Anne Perry - Resurrection Row

He stood up. “Thank you, ma’am. If I need to ask anything else, I shall call on you.”

“I shall make arrangements to have Mr. Porteous put away again.” She rang the bell for the maid to show him out.

“Not yet, ma’am.” He wanted to apologize because he knew the outrage before it came. “I’m afraid we shall have to do some more investigation before we can allow that.”

Her face mottled with horror, and she half rose in her chair.

“First you allow his grave to be desecrated and his body to be left in a park where public-‘women’-offer themselves, and now you want to investigate him! It is monstrous! Decent people are no longer safe in this city. You are a disgrace to your-” She had wanted to say “uniform”; then she looked at Pitt’s jumble of colors-hat still dripping in his hands, muffler end trailing down his front-and gave up. “You are a disgrace!” she finished lamely.

“I’m sorry.” He was apologizing not for himself but for the whole city, for the entire order that had left her with nothing but need and the trimmings of being respectable.

He spoke to the doctor and discovered that Porteous had died of cirrhosis of the liver, and had most assuredly visited the benches of St. Bartholomew’s Green before some grotesque chance had placed his corpse under its shade to be solicited by a prostitute to whom even the dead were no horror or surprise.

He left, wondering what had been the stuff of lives that ended like this: what failures; what bolstered-up loneliness, what constant small retreats.

Dominic put Somerset Carlisle and the disgraceful luncheon from his mind. He was looking forward to seeing Alicia again. The reinterment was over, and from now on, provided decent mourning was observed, at least outwardly, they could begin to think of the future. He would not wish to offend her sensibilities by speaking too quickly or cause her any embarrassment, but he could certainly call to pay his respects and spend a little time in her company. And in a few weeks she could afford to be seen out, not at theatres or parties, but at church with the family or during a carriage ride to take the air. He did not mind if Verity came also, for appearances; in fact, he liked her very well for her own sake. She was easy to talk to, once she felt comfortable with him and, although she was modest, she had her own opinions and quite a dry sense of humor with which to express them.

Altogether he was feeling in a very pleasant mood when he arrived at Gadstone Park on Thursday morning and presented his card to the maid.

Alicia received him with delight, almost relief, and they spent a totally happy hour talking trivialities, and meaning everything else. Just to be in each other’s company was sufficient; what was said was immaterial. Augustus was forgotten; empty graves and wandering corpses did not even stray into their minds.

He left a little before luncheon, walking briskly back across the Park, coat collar turned up against the north wind, finding it exciting and sharpening rather than bitter. He saw a figure coming the other way. There was something familiar about the step, the rather lean shoulders, that made him hesitate, even consider for a moment taking a sidecut across the grass, even though it was rough and wet. But he was not even sure who the person was. It was far too tidy for Pitt, too elegant, and not quite tall enough. Pitt’s coat always flapped, and his hat sat at a different angle on his head.

It was not until he was close enough to see the face, too close courteously to go another way, that he recognized Somerset Carlisle.

“Good morning,” he said without slackening his stride. He had no wish whatever to speak with the man.

Carlisle stood in his path. “Good morning,” he said, then turned and fell in step beside him. Short of being appallingly rude, there was nothing Dominic could do but make some attempt at conversation.

“Pleasant weather,” he remarked. “At least this wind should keep the fog away.”

“Good day for a walk,” Carlisle agreed. “Gets one an appetite for luncheon.”

“Quite,” Dominic replied. Really, the man was a confounded nuisance. He seemed to have no idea when he was intruding, and Dominic had no desire to be reminded of their previous meal together.

“Nice leisurely meal by a good fire,” Carlisle went on. “I should thoroughly enjoy a soup, something savory and delicate.”

There was no way to avoid it. Dominic owed the man a meal, and obligations must be honored if one wished to remain in society. Such a gaffe would quickly be remarked, and word spread like fire.

“An excellent idea,” he said with as much heart as he could muster. “And perhaps a saddle of mutton to follow? My club is not far, and I should be delighted if you would consent to dine with me.”

Carlisle smiled broadly, and Dominic had an uncomfortable feeling he saw something funny in the affair. “Thank you,” he said easily. “I should enjoy that.”

The meal fulfilled none of Dominic’s fears, in fact it was extremely pleasant. Carlisle did not mention politics at all and proved an agreeable companion, talking neither too little nor too much. When he did speak he was cheerful, and occasionally witty.

Dominic thoroughly enjoyed it and determined to repeat it as soon as opportunity arose. He was thinking along these lines when he found himself outside again, where the wind was sharper and beginning to carry a fine rain. Carlisle hailed a cab immediately, and, to Dominic’s astonishment, fifteen minutes later he was deposited in a filthy back street where precarious houses huddled together like a lot of drunken men supporting each other before the final collapse.

“Where in God’s name are we?” he demanded, alarmed and confused. The street was swarming with children, noses running, clothes dirty; women sat in areaways, hands blue with cold, presiding over rows of worn-looking shoes; and light glimmered from below-street rooms. The whole air was pervaded with a stale, sour smell he could not identify, but it clung to the back of the nose, and he seemed to swallow it with every breath. “Where are we?” he said again with mounting fury.

“Seven Dials,” Carlisle replied. “Dudley Street, to be precise. Those people are secondhand shoe sellers. Down there”-he pointed to the rooms below pavement level- “they take old shoes or stolen ones; remake them out of the bits that are worth saving, and then sell the botched-up results. In other places they do the same with clothes; unpick them and use whatever fabric is still good for a little while longer. Someone else’s remade wool is better than new cotton, which is all they could buy. No warmth in cotton.”

Dominic shivered. It was perishing out in this ghastly street, and he was white with rage at Carlisle for having brought him here.

Either Carlisle was oblivious to it, or he simply did not care.

“Call back that cab!” Dominic snarled. “You had no right to bring me here! This place is-” He was lost for words. He stared around him, appalled at it; the weight of the buildings seemed to overpower him. The squalor was everywhere, and the smell of dirt, old clothes, grime of soot and oil lamps, unwashed bodies, yesterday’s cooking. On top of the roast it was almost too much for his stomach.

“A preview of hell,” Carlisle said quietly. “Don’t speak so loudly; these people live here; this is their home. I dare say they don’t like it any more than you do, but it’s what they have. Show your disgust, and you may not get out of here as immaculately as you came in-in any sense. And this is only a foretaste; you should see Bluegate Fields down by the docks or Limehouse, Whitechapel, St. Giles. Walk with me. We’ve got about three hundred yards to go, along that way.” He pointed down a side street. “Over the square at the end of that is the local workhouse. That’s what I want you to see; this is only incidental. Then perhaps the Devil’s Acre, below Westminster?”