Resurrection Row - Anne Perry [1]
There was an instant’s silence, long enough for the in-drawing of breath, the wave of revulsion; then Gwendoline screamed, a high, thin sound smothered immediately by the night.
Desmond stood up slowly, his own stomach turning over, trying to put his body between her and the sight on the pavement. He expected her to faint; and yet he did not know quite what to do. She was heavy as she sank against him, and he could not maintain her weight.
“Help!” he called out desperately. “Help me!”
The horse was used to the indescribable racket of the London streets, and it was barely stirred by Gwendoline’s scream. Desmond’s shout did not move it at all.
He cried out again, his voice rising as he struggled to prevent her sliding out of his grip onto the filthy pavement and to imagine some way of dealing with the horror behind him before she regained her senses and became completely hysterical.
It seemed like minutes standing in the wreaths of coldness, the cab looming over him, silent except for the breathing of the horse. Then at last there were footsteps, a voice, and a shape.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” An enormous man materialized out of the fog, muffled in a woolen scarf, coattails flapping. “What happened? Have you been attacked?”
Desmond was still holding Gwendoline, who was at last beginning to stir. He looked at the man and saw an intelligent, humorous face of undoubted plainness. In the halo of the gaslight he was not so enormous, merely tall, and dressed in too many layers of clothes, none of which appeared to be done up correctly.
“Were you attacked?” the man repeated a little more sharply.
Desmond jerked himself into some presence of mind.
“No.” He grasped Gwendoline more tightly, pinching her without meaning to. “No. The—the cabby is dead.” He cleared his throat and coughed as the fog caught him. “I fear he has been dead some time. My wife fainted. If you would be kind enough to assist me, sir, I shall endeavor to revive her; and then I imagine we should summon the police. I suppose they take care of such things. The poor man is an appalling sight. He cannot be left there.”
“I am the police,” the man replied, looking past him to the form on the ground. “Inspector Pitt.” He fished absently for a card and turned up a penknife and a ball of string. He abandoned the effort and bent down by the body, touching the face with his fingers for a moment, then the earth on the hair.
“He’s dead—” Desmond began. “In fact—in fact, he looks almost as if he had been buried—and dug up again!”
Pitt stood up, running his hands down his sides as though he could rub off the feel of it.
“Yes, I think you’re right. Nasty. Very nasty.”
Gwendoline was now coming fully to consciousness and straightened up, at last taking the weight off Desmond’s arm, although she still leaned against him.
“It’s all right, my dear,” he said quickly, trying to keep her turned away from Pitt and the body. “The police are going to take care of it!” He looked grimly at Pitt as he said this, trying to make something of an order of it. It was time the man did something more useful than merely agree with him as to the obvious.
Before Pitt could reply, a woman came out of the darkness, handsome, and with a warmth in the curves of her face that survived even the dankness of this January street.
“What is it?” She looked straight at Pitt.
“Charlotte,” he hesitated, debating for an instant how much to tell her, “the cabby is dead. Looks as if he’s been dead a little while. I shall have to see that arrangements are made.” He turned to Desmond. “My wife,” he explained, leaving the words hanging.
“Desmond Cantlay.” Desmond resented being expected to introduce himself socially to a policeman’s wife, but he had been left no civil alternative. “Lady Cantlay.” He moved his head fractionally toward Gwendoline.
“How do you do, Sir Desmond?” Charlotte replied with remarkable composure. “Lady Cantlay.”
“How do you do?” Gwendoline said weakly.
“If you would be good enough to give me your address?” Pitt asked. “In