Resurrection Row Read Free Page B

Pitt to remark any stranger for him.
    “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