Anne Perry - [Thomas Pitt 04]

by Resurrection Row

  “We had luncheon together; then he tricked me into going with him into the most awful place I have ever seen in my life! I have never imagined anything so wretched—”

  “I’m sorry.” Her voice was full of concern. “Were you hurt? Are you sure you are well now? I can easily put off this call; it is not urgent.”

  “No, I wasn’t hurt!” His voice was uglier than he meant it to be, but it would not stay in his control. Confusion and anger were boiling up inside him. He wanted someone to explain it away, to give back the ignorance that had been so much easier.

  She obviously did not understand. She had never seen a workhouse in her life. She had never been permitted to read newspapers, and she did not handle money. The housekeeper kept the accounts, and her husband had paid the bills. The nearest she had ever come to poverty was a restriction in her dress allowance when her father had suffered a reverse in his investments.

  He wanted to explain what he had seen and, above all, how he felt about it; but the only words for it were unseemly, and anyway, they described things that were completely beyond anything she could imagine. He gave it up and sank into silence.

  After they returned from the visit he dropped her off at Gadstone Park, and then, feeling miserable and dissatisfied, he sent the carriage away and sat in front of his own fire for an hour. Finally he got up again and called a hansom.

  Charlotte had put the matter of the corpses from her mind. Indeed, she had far too much of her own to do to interest herself in most of Pitt’s cases, and the identity of a corpse that had, so far as anyone knew, died quite naturally was not of concern to her. Jemima had sat in a puddle and required a complete change of clothing. She was now busy with a larger laundry then usual, and ironing was not quite one of her favorite chores.

  She was startled when the doorbell rang because she was not expecting anyone. People seldom called in the middle of the day; they all had their own duties and meals to prepare. She was even more surprised when she saw Dominic standing on the step.

  “May I come in?” he asked before she had time to speak.

  She opened the door wider.

  “Yes, of course. What’s wrong? You look—” She wanted to say “miserable” but decided “unwell” would be more tactful.

  He passed her into the hall, and she closed the door and led the way to the kitchen again. Jemima was building bricks in her playpen in the corner. Dominic sat down on the wooden chair in front of the table. The room was warm, and the washed wood smelled good. There were sheets hanging from the airing rail on the ceiling, and he looked with curiosity at the rope and pulleys for hauling it up and down. The flatiron was warming on the stove.

  “I’ve interrupted you,” he said without moving.

  “No, you haven’t.” She smiled and picked up the iron to continue. “What’s the matter?”

  He was irritated with himself for being so transparent. She was treating him like a child, but at the moment he wanted the reassurance enough to shelve the resentment.

  “A man called Carlisle took me to see a workhouse yesterday, somewhere in Seven Dials. There were fifty or sixty people in one room, all unpicking clothes to remake them. Even children. It was foul!”

  She remembered the anger she had felt when Pitt had first told her about the slums and tenements when she lived in Cater Street and thought herself terribly knowledgeable because she looked at the newspapers. She had been shocked, angry that she had not known before, and angry most of all with Pitt because he had know all the time and had chosen to disturb her world with ugliness and other people’s pain.

  There was nothing comforting to say. She went on ironing the shirt. “It is,” she agreed. “But why did he take you—this Mr. Carlisle?”

  The reason was at once the best and the worst side to it.

  “Because he wants me to speak to a friend of mine in the House of Lords and see if I can influence him to be there when St. Jermyn’s bill is put up.”

  She remembered what Aunt Vespasia had said, and it was immediately understandable. “And are you going to?”

  “For heaven’s sake, Charlotte!” he said exasperatedly. “How on earth do you go up to a fellow you only know because of racing horses and things, and say to him, ‘By the way, I’d like you to take your seat in the House when they put up St. Jermyn’s bill because the workhouses really are awful, and the children need educating, you know! There ought to be a law to support and educate pauper children in London, so be a good chap and get all your friends to vote for it!’ It’s impossible! I can’t do it!”

  “That’s a pity.” She did not look up from her ironing. She was sorry for him; she knew how nearly impossible it was to engage people in thoughts they do not like, especially those that make them uncomfortable and threaten their pleasures by questioning the order of things. But she was not going to tell him he had no obligation, or that it was up to someone else. Not that he was likely to have accepted it if she had. He had seen and smelled the streets of Seven Dials, and no words would wipe out that memory.

  “A pity!” he said furiously. “A pity! Is that all you can say? Has Thomas ever told you what those places are like? It’s indescribable—you can taste the filth and despair.”

  “I know,” she said calmly. “And there are worse places than workhouses, places inside the rookeries that even Thomas won’t describe.”

  “He’s told you?”

  “Something, not all.”

  He screwed his face up and stared down at the white wood of the table. “It’s awful!”

  “Would you like some luncheon?” She folded the shirt and put it away, then folded the ironing board also. “I’m going to have some. It’s just bread and soup, but you are welcome, if you wish.”

  Suddenly the gulf opened, and he realized he had been speaking to her as if they were both still in Cater Street, with the same material possessions. He had forgotten his world was as different now from hers as hers was from Seven Dials. He was momentarily embarrassed for his clumsiness. He watched her as she took two clean plates out of the cupboard and set them on the table, then the bread out of the bin, a board and a knife. There was no butter.

  “Yes, please,” he answered. “Yes, I would.”

  She took the lid off the stockpot on the stove and ladled out enough to fill the two plates.

  “What about Jemima?” he asked.

  She sat down. “She’s had hers. What are you going to do about Mr. Carlisle?”

  He ignored the question. He knew what the answer would be, but he did not want to admit it yet.

  “I tried to tell Alicia about it.” He took a mouthful of the soup. It was surprisingly good, and the bread was fresh and crusty. He had not known Charlotte could make bread. Still—she must have had to learn.

  “That was unfair.” She looked at him steadily. “You can’t tell people in words and expect them to understand, or feel the way you do.”

  “No—she didn’t. She brushed it aside as so much conversation. She seemed like a stranger, and I thought I knew her so well.”

  “That’s not fair either,” she said. “It’s you who have changed. What do you suppose Mr. Carlisle thought of you?”

  “What?”

  “Were you very impressed by what he said? Didn’t he have to take you to Seven Dials to see it for yourself?”

  “Yes, but that’s—” He stopped, remembering his reluctance, disinterest. But he was nothing to Carlisle; whereas he and Alicia loved each other. “That’s—”

  “Different?” Charlotte raised eyebrows. “It’s not. Caring for someone doesn’t alter it. Knowing might—” Straightaway she was sorry for saying it. Enchantment was such an ephemeral thing, and familiarity had so little to do with it. “Don’t blame her,” she said quietly. “Why should she know about it, or understand?”

  “No reason,” he admitted, and yet he felt a void between himself and Alicia and realized how much of his feeling for her depended on the color of her hair, the curve of her cheek, a smile, and the
fact that she responded to him. But what was inside her, in the part he could not reach?

  Could there be even the simple removal of an object that stood between her and what she wanted, a little movement of the hand with a bottle of pills—and murder?

  At the top of Resurrection Row was a cemetery, hence its name. A tiny chapel stood in the center; in a wealthier area it would have been a crypt or family tomb, but here it was only the pretension to one. Marble angels perched on a few of the better tombstones; here and there, there was a distant cross, but most of them rose bare and a little crooked with age. Subsidence in the earth from frequent digging caused them to lean askew, and half a dozen skeletal trees had not been removed. It was an unlovely place at any time, and on a damp February evening it boasted only one virtue, privacy. For a seventeen-year-old maid of all work like Dollie Jenkins, who was in the process of courting a butcher’s boy with excellent prospects, it was the only place in which she could give him just sufficient encouragement without losing her employment.

  Arm in arm they walked in through the gates, whispering together, giggling under their breath; it was hardly decent to laugh out loud in the presence of the dead. After a little while they sat down, close together, on one of the tombstones. She allowed it to be known that she would not resent a little show of affection, and he responded enthusiastically.

  After some fifteen minutes, she felt the situation was getting out of hand, and he might well end up taking liberties and afterwards think the worse of her for it. She pushed him away and saw, to her consternation, a figure sitting perched on one of the other gravestones, knees crossed, high stovepipe hat askew.

  “ ’Ere, Samuel!” she hissed. “There’s an old geezer sittin’ over there spyin’ on us!”

  Samuel got to his feet in awkward haste. “Dirty old goat!” he said loudly. “Go on! Get away wiv’ yer. Peepin’ Tom! Afore I thump yer!”

  The figure did not move; indeed, he ignored Samuel completely, not even raising his head.

  Samuel strode over to him. “I’ll teach yer!” he shouted. “I’ll box your ears for yer right proper. Go on, get out of ’ere, yer dirty old toad!” He seized the man by the shoulder and made as if to swing his fist at him.

  To his horror the man swayed and toppled over sideways, his hat rolling onto the ground. His face was blue in the faint moonlight, and his chest was a most peculiar flat shape.

  “Oh, God almighty!” Samuel dropped him and leapt away, falling over his own feet. He scrambled up again and backed toward Dollie, clutching onto her.

  “What is it?” she demanded. “What ’ave you done?”

  “I ain’t done nuffin! ’E’s dead, Doll—’e’s as dead as anybody in ’ere. Somebody’s gorn an’ dug ’im up!”

  The news was conveyed to Pitt the following morning.

  “You’ll never believe it!” the constable said, his voice squeaking up to top C.

  “Tell me anyway.” Pitt was resigned.

  “They’ve found another one. Courting couple found him last night.”

  “Why shouldn’t I believe it?” Pitt said wearily. “I’d believe anything.”

  “Because it was Horrie Snipe!” the constable burst out. “As I live and breathe, it was—sitting up on a gravestone in Resurrection Cemetery in his old stovepipe hat. He was run over three weeks ago, by a muck cart, and buried a fortnight—and there ’e was, sitting on a tombstone all by ’isself in the moonlight.”

  “You’re right,” Pitt said. “I don’t believe it. I don’t want to believe it.”

  “It’s ’im, sir. I’d know Horrie Snipe anywhere. He was the busiest procurer the Row ever had.”

  “So it seems,” Pitt said drily. “But for this morning, I still refuse to believe it.”

  7

  ON MONDAY CHARLOTTE received a handwritten note from Aunt Vespasia, inviting her to call that morning and be prepared to stay for some little while, in fact, over luncheon and into the afternoon. No reason was given, but Charlotte knew Aunt Vespasia far too well to imagine it was idle. A request at such short notice, and stating such a specific time and duration, was not casual. Charlotte could not possibly ignore it; apart from good manners, curiosity made it absolutely imperative she go.

  Accordingly, she took Jemima over the street to Mrs. Smith, who was always more than willing to tend her with great affection, in return for a little gossip as to the dress, manners, and especially foibles of the society that Charlotte kept. Her own resulting importance in the street, as Charlotte’s confidante, was immeasurable. She was also quite genuinely a kind woman and enjoyed helping, especially a young woman like Charlotte who was obviously ill prepared by her own upbringing to cope with the realities of life such as Mrs. Smith knew them.

  Having been rather rash with the housekeeping in buying bacon three days in a row, instead of making do with oatmeal or fish as usual, Charlotte was obliged to catch the omnibus to its nearest point to Gadstone Park, instead of hiring a hansom, and then walk in rising sleet the rest of the way.

  She arrived on the doorstep with wet feet and, she feared, a very red nose: not in the least the elegant image she would wish to have presented. So much for bacon for breakfast.

  The maid who answered was too sensitive to her mistress’s own eccentricities to allow her thoughts to be mirrored in her face. She was becoming inured to any kind of surprise. She moved Charlotte into the morning room and left her standing as near to the fire as she dared without risking actually setting herself alight. The heat was marvelous; it brought life back into her numb ankles, and she could see the steam rising from her boots.

  Aunt Vespasia appeared after only a few moments. She glanced at Charlotte, then took out her lorgnette. “Good gracious, girl! You look as if you came by sea! Whatever have you done?”

  “It is extremely cold outside,” Charlotte attempted to explain herself. She moved a little forward from the fire; it was beginning to sting with its heat. “And the street is full of puddles.”

  “You appear to have stepped in every one of them.” Vespasia looked down at her steaming feet. She was tactful enough not to ask why she had walked in the first place. “I shall have to find something dry for you, if you are to be in the least comfortable.” She reached out for the bell and rang it sharply.

  Charlotte half thought of demurring, but she was wretched with cold, and if she was to be there for some time, it would be quite worth it to borrow something warm and dry.

  “Thank you,” she accepted.

  Vespasia gave her a look of sharp perception; she had seen the edge of argument and quite possibly understood. When the maid came, she treated the whole matter quite lightly.

  “Mrs. Pitt has unfortunately been splashed, and quite soaked, on her journey here.” She did not even bother to look at the girl. “Go and have Rose put out dry boots and stockings for her, and that blue-green afternoon gown with the embroidery on the sleeve. Rose will know which one I mean.”

  “Oh, dear.” The girl looked at Charlotte with sympathy. “Some of those hansom drivers don’t look in the least where they’re going, ma’am. I’m ever so sorry. Cook only took a step down the road the other day, and two of them lunatics passed, seein’ as they could race each other, and she was fair covered in mud. Said something awful, she did, when she got ’ome again. I’ll find something dry for you straightaway.” She whisked out of the door, bound on an errand of mercy, and hoping eternal punishment for cab drivers in general and careless ones in particular.

  Charlotte smiled broadly. “Thank you, that was remarkably tactful of you.”

  “Not at all.” Vespasia dismissed it. “I am holding a small soirée this afternoon, very small indeed.” She fluttered her hand slightly to indicate how very minor it was. “And I would like you to be here. I’m afraid this wretched business of Augustus is not going well.”

  Charlotte was not immediately sure what she meant. Her mind flew to Dominic. Surely there could be no one who genuinely suspected him—

  Vespasia
saw her look and read it with an ease that made Charlotte blush, thinking if she were so transparent now, how truly painful she must have been in the past.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said hastily. “I had hoped people would put it from mind, now that he is reinterred. It does seem as if he was only the unfortunate victim of some insane creature who is tearing up graves all over the place. There have been two more, you know—apart from Lord Augustus and the man in the cab!”

  She had the satisfaction of seeing Vespasia’s eyes widen in surprise. She had told her something she not only did not know but had not foreseen.

  “Two more! I heard nothing of it. When, and who?”

  “No one you would know,” Charlotte replied. “One was an ordinary man who lived near Resurrection Row—”

  Vespasia shook her head. “Never heard of it. It sounds most insalubrious. Where is it?”

  “About two miles away. Yes, it isn’t very pleasant, but nothing like a slum, just a back street, and of course there is a cemetery—there would be, with such a name. That is where the other corpse was found—in the graveyard.”

  “Appropriate,” Vespasia said drily.

  “Yes, but not sitting up on a tombstone, and with his hat on!”

  “No,” Vespasia agreed, pulling a painful face. “And who was he?”

  “A man called Horatio Snipe. Thomas would not tell me what he did, so I presume it must be something disreputable—I mean worse than merely a thief or a forger. I suppose he kept a house of women, or something like that.”

  Vespasia looked down her nose. “Really, Charlotte,” she snorted. “But I dare say you are right. However, I don’t think it will help. Suspicion is a strange thing; even when it is proved to be entirely unjustified, the flavor of it stays on: rather like something disagreeable one has disposed of—the aroma remains. People will forget even what it was they suspected Alicia or Mr. Corde of having done—but they will remember that they did suspect them.”

  “That is quite unjust!” Charlotte said angrily. “And it is unreasonable!”