“Who is that?” Pitt whispered.
“Mr. Somerset Carlisle, sir,” the man answered. “Lives in the Park, number two.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s a gentleman, sir.”
Pitt did not bother to pursue it. Even gentlemen occasionally had occupations beyond the social round, but it was of no importance.
“That’s Lady Alicia Fitzroy-Hammond,” the constable went on quite unnecessarily. “Very sad. Only married to him a few years, they say.”
Pitt grunted; the man could take it to mean anything he chose. Alicia was pale but quite composed: probably relieved to have the whole thing nearly over. Beside her, also in utter black, was a younger girl, perhaps twenty, her honey-brown hair pulled away from her face and her eyes suitably downcast.
“The Honorable Miss Verity Fitzroy-Hammond,” the constable anticipated him. “Very nice young lady.”
Pitt felt no reply was required. His eye traveled to the man and woman beyond the girl. He was well built, probably had been athletic in youth, and still stood with ease. His brow was broad, his nose long and straight, only a certain flaw in the mouth prevented him from being completely pleasing. Even so, he was a handsome man. The woman beside him had fine, dark eyes and black hair with a marvelous silver streak from the right temple.
“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 one you are talking about. How is Charlotte? Tell her to call upon me; I’m bored to tears with the people in the Park, except the American with a face like a mud pie. Homeliest man I ever saw, but quite charming. He hasn’t the faintest idea how to behave, but rich as Croesus.” Her eyes danced with amusement. “They cannot make up their minds what to do about him, whether to be civil because of his money or cut him dead because of his manners. I do hope he stays.”
Pitt found himself smiling, in spite of the rain down his neck and the wet trouser cuffs sticking to his ankles.
“I shall give Charlotte your message,” he said, bowing slightly. “She will be delighted that I have seen you, and you are well.”
“Indeed,” Vespasia snorted. “Tell her to come early, before two, then she won’t run into the social callers with nothing to do but outdress each other.” She put her lorgnette away and swept down the path, ignoring the skirts of her gown catching in the mud.
2
ON SUNDAY ALICIA Fitzroy-Hammond rose as usual, a little after nine, and ate a light breakfast of toast and apricot preserve. Verity had already eaten and was now writing letters in the morning room. The dowager Lady Fitzroy-Hammond, Augustus’s mother, would have her meal taken up to her as always. On some days she got up; far more often she did not. Then she lay in her bed with an embroidered Indian shawl around her shoulders and reread all her old letters, sixty-five years of them, going back to her nineteenth birthday, July 12, exactly five years after the battle of Waterloo. Her brother had been an ensign in Wellington’s army. Her second son had died in the Crimea. And there were old love letters from men long since gone.
Every so often she would send her maid, Nisbett, down to see what was going on in the house. She required a list of all callers, when they came and how long they stayed, if they left cards, and most particularly how they were dressed. Alicia had learned to live with that; the thing she still found intolerable was Nisbett’s constant inquiry into the running of the house, passing her finger over the surfaces to see if they were dusted every day, opening the linen cupboard when she thought no one was looking to count the sheets and tablecloths and see if all the corners were ironed and mended.
This Sunday was one of the old lady’s days to get up. She enjoyed going to church. She sat in the family pew and watched everyone arrive and depart. She pretended to be deaf, although actually her hearing was excellent. It suited her not to speak, except when she wanted something, and occasional failure to know what was said could be not inconvenient.
She was dressed in black also, and she leaned heavily on her stick. She came into the dining room and banged sharply on the floor to attract Alicia’s attention.