intensely, because of Dominic’s obvious regard for and closeness to her, to liking her now as much; she was quite different from Alicia’s imagining.
“Did you enjoy your tea party?” the old lady asked, spearing a large portion of fish with her fork and putting it whole into her mouth. “No one commented it odd that you should be out so soon after your husband’s burial? I suppose they were too polite!”
“It is over five weeks since he died, Mama-in-law,” Alicia replied, removing the bone from her fish delicately. “And it was a soiree, not a tea party.”
“Music as well! Very unsuitable. All love songs, I suppose, so you could gape at Dominic Corde and make a fool of yourself. He won’t marry you, you know! He hasn’t the stomach for it. He thinks you poisoned Augustus!”
The full meaning of what she had said broke on Alicia only slowly. At first she was angry with the suggestion that she had disgraced herself at the soiree. Only after she had opened her mouth to deny it did she realize what the old lady had said about Dominic. It was ugly and utterly wrong! Of course he would never think anything so evil of her!
“Won’t be able to prove it, of course,” the old lady went on, eyes bright. “Won’t say anything-just be a little cooler every time you see him. Notice he didn’t call round the last few days! No more carriage rides-”
“It hasn’t been the weather,” Alicia said hotly.
“Never stopped him before!” The old lady took another mouthful of fish and spoke round it. “Seen him come here at Christmas when there was snow in the streets! Don’t make a fool of yourself, girl!”
Alicia was too angry to be polite any more. “Last week you were saying he killed Augustus himself!” she snapped. “If he did it, how could he be thinking I did? Or do you imagine we both did it quite independently? If that is the case, then you should be delighted to see us marry-we deserve each other!”
The old lady glared at her, pretending to have her mouth too full to speak, while she thought of a suitable reply.
“Perhaps he thinks you did it?” Alicia went on, gathering impetus with the idea. “After all, the digitalis is yours, not mine! Maybe he is afraid to come and live here in the same house with you?”
“And why should I poison my own son, pray?” The old lady swallowed her mouthful and immediately put in more. “I don’t want to marry some handsome young philanderer!”
“It’s as well,” Alicia snapped. “Since you don’t have the least opportunity.” She was appalled at herself, but years of good behavior had finally snapped, and it was a marvelous feeling, exhilarating, like riding too fast on a good horse.
“Neither do you, my girl!” The old lady’s face was scarlet. “And you’re a fool if you imagine you have. You’ve poisoned your husband for nothing!”
“If you think me a poisoner”-Alicia looked straight into her old eyes-“I am surprised you dine so voraciously at the same table with me and yet pursue my enmity so hard. Are you not afraid for yourself?”
The old lady choked, and her face went livid white. Her hand flew to her throat.
Alicia laughed with real and bitter humor. “If I were going to poison anyone, it would have been you in the beginning, not Augustus; but I am not, which you know as well as I do, or you would have thought of it long ago. You would have had Nisbett tasting everything before you put it in your mouth! Not that I wouldn’t cheerfully have poisoned Nisbett, too!”
The old lady coughed and went into a spasm.
Alicia ignored her. “If you have had sufficient of that fish,” she said coldly, “I’ll have Byrne bring in the meat!”
Pitt knew nothing about the soiree. He was determined to find the identity of the corpse from the cab, and as soon as he received the result of the postmortem he snatched it from the delivery boy and tore it open. He had worn himself out speculating what it might be, something exotic and individual, damning to someone, to account for the extraordinary circumstances. If it were not connected to some crime or scandal, why should anyone perform the grisly and dangerous job of disinterring him and leaving him on the box of a hansom cab? Naturally, they had traced the cab, only to find it had been removed while its owner had been refreshing himself a little too liberally at a local tavern. Not an entirely uncommon occurrence and, on a January night, one for which Pitt had considerable sympathy. Only policemen, cabbies, and lunatics frequented the streets all night long in such weather.
He read the piece of paper from the envelope. It was as ordinary as possible-a stroke. It was a common and utterly natural way to die. There were no marks of violence on the body; in fact, nothing to comment on at all. He had been a man of late middle years, in generally good health, well nourished and well cared for, clean, a little inclined to overweight. In fact, as the morgue attendant had said, precisely what one might expect a dead lord to look like.
Pitt thanked the boy and dismissed him; then put the paper into the drawer of his desk, jammed his hat on his head, tied his muffler up to his ears, and, taking his coat off the stand, went out the door.
There was no open grave. That was perhaps the most sinister part about it; he had three graves and four bodies: Lord Augustus, William Wilberforce Porteous, Horrie Snipe-and this unknown man from the cab. Where was his grave, and why had the grave robber chosen to fill it in again so carefully that it remained hidden?
The other graves had all been within a fairly small perimeter. He would begin looking in the same area. Obviously he could not search all the recent graves for an empty one-he would have to question all the doctors who might have certified a death from stroke within the last four to six weeks. He might be able to narrow it down until he had a mere one or two who could then be taken to see the very unpleasant remains still lying at the morgue.
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.
