Anne Perry - Resurrection Row

But what venture could possibly include Lord Augustus Fitzroy-Hammond and Mr. William Wilberforce Porteous from Resurrection Row-and lead to murder? What about the man in the cab? And who was the other party to it, the one who dug them all up?

The first step was to discover the precise manner of death of the corpse from the cab. If it had been murder, or could have been, then that shed a totally new light on the disinterment of Lord Augustus. If, on the other hand, it had been natural, then since he had been burned, was it a lawful burial in a graveyard? Where was the empty grave, and why had it not been reported? Presumably it had been filled in again and left to appear like any other new grave.

But normal deaths are certified by a doctor. Once the nature of death was known, then the investigation could begin of all recorded deaths from that cause over the period. In time, they would narrow it down, the correct one would be found. They would have a name, a character, a history.

As soon as he reached the police station, he called his sergeant to take over the matter of the embezzlement and went upstairs to request permission for a postmortem on the unidentified corpse. No one demurred. Since it was not Lord Augustus, after all, and no one else had come forward to claim him, in the circumstances murder must be considered. Permission was granted immediately.

Next was the rather unpleasant job of making sure that the new corpse in the morgue was indeed W. W. Porteous, although he had little doubt about it. He put on his hat and coat again and went outside into the intermittent drizzle, and took an omnibus to Resurrection Row. He walked a hundred yards, turned to the right, and looked for number ten where Mrs. Porteous lived.

It was one of the larger houses, a little faded on the outside, but with prim white curtains at the windows and a whitened step. He pulled the bell and stood back.

“Yes?” A stout girl in black stuff dress and starched apron opened the door and stared at him inquiringly.

“Is Mrs. Porteous in?” Pitt asked. “I have information regarding her late husband.” He knew that if he said he was from the police the servants would have it all over the street within the day, and it would grow in scandal with each retelling.

The girl’s mouth fell open. “Oh! Oh, yes sir; you’d better come in. If you wait in the parlor, I’ll tell Mrs. Porteous you’re here, sir. What name shall I say?”

“Mr. Pitt.”

“Yes, sir.” And she disappeared to inform her mistress.

Pitt sat down. The room was crammed with furniture, photographs, ornaments, an embroidered sampler saying “Fear God and do your duty,” three stuffed birds, a stuffed weasel under glass, an arrangement of dried flowers, and two large, shining, green potted plants. He felt intensely claustrophobic. It gave him the rather hysterical feeling that it was all alive and, when he was not looking, creeping closer and closer to him, hungry and defensive against an alien in their territory. Eventually he preferred to stand.

The door opened and Mrs. Porteous came in, as robustly corseted as before, her hair perfect, her cheeks rouged. Her bosom was decorated with rows and rows of jet beads.

“Good morning, Mr. Pitt,” she said anxiously. “My maid says you have some news about Mr. Porteous?”

“Yes, ma’am. I think we have found him. He is in the morgue, and if you would be good enough to come and identify him, we can be sure, and then in due course we can have him reinterred-”

“I can’t have a second funeral!” she said in alarm. “It wouldn’t be proper.”

“No, naturally,” he agreed. “Just an interment, but first let us be sure it is indeed your husband.”

She called for the maid to fetch her coat and hat, and followed Pitt outside into the street. It was still raining lightly, and in Resurrection Row they hailed a hansom and rode in silence to the morgue.

Pitt was beginning to feel an antiseptic familiarity with the place. The attendant still had a cold and his nose was now bright pink, but he greeted them with a smile as wide as decorum before a widow allowed.

Mrs. Porteous looked at the corpse and did not require either the chair or the glass of water.

“Yes,” she said calmly. “That is Mr. Porteous.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I have some questions I must ask you, but perhaps you would prefer to discuss them in a more comfortable place? Would you like to go home? The cab is still waiting.”

“If you please,” she accepted; then, without looking at the attendant, she turned and waited for Pitt to open the door for her outside into the rain, preceded him down the path and back into the cab again.

Seated in the parlor of her own house, she ordered hot tea from the maid and faced Pitt, hands folded in her lap, jet beads glistening in the lamplight. On a day as dark as this, it was impossible to see clearly inside without the lamps lit.

“Well, Mr. Pitt, what is it you wish to ask me? That is Mr. Porteous; what else is there to know?”

“How did he die, ma’am?”

“In his bed! Naturally.”

“From what cause, ma’am?” He tried to make it clear without being offensive or distressing her more than was necessary. Her remarkable bearing might well hide deep emotion underneath.

“A complaint of digestion. No doubt it had a name, but I do not know it. He had been ill for some time.”

“I see. I’m sorry. Who was his doctor?”

Her arched eyebrows rose. “Dr. Hall, but I cannot see why you wish to know. Surely you do not suspect Dr. Hall of violating the grave?”

“No, of course not.” He did not know how to explain that he was questioning the cause of death. Obviously the whole train of thought had not occurred to her. “It is just that in order to find who did, we need all the information possible.”

“Do you expect to find out?” She was still perfectly composed.

“No,” he admitted frankly, meeting her eyes with something like a smile. There was no answer in her face, and he looked away, feeling a little foolish. “But it is not the only case,” he went on in a more businesslike tone. “And anything they have in common might help.”

“Not the only case?” She was startled now. “You mean you think Mr. Porteous’s grave robbing is connected to those others everyone is talking about? You ought to be ashamed, allowing such things to happen here in London, to respectable people! Why aren’t you doing your job, I should like to know?”

“I don’t know whether there is a connection, ma’am,” he said patiently. “That is what I am trying to establish.”

“It’s a lunatic,” she said firmly. “And if the police can’t catch a lunatic, I don’t know what the world is coming to! Mr. Porteous was a very respectable man, never mixed with fast society, every penny he had was earned, and he never put a wager in his life.”

“Perhaps there is no connection, apart from the time he died,” Pitt said wearily. “Lord Augustus was a respectable man, too.”

“That’s as may be,” she said darkly. “They didn’t find Mr. Porteous in that Gadstone Park, did they?”

“No, ma’am, he was sitting on a bench in St. Bartholomew’s Green.”

Her face paled. “Nonsense!” she said sharply. “Mr. Porteous would never be in such a place! I cannot believe it, you know what kind of people frequent it. You must be mistaken.”

He did not bother to argue; if it mattered to her to cling onto the distinction, even after death, then allow her to. It was a curious divergence. He remembered the rather worn clothes with the corpse. He had been buried very much in his second best. Perhaps at the last moment she had felt the best black all such men kept for Sundays to be too good to consign to the oblivion of the tomb. At least at that time she would expect it to be oblivion.