Resurrection Row (11 page)

Arthur spat and took up his spade again. The next blow hit the coffin lid. “Well, I’ll tell you this, ’Arry, it’s the last time I will! I don’t want no truck wiv murder, or them w’ot’s been murdered. I don’t mind buryin’ nice decent corpses what ’ave died natural. I’ll bury as many of them as you like. But there’s two things as really gets me. One is babies—I ’ate buryin’ kids—and the other is them w’ot’s been murdered. An’ I already buried this one twice! If’n ’e don’t stay there this time, they needn’t ask me to do ’im again—’cos I shan’t! Enough’s enough. Let the rozzers find out ’oo done ’im in, then maybe ’el’ll stay there, that’s w’ot I say.”

“Me too,” Harry agreed vehemently. “I’m a patient man, God knows I am. In this line you gets to see a lot o’ death, you gets to know w’ot’s important and w’ot ain’t. We all comes to this in the end, and some folks as forgets that might do better if they remembered. But my patience is wore out, and I won’t stand by for no murder. I agree wiv yer, let the rozzers bury ’im theirselves next time. Do ’em good, it would.”

They had cleaned the earth off the lid of the coffin and climbed out of the grave again for the ropes.

“I suppose they’ll want this thing all cleaned up fit to look at?” Arthur said with heavy disgust. “They’ll ’ave another service for ’im, like as not. They must be fair sick o’ payin’ their last respecs.”

“Only it ain’t last—is it?” Harry asked drily. “It’s second to last, or third, or fourth? Who knows when ’e’ll stay there? ’Ere, take the other end o’ this rope, will you?”

Together they eased the ropes under the coffin, heaving on its weight, and worked in silence except for grunts and the occasional expletive till it was laid on the wet earth beside the gaping hole.

“Cor, that bleedin’ thing weighs a ton!” Harry said furiously. “Feels like it ’ad a load o’ bricks in it. You don’t suppose they put suffink else in there, do you?”

“Like w’ot?” Arthur sniffed.

“I dunno! You want to look?”

Arthur hesitated for a moment; then curiosity overcame him, and he lifted one of the corners of the lid. It was not screwed and came up quite easily.

“God all-bloody-mighty!” Arthur’s face under the dirt went sheet-white.

“W’ot’s the matter?” Harry moved toward him instinctively, stubbing his toe on the coffin corner. “Damn the flamin’ thing! W’ot is it, Arfur?”

“ ’E’s in ’ere!” Arthur said huskily. His hand went up to his nose. “Rotten as ’ell, but ’e’s ’ere all right.”

“ ’E can’t be!” Harry said in disbelief. He came round to where Arthur was standing and looked in. “You’re bloody right! ’E is ’ere! Now w’ot in ’ell’s name do you make o’ that?”

Pitt was considerably shaken when he heard the news. It was preposterous, almost incredible. He did up his muffler, pulled his hat down over his ears, and strode out into the icy streets. He wanted to walk to give himself time to compose his mind before he got there.

There were two corpses—because the corpse from the church pew was still in the mortuary. Therefore one of them was not Lord Augustus Fitzroy-Hammond. His mind went back over the identification. The man from the cab outside the theatre had been identified only by Alicia. Now that he thought about it, she had been expecting it to be her husband. Pitt himself had as much as told her it was. She had only glanced at him and then looked away. He could hardly blame her for that. Perhaps her eyes had seen only what had been told them, and she had not actually examined him at all?

On the other hand, the second corpse, the one in the church pew, had been seen not only by Alicia but by the old lady, the vicar, and lastly by Dr. McDuff, who one would presume was reasonably used to the sight of death, even if not three weeks old.

He crossed the street, splashed with dung and refuse from a vegetable cart. The child who normally swept the crossing had bronchitis and was presumably holed up somewhere in one of the innumerable warrens behind the facade of shops.

Therefore the most reasonable explanation was that the second corpse was Lord Augustus, and the first was someone else. Since the grave of Mr. William Wilberforce Porteous had also been robbed, presumably it was his corpse they had buried in St. Margaret’s churchyard!

He had better make arrangements for the widow to see it—and properly this time!

It was half-past six and the wind had dropped, leaving the fog to close in on everything, deadening sound, choking the breath with freezing, cloying pervasiveness, when Pitt drove in a hansom cab with a very stout and painfully corseted Mrs. Porteous, flowing with black, toward the morgue where the first corpse was now waiting. They were obliged to travel very slowly because the cabby could not see more than four or five yards in front of him, and that only dimly. Gas lamps appeared like baleful eyes, swimming out of the night, and vanished behind them into the void. They lurched from one to the next, as alone as if it had been an ocean with no other ship upon it.

Pitt tried to think of something to say to the woman beside him, but rack his brains as he might, there seemed nothing at all that was not either trivial or offensive. He ended by hoping his silence was at least sympathetic.

When the cab finally stopped, he got out with inelegant haste and offered her his hand. She weighed heavily upon it, a matter of balance rather than degree of distress.

Inside, they were greeted by the same cheerfully scrubbed young man with his glasses forever sliding down his nose. Several times he opened his mouth to remark on the extraordinariness of the circumstance, never having had the same corpse twice in this manner, then cut himself off halfway, realizing that his professional enthusiasm was in poor taste and might be misunderstood by the widow—or Pitt, for that matter.

He pulled back the sheet and composed his face soberly.

Mrs. Porteous looked straight at the corpse, then her eyebrows rose and she turned to Pitt, her voice level.

“That is not my husband,” she said calmly. “It’s nothing like him. Mr. Porteous had black hair and a beard. This man is nearly bald. I’ve never seen him before in my life!”

S
INCE THE UNNAMED CORPSE
was in the morgue, there was no reason why Augustus should not be reinterred. Of course, it would have been ludicrous to have yet another ceremony, but it was felt indecent not at least to observe the occasion in some manner. It was a show of sympathy for the family, and perhaps of respect not so much for Augustus as for death itself.

Alicia naturally had no choice but to go; the old lady decided first that she was too unwell because of the whole miserable affair, then later that it was her duty to pay a final farewell—and please God it was final! She was attended, as always, by Nisbett, in dourest black.

Alicia was in the morning room waiting for the carriage when Verity came in from the hall. She was pale, and the black hat made her look even younger. There was an innocence about her that had often caused Alicia to wonder what her mother had been like, because Verity possessed a quality that had nothing to do with Augustus, and she was as unlike the old lady as a doe is unlike a weasel. It was an odd thought, but in the darkness of the night Alicia had even talked to the dead woman as if she had been a friend, someone who could understand loneliness, and dreams that were fragile but so very necessary. In Alicia’s mind, that first wife who had died at thirty-four had been very like herself.

Because of her, the ridiculous conversation in the dark, she could almost feel as if Verity were her own daughter, although there was only a handful of years between them.

“Are you sure you wish to come?” she asked now. “No one would misunderstand if you preferred not to.”

Verity shook her head a little. “I’d love not to come, but I can’t leave you to do it alone.”

“Your grandmother is coming,” Alicia replied. “I shan’t be alone.”

Verity gave a dry little smile; it was the first time Alicia had seen it. She had grown up a lot since her father’s death, or perhaps she had only now felt the freedom to show it.

“Then I shall definitely come,” she said. “That is worse than alone.”

At another time Alicia might have made some protest as a matter of form, but today the hypocrisy seemed emptier than ever. It was a time for substance, and form was irrelevant.

“Thank you,” she said simply. “It will be much less unpleasant for me if you are there.”

Verity gave a sudden, flashing smile, almost conspiratorial; then, before Alicia could make an answer, they both heard the old woman’s stick banging in the hall as she came toward them. Nisbett opened the door wide, right back on its hinges, and the old woman stood in the entrance, glaring. She examined both of them closely, every article of their clothing from black hats and veils to black polished boots, then nodded.

“Well, are you coming then?” she demanded. “Or do you mean to stand there all morning like two crows on a fence?”

“We were waiting for you, Grandmama,” Verity replied instantly. “We would not leave you to come alone.”

The old lady snorted. “Huh!” She looked venomously at Alicia. “I thought perhaps you were waiting for that Mr. Corde you are so fond of! Not here this time, I see. Perhaps he is afraid for his skin! After all, you seem to bury husbands more often than most!” She grabbed at Nisbett’s arm and went out, whacking the door lintel with her stick as if it might have moved out of her way were it more aware of its duty.

“It would hardly be appropriate for Mr. Corde to have come.” Alicia could not help defending him, explaining, even though the old lady was out of hearing and Verity had said nothing but lowered her eyes. “It is a very private affair,” she added. “I expect no one but the family, and perhaps a few of those who knew Augustus well.”

“No, of course not,” Verity murmured. “It would be silly to expect him.” Nevertheless there was a ring of disappointment in her voice, and as Alicia followed her outside and into the black-draped carriage, she could not help wondering why Dominic had not at least sent a message. Good taste would keep him from coming himself; that was simple to explain. Since he loved Alicia, it would be a little brazen to turn up yet again to an interment, but it would have been so easy to have sent a small message, just a sympathy.

A coldness jarred through Alicia which had nothing to do with the wind and the drafty carriage. Perhaps she had read too much into his flatteries, the soft looks, the seeking after her company? She would have sworn, a few days ago, that he loved her, and she loved him with all the excitement, the laughter ready to burst open at the silliest things, the sharing of very private thoughts and sudden understandings. But maybe it was only she who felt like that and had put her own joy into his heart quite falsely? After all, he had not actually said as much—she had assumed out of delicacy for her position’, first as a married woman, then as a very recent widow. Maybe he had not said so quite simply because it was not true? Many people loved to flirt; it was a kind of game, an exercise of skills, a vanity.

But surely Dominic was not like that? His face swam before her memory, the dark eyes, the fine brows, the curve of his mouth, the quick smile. The tears welled up and slid down her cheeks. At any other time she would have been mortified, but she was sitting in a dark carriage on a wet, bitter day, on the way to bury her husband. No one would remark her weeping, and anyway, under her veil it would take a careful eye even to notice it.

The carriage lurched to a stop, and the footman opened the door, letting in a blast of icy air. The old lady got out first, holding her stick across their legs so they could not precede her. The footman helped Alicia. It was raining even harder, and the water ran round the brim of her hat and fell off the front, blowing into her face.

The vicar spoke to the old lady, then held out his hand to Alicia. He was never a cheerful man, but he looked unusually wretched today. Far inside herself she half smiled, but it would not reach her lips. She could hardly blame the man, even though she did not like him. After all, it was an occasion for which he probably had no precedent, and he was at a loss to know what to say. He had stock phrases of piety for all the foreseeable events—baptisms, deaths, marriages, even scandals—but who could expect to bury the same man three times in as many weeks?

She could have laughed, albeit a little hysterically, but she saw in the distance the slim, elegant figure of a man, and for a moment her heart lurched. Dominic? Then she realized it was not; the shoulders were squarer, leaner, and there was something different about the way he stood. It was Somerset Carlisle.

He turned as she picked her way through the puddles on the path and offered her his arm.

“Good morning, Lady Fitzroy-Hammond,” he said gently. “I’m so sorry this should be necessary. Let us hope they get it over with as quickly as possible. Perhaps the rain will cut the vicar’s desire to expound.” He smiled very slightly. “He’s going to be as wet as a fish if he stands out here for long!”

It was a pleasing thought; to remain here by the grave while the vicar droned on imperviously would be the final wretchedness. The old woman looked like a sodden black bird, feathers ruffled, her whole stance bristling with anger. Verity stood with her head down and her eyes lowered so no one could read her face; whether it was out of grief for her father or because in mind she was not attending at all, Alicia could only guess, but she imagined the latter.

Lady Cumming-Gould, of all people, had also elected to attend. Her dignity was as superb as always. Indeed, but for her deep lavender mourning, she might have been at a garden party, rather than standing by a yawning grave in a winter churchyard in the rain.

Major Rodney was there, shifting unhappily from foot to foot, blowing water off his moustache, obviously acutely embarrassed by the whole business. Only knowledge of duty could have brought him. He kept darting furious glances at his sisters, who had presumably nagged him into coming. They huddled together, round-eyed, like little animals woken from hibernation and longing to return home.

The only other person was Virgil Smith, enormous in a heavy coat and bareheaded. She could not help noticing how thick his hair was and how it had been cut level at the bottom of his ears. Really, someone should find him a decent barber!