Anne Perry - Resurrection Row

“No reason,” he admitted, and yet he felt a void between himself and Alicia and realized how much of his feeling for her depended on the color of her hair, the curve of her cheek, a smile, and the fact that she responded to him. But what was inside her, in the part he could not reach?

Could there be even the simple removal of an object that stood between her and what she wanted, a little movement of the hand with a bottle of pills-and murder?

At the top of Resurrection Row was a cemetery, hence its name. A tiny chapel stood in the center; in a wealthier area it would have been a crypt or family tomb, but here it was only the pretension to one. Marble angels perched on a few of the better tombstones; here and there, there was a distant cross, but most of them rose bare and a little crooked with age. Subsidence in the earth from frequent digging caused them to lean askew, and half a dozen skeletal trees had not been removed. It was an unlovely place at any time, and on a damp February evening it boasted only one virtue, privacy. For a seventeen-year-old maid of all work like Dollie Jenkins, who was in the process of courting a butcher’s boy with excellent prospects, it was the only place in which she could give him just sufficient encouragement without losing her employment.

Arm in arm they walked in through the gates, whispering together, giggling under their breath; it was hardly decent to laugh out loud in the presence of the dead. After a little while they sat down, close together, on one of the tombstones. She allowed it to be known that she would not resent a little show of affection, and he responded enthusiastically.

After some fifteen minutes, she felt the situation was getting out of hand, and he might well end up taking liberties and afterwards think the worse of her for it. She pushed him away and saw, to her consternation, a figure sitting perched on one of the other gravestones, knees crossed, high stovepipe hat askew.

“ ’Ere, Samuel!” she hissed. “There’s an old geezer sittin’ over there spyin’ on us!”

Samuel got to his feet in awkward haste. “Dirty old goat!” he said loudly. “Go on! Get away wiv’ yer. Peepin’ Tom! Afore I thump yer!”

The figure did not move; indeed, he ignored Samuel completely, not even raising his head.

Samuel strode over to him. “I’ll teach yer!” he shouted. “I’ll box your ears for yer right proper. Go on, get out of ’ere, yer dirty old toad!” He seized the man by the shoulder and made as if to swing his fist at him.

To his horror the man swayed and toppled over sideways, his hat rolling onto the ground. His face was blue in the faint moonlight, and his chest was a most peculiar flat shape.

“Oh, God almighty!” Samuel dropped him and leapt away, falling over his own feet. He scrambled up again and backed toward Dollie, clutching onto her.

“What is it?” she demanded. “What ’ave you done?”

“I ain’t done nuffin! ’E’s dead, Doll-’e’s as dead as anybody in ’ere. Somebody’s gorn an’ dug ’im up!”

The news was conveyed to Pitt the following morning.

“You’ll never believe it!” the constable said, his voice squeaking up to top C.

“Tell me anyway.” Pitt was resigned.

“They’ve found another one. Courting couple found him last night.”

“Why shouldn’t I believe it?” Pitt said wearily. “I’d believe anything.”

“Because it was Horrie Snipe!” the constable burst out. “As I live and breathe, it was-sitting up on a gravestone in Resurrection Cemetery in his old stovepipe hat. He was run over three weeks ago, by a muck cart, and buried a fortnight-and there ’e was, sitting on a tombstone all by ’isself in the moonlight.”

“You’re right,” Pitt said. “I don’t believe it. I don’t want to believe it.”

“It’s ’im, sir. I’d know Horrie Snipe anywhere. He was the busiest procurer the Row ever had.”

“So it seems,” Pitt said drily. “But for this morning, I still refuse to believe it.”

On Monday Charlotte received a handwritten note from Aunt Vespasia, inviting her to call that morning and be prepared to stay for some little while, in fact, over luncheon and into the afternoon. No reason was given, but Charlotte knew Aunt Vespasia far too well to imagine it was idle. A request at such short notice, and stating such a specific time and duration, was not casual. Charlotte could not possibly ignore it; apart from good manners, curiosity made it absolutely imperative she go.

Accordingly, she took Jemima over the street to Mrs. Smith, who was always more than willing to tend her with great affection, in return for a little gossip as to the dress, manners, and especially foibles of the society that Charlotte kept. Her own resulting importance in the street, as Charlotte’s confidante, was immeasurable. She was also quite genuinely a kind woman and enjoyed helping, especially a young woman like Charlotte who was obviously ill prepared by her own upbringing to cope with the realities of life such as Mrs. Smith knew them.

Having been rather rash with the housekeeping in buying bacon three days in a row, instead of making do with oatmeal or fish as usual, Charlotte was obliged to catch the omnibus to its nearest point to Gadstone Park, instead of hiring a hansom, and then walk in rising sleet the rest of the way.

She arrived on the doorstep with wet feet and, she feared, a very red nose: not in the least the elegant image she would wish to have presented. So much for bacon for breakfast.

The maid who answered was too sensitive to her mistress’s own eccentricities to allow her thoughts to be mirrored in her face. She was becoming inured to any kind of surprise. She moved Charlotte into the morning room and left her standing as near to the fire as she dared without risking actually setting herself alight. The heat was marvelous; it brought life back into her numb ankles, and she could see the steam rising from her boots.

Aunt Vespasia appeared after only a few moments. She glanced at Charlotte, then took out her lorgnette. “Good gracious, girl! You look as if you came by sea! Whatever have you done?”

“It is extremely cold outside,” Charlotte attempted to explain herself. She moved a little forward from the fire; it was beginning to sting with its heat. “And the street is full of puddles.”

“You appear to have stepped in every one of them.” Vespasia looked down at her steaming feet. She was tactful enough not to ask why she had walked in the first place. “I shall have to find something dry for you, if you are to be in the least comfortable.” She reached out for the bell and rang it sharply.

Charlotte half thought of demurring, but she was wretched with cold, and if she was to be there for some time, it would be quite worth it to borrow something warm and dry.

“Thank you,” she accepted.

Vespasia gave her a look of sharp perception; she had seen the edge of argument and quite possibly understood. When the maid came, she treated the whole matter quite lightly.

“Mrs. Pitt has unfortunately been splashed, and quite soaked, on her journey here.” She did not even bother to look at the girl. “Go and have Rose put out dry boots and stockings for her, and that blue-green afternoon gown with the embroidery on the sleeve. Rose will know which one I mean.”

“Oh, dear.” The girl looked at Charlotte with sympathy. “Some of those hansom drivers don’t look in the least where they’re going, ma’am. I’m ever so sorry. Cook only took a step down the road the other day, and two of them lunatics passed, seein’ as they could race each other, and she was fair covered in mud. Said something awful, she did, when she got ’ome again. I’ll find something dry for you straightaway.” She whisked out of the door, bound on an errand of mercy, and hoping eternal punishment for cab drivers in general and careless ones in particular.