As if she had conjured him out of her thoughts the door swung open, and Pitt appeared in front of her, shaking himself like a great wet dog and spraying water from his coattails and off his sleeves. She had not thought of the police coming, and now all sorts of ugly fears crowded into her mind. Why? Why had Augustus risen out of his grave again like some persistent, obscene reminder of the past, preventing her from stepping out of it into the future? The future could hold so much promise; she had met new people, especially one new person, slim, elegant, with all the laughter and charm Augustus had lost. Perhaps he had been like that in his youth, but she had not known him then. She wanted to dance, to make jokes of trivial things, to sing something round the spinet other than hymns and solemn ballads. She wanted to be in love and say giddy and uproarious things, have a past worth remembering, like the old lady who sat rereading her youth from a hundred letters. No doubt there was sadness in them, but there was passion, too, if there was any truth in her retelling.
The policeman was staring at her with bright gray eyes. He was the untidiest creature she had ever seen, not fit to be in a church.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I thought we’d seen the end of it.”
She could think of no answer.
“Do you know of anyone who might be doing this, ma’am?” he went on.
She looked up at his face, and a whole abyss of new horror opened up in front of her. She had presumed it was an anonymous crime, the work of insane vandals of some sort. She had heard of grave robbing, body snatchers; but now she realized that this extraordinary man thought that it might be personal, deliberately directed at Augustus—or even at her!
“No!” She gulped, and the breath caught in her throat. She swallowed hard. “No, of course not.” But she could feel the heat burning up her face. What would other people think? Twice Augustus had been uncovered out of his grave, almost as if someone were unwilling to let him rest—or, more pointedly, unwilling to let her forget him.
Who would do such a thing? The only one she knew was the old lady. She would certainly be annoyed if she thought Alicia could marry again, and so soon, this time for love!
“I have no idea,” she said as calmly as she could. “If Augustus had any enemies, he never spoke of them; and I find it hard to imagine that anyone he was acquainted with, whatever their feelings, would do such a thing as this.”
“Yes.” Pitt nodded. “It is beyond ordinary vengeance, even to us. It’s wretchedly cold in here; you’d better go home and warm yourself, take some food. There’s nothing you can do now. We’ll take care of it, see he’s handled decently. I think your vicar’s already ordered the proper observations.” He walked toward the door, then turned. “I suppose you are quite sure it was your husband, ma’am? You did see his face quite clearly—it wasn’t someone else, perhaps?”
Alicia shook her head. She could see the corpse with its gray-white skin in front of her sharply, more real than the cold walls of the vestry.
“It was Augustus, Mr. Pitt. There is no doubt of that at all.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I’m extremely sorry.” He went out and closed the door behind him.
Outside, Pitt stopped for a moment to glance at the remnants of the congregation, all affecting attitudes of sympathy, or else pretending to be there by chance and about to move; then he strode down the path and out into the street. The business had shaken him far more than the relative seriousness of the crime warranted. Far worse things were going on daily—beatings, extortions, and murders—and yet there was a relentless obscenity about this that disturbed some previously silent portion of his mind, an assumption that death at least was untouchable.
Why on earth should anyone keep on digging up the body of some elderly aristocrat whose death had been perfectly natural?
Or was this a bizarre but unignorable way of saying that it had not? Was it conceivable that Lord Augustus had been murdered, and someone knew it?
After a second disinterment it was a question he could not overlook. They could not simply replace him again—and wait!
There was nothing he could do today; it would be indiscreet. He needed to observe decorum or he would get no cooperation at all from those closest to him, and most likely to know or suspect. Not that he expected much help. No one wanted murder. No one wanted police in the house, investigations and questions.
Added to which, Sunday was his own day off. He wanted to be at home. He was making an engine for Jemima that pulled along on a string. It was proving harder than he had expected to make wheels round, but she was delighted with it anyway and talked to it incessantly in a mixture of sounds quite unintelligible to anyone else, but obviously of great significance to her. It gave him immeasurable happiness.
Late on Monday morning he set out through a fine, thick mist to ride to Gadstone Park and begin the questions. It was not as dismal as might be supposed, because he intended to call first upon Great-Aunt Vespasia. The memory of her in Paragon Walk brought a glow of pleasure to his mind, and he found himself smiling, alone in the hansom cab.
He had chosen his time with care, late enough for her to have finished breakfast but too early for her to have left the house for any morning business she might have.
Surprisingly, the footman informed him that she already had company, but he would acquaint her ladyship with Pitt’s arrival, if he desired.
Pitt felt a surge of disappointment and replied a little tartly that yes, he did desire, and then allowed himself to be taken into the morning room to wait.
The footman came back for him unexpectedly soon and ushered him into the withdrawing room. Vespasia was sitting in the great chair, her hair piled meticulously on her head and a chin-high blouse of Guipure lace giving her a totally deceptive air of fragility. She was about as delicate as a steel sword, as Pitt knew.
The others in the room were Sir Desmond Cantlay, Lady St. Jermyn, and Somerset Carlisle. Closer to, Pitt observed their faces with interest. Hester St. Jermyn was a striking woman; the silver streak in her hair appeared quite natural and was startling against its black. Somerset Carlisle was not so thin or so angular as he had seemed in black by the graveside, yet there was still the same suggestion of humor about him, the slightly aquiline nose and the sharp brows.
“Good morning, Thomas,” Vespasia said drily. “I was expecting you to call, but not quite so soon, I admit. I imagine you have already made yourself acquainted with the rest of the company, if not they with you?” She glanced round them. “I have met Inspector Pitt before.” Her voice crackled with a world of unexplained meaning. Hester St. Jermyn and Sir Desmond both looked at him with amazement, but Carlisle kept his face impassive except for a small smile. He caught Pitt’s eye.
Vespasia apparently did not intend to explain. “We are discussing politics,” she offered to Pitt. “An extraordinary thing to do in the morning, is it not? Are you familiar with workhouses?”
Pitt’s mind flew to the dour, airless halls he had seen crammed with men, women, and children picking apart and re-sewing new shirts from old for the price of their keep. Their eyes ached and their limbs stiffened. In the summer they fainted from heat, and in the winter bronchitis racked them. But it was the only shelter for those with families, or women alone who were too old, too ugly, or too honest to go on the streets. He looked at Vespasia’s lace and Hester’s minuscule pin tucks.
“Yes,” he said harshly. “I am.”
Vespasia’s eyes gleamed in instant recognition of his thoughts. “And you do not approve,” she said slowly. “Abominable places, especially where the children are concerned.”
“Yes,” Pitt agreed.
“Nevertheless, necessary, and all the poor law allows,” she continued.