Resurrection Row - Anne Perry [6]
“Who are they?” Pitt asked.
“Lord and Lady St. Jermyn,” the constable said, rather more loudly than Pitt would have wished. In the stillness of the graveyard even the steady dripping of the rain was audible.
The burial was over, and they turned one by one to leave. Pitt recognized Sir Desmond and Lady Cantlay from the street outside the theatre and hoped they had had the tact not to mention their part in the matter. Perhaps they would; Sir Desmond had seemed a not inconsiderate person.
The last to leave, accompanied by a rather solid man with a plain, amiable face, was a tall, thin old lady of magnificent bearing and an almost imperial dignity. Even the gravediggers hesitated and touched their hats, waiting until she had passed before beginning their work. Pitt saw her clearly for only a moment, but it was enough. He knew that long nose, the heavy-lidded, brilliant eyes. At eighty she still had more left of her beauty than most women ever possess.
“Aunt Vespasia!” He was caught in his surprise and spoke aloud.
“Beg pardon, sir?” the constable started.
“Lady Cumming-Gould, isn’t it?” Pitt swung round to him. “That last lady leaving.”
“Yes, sir! Lives in number eighteen. Just moved ’ere in the autumn. Old Mr. Staines died in the February of 1885; that’d be just short a year ago. Lady Cumming-Gould bought it back end o’ the summer.”
Pitt remembered last summer extremely well. That was when he had first met Charlotte’s sister Emily’s great-aunt Vespasia, during the Paragon Walk outrage. More precisely, she was the aunt of Emily’s husband, Lord George Ashworth. He had not expected to see her again, but he recalled how much he had liked her asperity and alarming candor. In fact, had Charlotte married above herself socially instead of beneath, she might have grown in time to be just such a devastating old lady.
The constable was staring at him, eyes skeptical. “You know ’er, then, do you, sir?”
“Another case.” Pitt did not want to explain. “Have you seen anyone here who doesn’t live in the Park, or know the widow or the family?”
“No, no one ’ere except what you’d expect. Maybe grave robbers don’t come back to the scene o’ the crime? Or maybe they come at night?”
Pitt was not in the mood for sarcasm, especially from a constable on the beat.
“Perhaps I should post you here?” he said acidly. “In case!”
The constable’s face fell, then lightened again as suspicion hit him that Pitt was merely exercising his own wit.
“If you think it would be productive, sir?” he said stiffly.
“Only of a cold in the head,” Pitt replied. “I’m going to pay my respects to Lady Cumming-Gould. You stay here and watch for the rest of the afternoon,” he added with satisfaction. “Just in case someone comes to have a look!”
The constable snorted, then turned it into a rather inefficient sneeze.
Pitt walked away and, lengthening his stride, caught up with Aunt Vespasia. She ignored him. One does not speak to the help at funerals.
“Lady Cumming-Gould,” he said distinctly.
She stopped and turned slowly, preparing to freeze him with a glance. Then something about his height, the way his coat hung, flapping at his sides, struck a note of familiarity. She fished for her lorgnette and held it up to her eyes.
“Good gracious! Thomas, what on earth are you doing here? Oh, of course! I suppose you are looking for whoever dug up poor Gussie. I can’t imagine why anyone should do such a thing. Quite disgusting! Makes a lot of work for everyone, and all so unnecessary.” She looked him up and down. “You don’t appear to be any different, except that you have more clothes on. Can’t you get anything to match? Wherever did you purchase that muffler? It’s appalling. Emily had a son, you know? Yes, of course you know. Going to call him Edward, after her father. Better than calling him George. Always irritating to call a boy after his father; no one ever knows which