. Not an aristocrat, but sufficient of a gentleman. He has manners enough, and most certainly charm.”

“Money?”

“How practical of you. Not a great deal, I think, but he does not appear to be in need of it, at least not urgently.”

“Lady Alicia inherits?”

“With the daughter, Verity. The old lady has her own money.”

“You know a great deal about their affairs.” Pitt disarmed it with a smile.

She smiled back at him. “Naturally. What else is there to occupy oneself with, in the winter? I am too old to have any
affaires
of interest myself.”

His smile widened to a grin, but he made no comment. Flattery was far too obvious for her.

“What is his name, and where does he live?”

“I have no idea where he lives, but I’m sure you could find out easily enough. His name is Dominic Corde.”

Pitt froze. There could not be two Dominic Cordes, not both handsome, both charming, both young and dark. He remembered him so clearly, his easy smile, his grace, his obliviousness of his young sister-in-law Charlotte, so painfully in love with him. It had been four years ago, before she met Pitt, at the start of the Cater Street murders. But do the echoes of first love ever die away? Doesn’t something linger, perhaps more imagination than fact, the dreams that never came true? But painful. . . .

“Thomas?” Vespasia’s voice invaded his privacy, drawing him back to the present: Gadstone Park and the disinterment of Augustus Fitzroy-Hammond. So Dominic was in love with Lady Alicia, or at least sought after her. He had seen her only twice, yet had gathered an opinion that she was utterly unlike Charlotte, far more a memory of Dominic’s first wife, Charlotte’s sister Sarah, who had been murdered in the fog. Pretty, rather pious Sarah, with the same fair hair as Alicia, the same smooth face. He could think only of Charlotte and Dominic.

“Thomas!” Vespasia’s face swam up at him as he lifted his head; she was leaning forward touched with concern now. “Are you quite well?”

“Yes,” he said slowly. “You said ‘Dominic Corde’?”

“You know him.” It was a statement rather than a question. She had lived a long time, known many loves and hurts. Little escaped her understanding.

He knew she would recognize a lie. “Yes. He was married to Charlotte’s sister, before she died.”

“Good gracious.” If she read anything more into it than that, she was far too tactful to say so. “So he is a widower. I don’t recall his mentioning it.”

Pitt did not want to talk about Dominic. He knew it would have to come, but he was not ready yet. “Tell me about the rest of Gadstone Park?” he asked.

She looked a little surprised.

He pulled a small, ironic face. “I can’t imagine Alicia dug him up,” he said, meeting her eyes. “Or Dominic?”

Her body relaxed, altering the line of the high lace neck. “No,” she sighed wearily. “Of course not. They would be the last ones to wish him back. It would appear, unless the whole thing is fortuitous after all, that either one of them murdered Augustus or someone believes they did.”