Resurrection Row - Anne Perry [26]
The pathologist wore a mask, and Pitt was glad of one, too. The smell caught at the stomach. They worked for hours, calmly and in silence but for brief instructions as organs were removed and handed over, samples taken to search for poisons. The heart was looked at with particular care.
At the end Pitt walked out, numb with cold, his stomach tight from nausea. He huddled his jacket round him and pulled his muffler up to his ears.
“Well?” he asked.
“Nothing,” the pathologist replied dourly. “He died of heart failure.”
Pitt stood silently. Half of him had wanted that answer, and yet the other half could not believe it, could see no sense in it.
“Don’t know what brought it on,” the pathologist went on. “Heart’s not in a bad condition, for a man of his age. Bit fatty, arteries thickening a little, but not enough to kill him.”
Pitt was obliged to ask. “Could it have been poison?”
“Could have,” the pathologist answered. “Quite a lot of digitalis there, but his doctor says the old lady had it for her heart. He could have taken it himself. Doesn’t look like enough to have done him any harm—but I can’t say for certain. People don’t all react the same way, and he’s been dead awhile now.”
“So he could have died of digitalis poisoning?”
“Possibly,” the pathologist agreed. “But not likely. Sorry I can’t be more help, but there just isn’t anything definite.”
Pitt had to be content. The man was professional and had done his job. The postmortem had proved nothing, except confirm to the world that the police were suspicious.
Pitt dreaded having to tell the news to his superiors. He treated himself to a hansom from the hospital back to the police station and got out in the rain at the other end. He ran up the steps two at a time and dived into the shelter of the entrance. He shook himself, scattering water all over the floor, then went in.
Before he reached the far side of the room and went up the stairs to break the news, he was confronted by the red face of a young sergeant.
“Mr. Pitt, sir!”
Pitt stopped, irritated; he wanted to get this over as soon as possible. “What is it?” he demanded.
The sergeant took a deep breath. “There’s another grave, sir—I mean another open one—sir.”
Pitt stood stock-still. “Another grave?” he said fatuously.
“Yes, sir—robbed, like the last one. Coffin—but no corpse.”
“And whose is it?”
“A Mr. W. W. Porteous, sir. William Wilberforce Porteous, to be exact.”
4
PITT DID NOT tell Charlotte about the second grave, nor indeed about the result of the postmortem. She heard about the latter two days later in the early afternoon. She had just finished her housework and put Jemima to bed for her rest when the doorbell rang. The woman who came in three mornings a week to do the heavy work had gone before midday, so Charlotte answered the door herself.
She was startled to see Dominic on the step. At first she could not even find words but stood stupidly, without inviting him in. He looked so little different it was as if memory had come to life. His face was just as she had remembered it, the same dark eyes, the slightly flared nostrils, the same mouth. He stood just as elegantly. The only difference was that it did not tighten her throat anymore. She could see the rest of the street, with its white stone doorsteps and the net twitching along the windows.
“May I come in?” he asked uncomfortably. This time it was he who seemed to have lost his composure.
She recollected herself with a jolt, embarrassed for her clumsiness.
“Of course.” She stepped back. She must look ridiculous. They were old friends who had lived in the same house for years when he had been her brother-in-law. In fact, since he had apparently not remarried, even though Sarah had been dead for nearly five years, he was still a member of the family.
“How are you?” she asked.
He smiled quickly, trying to look comfortable, to bridge the immense gap.
“Very well,” he replied. “And I know you are. I can see, and Thomas told me when I met him the other day. He says you have a daughter!”
“Yes,