Resurrection Row - Anne Perry [48]
It was one of the larger houses, a little faded on the outside, but with prim white curtains at the windows and a whitened step. He pulled the bell and stood back.
“Yes?” A stout girl in black stuff dress and starched apron opened the door and stared at him inquiringly.
“Is Mrs. Porteous in?” Pitt asked. “I have information regarding her late husband.” He knew that if he said he was from the police the servants would have it all over the street within the day, and it would grow in scandal with each retelling.
The girl’s mouth fell open. “Oh! Oh, yes sir; you’d better come in. If you wait in the parlor, I’ll tell Mrs. Porteous you’re here, sir. What name shall I say?”
“Mr. Pitt.”
“Yes, sir.” And she disappeared to inform her mistress.
Pitt sat down. The room was crammed with furniture, photographs, ornaments, an embroidered sampler saying “Fear God and do your duty,” three stuffed birds, a stuffed weasel under glass, an arrangement of dried flowers, and two large, shining, green potted plants. He felt intensely claustrophobic. It gave him the rather hysterical feeling that it was all alive and, when he was not looking, creeping closer and closer to him, hungry and defensive against an alien in their territory. Eventually he preferred to stand.
The door opened and Mrs. Porteous came in, as robustly corseted as before, her hair perfect, her cheeks rouged. Her bosom was decorated with rows and rows of jet beads.
“Good morning, Mr. Pitt,” she said anxiously. “My maid says you have some news about Mr. Porteous?”
“Yes, ma’am. I think we have found him. He is in the morgue, and if you would be good enough to come and identify him, we can be sure, and then in due course we can have him reinterred—”
“I can’t have a second funeral!” she said in alarm. “It wouldn’t be proper.”
“No, naturally,” he agreed. “Just an interment, but first let us be sure it is indeed your husband.”
She called for the maid to fetch her coat and hat, and followed Pitt outside into the street. It was still raining lightly, and in Resurrection Row they hailed a hansom and rode in silence to the morgue.
Pitt was beginning to feel an antiseptic familiarity with the place. The attendant still had a cold and his nose was now bright pink, but he greeted them with a smile as wide as decorum before a widow allowed.
Mrs. Porteous looked at the corpse and did not require either the chair or the glass of water.
“Yes,” she said calmly. “That is Mr. Porteous.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I have some questions I must ask you, but perhaps you would prefer to discuss them in a more comfortable place? Would you like to go home? The cab is still waiting.”
“If you please,” she accepted; then, without looking at the attendant, she turned and waited for Pitt to open the door for her outside into the rain, preceded him down the path and back into the cab again.
Seated in the parlor of her own house, she ordered hot tea from the maid and faced Pitt, hands folded in her lap, jet beads glistening in the lamplight. On a day as dark as this, it was impossible to see clearly inside without the lamps lit.
“Well, Mr. Pitt, what is it you wish to ask me? That is Mr. Porteous; what else is there to know?”
“How did he die, ma’am?”
“In his bed! Naturally.”
“From what cause, ma’am?” He tried to make it clear without being offensive or distressing her more than was necessary. Her remarkable bearing might well hide deep emotion underneath.
“A complaint of digestion. No doubt it had a name, but I do not know it. He had been ill for some time.”
“I see. I’m sorry. Who was his doctor?”
Her arched eyebrows rose. “Dr. Hall, but I cannot see why you wish to know. Surely you do not suspect Dr. Hall of violating the grave?”
“No, of course not.” He did not know how to explain that he was questioning the cause of death. Obviously the whole train of thought had not occurred to her. “It is just that in order to find who did, we need all the information possible.”
“Do you expect to find out?” She was still perfectly composed.
“No,” he admitted frankly,