Resurrection Row - Anne Perry [36]
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!”
5
SINCE 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.