Resurrection Row - Anne Perry [64]
It took him until the afternoon of the following day before, tired, cold, and very ragged of temper, he climbed the stone stairs to the office of one Dr. Childs.
“He doesn’t see patients this time o’ the day!” his housekeeper said sharply. “You’ll have to wait. ’E’s just ’avin’ ’is tea!”
“I’m not a patient.” Pitt made an effort to control his voice. “I am from the police, and I will not wait.” He met the woman’s eyes and stared until she looked away.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you want ’ere,” she said with a lift of her shoulder. “But I suppose you ’ad better come in. Mind you wipe your feet!”
Pitt followed her in and disturbed a somewhat startled doctor sitting with his boots off in front of the fire, crumpet in his hand and butter on his chin.
Pitt explained his errand.
“Oh,” the doctor said immediately. “Bring another cup, Mrs. Lundy. Have a crumpet, Inspector—yes, that would be Albert Wilson, I imagine. Warm yourself, man, you look perished. Mr. Dunn’s butler, poor fellow. Still, don’t know why I say that, very quick way to go. Dare say he never knew anything about it. Your boots are wet, man; take ’em off and dry your socks out. Can’t bear this weather. Why do you want to know about Wilson? Perfectly normal death. No relation and nothing to leave, anyway. Just a butler, good one, so I hear, but perfectly ordinary fellow. That’s right, make yourself comfortable. Have another crumpet; watch the butter, runs all over the place. What’s the matter with Wilson?” He raised his eyebrows and looked at Pitt curiously.
Pitt warmed to him as much as to the fire. “There was a disinterred corpse found on the box of a hansom cab outside the theatre about three weeks ago—”
“Good God! You mean that was poor old Wilson?” The doctor’s eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline. “Now, why on earth should anybody do that? Your case, is it? Thank you, Mrs. Lundy; now pour the inspector a cup of tea.”
Pitt took the tea gracefully and waited till the housekeeper was reluctantly out of the room.
“Terrible curious woman.” The doctor shook his head at her departing back. “But it has its uses—knows more about my patients than they ever tell me. Can’t cure a man if you know only half of what’s wrong with him.” He watched the steam rise from Pitt’s socks. “Shouldn’t walk around with wet feet. Not good for you.”
“Yes, it is my case.” Pitt could not help smiling. “And the odd thing is, there’s no open grave left. Albert Wilson was buried, I presume?”
“Oh, certainly! Of course he was. I can’t tell you where, but I’m sure Mr. Dunn could.”
“Then I shall ask him,” Pitt replied without moving. He bit into another crumpet. “I’m greatly obliged to you.”
The doctor reached for the teapot.
“Think nothing of it, my dear fellow. Professional duty. Have some more tea?”
Pitt went to the Dunns’ and learned the name of the church, but there was no use going to look for graves in the dark. It was the following morning when he found the grave of Albert Wilson, butler deceased, and obtained permission to open it. By eleven o’clock he was standing beside the gravediggers, watching as they took out the last of the black earth from the coffin lid. He passed the ropes down, waited as they poked them under the box and tied them, then stood back as they climbed out and began to haul. It was an expert job, a matter of balance and leverage. They seemed to find it heavy, finally laying it on the wet earth beside the cavity with a sigh of relief.
“That were rotten ’eavy, guv,” one of them said soberly. “It didn’t ’ardly feel like it were empty to me.”
“Not me.” The other shook his head and stared at Pitt accusingly.
Pitt did not reply but bent and looked at the fastenings on the lid. After a moment he fished in his pocket and pulled out a screwdriver. Silently, he