Resurrection Row - Anne Perry [3]
“St. Margaret’s, sir. We put a guard on it, naturally.”
“Whatever for?” Pitt opened his eyes. “What harm is anyone going to do an empty grave?”
“Sightseers, sir,” Gilthorpe said without a flicker. “Someone might fall in. Very ’ard to get out of a grave, it is. Sides is steep and wet, this time o’ year. And o’ course the coffin is still there.” He stood a little more upright, indicating that he had finished and was waiting for orders from Pitt.
Pitt looked up at him.
“I suppose I had better go and see the widow and have her identify our corpse from the cab.” He climbed to his feet with a sigh. “Tell the mortuary to make it look as decent as possible, will you? It’s going to be pretty wretched, whether it’s him or not. Where does she live?”
“Gadstone Park, sir, number twelve. All very big ’ouses there; very rich, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“They would be,” Pitt agreed drily. Curious, the couple who had found the corpse had lived there also. Coincidence. “Right, Gilthorpe. Go and tell the mortuary to have his lordship ready for viewing.” He picked up his hat and put it hard on his head, tied his muffler round his neck, and went outside into the rain.
Gadstone Park was, as Gilthorpe had said, a very wealthy area, with large houses set back from the street and a well-tended park in the center with laurel and rhododendron bushes and a very fine magnolia—at least that was what he guessed it to be in its winter skeleton. The rain had turned back to sleet again, and the day was dark with coming snow.
He shivered as the water seeped down his neck and trickled cold over his skin. No matter how many scarves he put on, it always seemed to do that.
Number twelve was a classic Georgian house with a curved carriageway sweeping in under a pillared entrance. Its proportions satisfied his eye. Even though he would never again, since his childhood as a gamekeeper’s son, live in such a place, it pleased him to see it. These houses graced the city and provided the stuff of dreams for everyone.
He jammed his hat on harder as a gust of wind rattled a monumental laurel by the door and showered him with water. He rang the bell and waited.
A footman appeared, dressed in black. A thought flickered through Pitt’s mind that he had missed his vocation in life—nature had intended him for an undertaker.
“Yes—sir?” There was the barest hesitation as the man recognized one of the lower classes and immediately categorized him as someone who should have known well enough to go to the back door.
Pitt was long familiar with the look and was prepared for it. He had no time to waste with layers of relayed messages, and it was less cruel to tell the news once and plainly than ooze it little by little through the hierarchy of the servant’s hall.
“I am Inspector Pitt of the police. There has been an outrage with regard to the grave of the late Lord Augustus Fitzroy-Hammond,” he said soberly. “I would like to speak to Lady Fitzroy-Hammond, so that the matter can be closed as soon and as discreetly as possible.”
The footman was startled out of his funereal composure. “You—you had better come in!”
He stood back, and Pitt followed him, too oppressed by the interview ahead to be glad yet of the warmth. The footman led him to the morning room and left him there, possibly to report the shattering news to the butler and pass him the burden of the next decision.
Pitt had not long to wait. Lady Fitzroy-Hammond came in, white-faced, and stopped when she was barely through the door. Pitt had been expecting someone considerably older; the corpse from the cab had seemed at least sixty, perhaps more, but this woman could not possibly be past her twenties. Even the black of mourning could not hide the color or texture of her skin, or the suppleness of her movement.
“You say there has been an—outrage, Mr.—?” she said quietly.
“Inspector Pitt, ma’am. Yes. I’m very sorry. Someone has opened the grave.” There was no pleasant way of saying it, no gentility to cover the ugliness. “But we have found a body, and we would like you to