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.
“Yes.” The word came hard.
“Politics have their uses.” She barely moved her head to indicate the others. “That is how things are changed.”
He reversed his opinion of her, mentally apologizing. “You are moving to change them?”
“It is worth trying. But no doubt you have come about that disgusting business yesterday in the church. A piece of the most appalling distaste.”
“If you please. I would appreciate speaking with you, if you will; certain investigations might be accomplished more-discreetly.”
She snorted. She knew perfectly well he meant that they might be accomplished with a good deal less trouble, and probably more accurately, but the presence of the others prevented her from saying so. He saw it in her face and smiled.
She understood precisely, and her eyes lit up, but she refused to smile back.
Carlisle stood up slowly. He was more solid and probably stronger than he had appeared at the internment.
“Perhaps there is little more that we can do at the moment,” he said to Vespasia. “I will have our notes written up, and we can consider them again. I fancy we have not yet all the information. We must supply St. Jermyn with everything there is; otherwise he will not be able to argue our case against those who have a few contradictions to it, however ill conceived.”
Hester rose also, and Desmond followed her.
“Yes,” he agreed. “I’m sure you are correct. Good morning, Lady Cumming-Gould-” He regarded Pitt indecisively, not able to address a policeman as a social equal, and yet confounded because he was apparently a fellow guest in the withdrawing room of his hostess.
Carlisle rescued him. “Good morning, Inspector. I wish you a rapid success in your business.”
“Good morning, sir.” Pitt bowed his head very slightly. “Good morning, ma’am.”
When they had gone and the door was closed, Vespasia looked up at him. “For goodness’ sake sit down,” she ordered. “You make me uncomfortable standing there like a footman.”
Pitt obeyed, finding the overstuffed sofa more accommodating than it appeared; it was soft and spacious enough for him to spread himself.
“What do you know about Lord Augustus Fitzroy-Hammond?” he asked. Suddenly the lightness had evaporated, and there was only death left-and perhaps murder.
“Augustus?” She looked at him long and steadily. “Do you mean do I know anyone who might hire lunatics to disinter the wretched man? No, I do not. He was not a person I cared for; no imagination, and therefore, of course, no sense of humor. But that is hardly a cause to dig him up-rather the opposite, I would have thought.”
“So would I,” Pitt agreed very softly. “In fact, every reason to wish him in his grave.”
Vespasia’s face changed. It was the only time he could recall her losing that magnificent composure.
“Good God!” She breathed out a long sigh. “You don’t think he was murdered!”
“I have to consider it,” he answered. “At least as a possibility. He was dug up twice now; that is more than coincidence. It may be insanity, but it is not random insanity. Whoever it is means Lord Augustus to remain
