Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [0]
Anne Perry
To Ed and Peggy Wells, with thanks for their love and faith through the years.
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1
MRS. PEABODY WAS hot and out of breath. It was midsummer; her stays imprisoned her unyieldingly and her gown, with its fashionable bustle, was far too heavy to allow her to go chasing down the pavement after a willful dog that was fast disappearing through the wrought-iron churchyard gates.
“Clarence!” Mrs. Peabody cried out furiously. “Clarence! Come back here at once!”
But Clarence, who was fat and middle-aged and should have known better, squirmed through the gap and shot away into the long grass and the laurel bushes on the other side of the railings. Mrs. Peabody, gasping with annoyance and clinging on to her broad hat with one hand, sending it rakishly over her eyes, tried with the other to force the gates open far enough to allow her extremely ample form to pass through.
The late Mr. Peabody had preferred women of generous proportions. He had said so frequently. A man’s wife should reflect his position in life: dignified and substantial.
But it took more aplomb than Mrs. Peabody possessed to remain dignified while caught by one’s bosom in a churchyard gate with one’s hat askew and a dog yelping like a fiend a dozen yards away.
“Clarence!” she shrieked again and, drawing in her breath, gave a mighty heave, which had the opposite effect from the one desired. She let out a wail of desperation, and struggled through, her bustle now alarmingly closer to her left hip.
Clarence was barking hysterically and scuffling in the laurel bushes. The ground was dry after a week without rain and he was sending up spurts of dust. But he had his prize, a very large, sodden-looking parcel wrapped in brownish paper and tied securely with twine. Under Clarence’s determined efforts it was now torn in several places and beginning to come undone.
“Drop it!” Mrs. Peabody commanded. Clarence ignored her. “Drop it!” she repeated, wrinkling her nose in distaste. It was really very unpleasant; it appeared to be kitchen leavings—unusable meat. “Clarence!”
The dog ripped off a large piece of the paper, wet with blood and coming away easily. Then she saw it—skin. Human skin, pale and soft. She screamed; then as Clarence exposed more of it she screamed again, and again, and again, until her lungs were bursting and she could not find breath and the world spun round her in a red haze. She fell to the ground, unaware of Clarence, still tugging at the parcel, and passersby forcing their way through the stuck gate in alarm.
Inspector Thomas Pitt looked up from his desk, strewn with paper, glad of the interruption. “What is it?”
Police Constable Stripe stood in the doorway, his face a little pink above his stiff collar, his eyes blinking.
“I’m sorry, sir, but there’s a report of a disturbance in St. Mary’s churchyard in Bloomsbury. An elderly person ’avin’ ’ysterics. Quite respectable, and locally known—and doesn’t touch the gin. ’Usband was Temperance, ’afore ’e died. Never bin a nuisance in the past.”
“Perhaps she’s ill?” Pitt suggested. “Doesn’t need more than a constable, does it? Maybe a doctor?”
“Well, sir.” Stripe looked distressed. “Seems ’er dog ran away and found this parcel in the bushes, an’ she thought it was part of a person. That’s what gave ’er ’ysterics.”
“What on earth do you mean, ‘part of a person’?” Pitt demanded irritably. He liked young Wilberforce Stripe; he was normally keen and reliable. This vague story was unlike him. “What’s in this parcel?”
“Well, that’s it, Mr. Pitt, sir. The constable on the beat says ’e ’asn’t touched it more’n necessary afore you get there, sir, but by ’is reckoning that’s just what it is—a part of a woman’s body. The—er ...” He was clearly embarrassed. He did not wish to be indelicate, yet was aware that a policeman should be precise. He placed one hand across his waist and the other across his neck. “The top ’alf, sir.”
Pitt stood up, papers cascading off his lap onto the floor and remaining there. In spite