Anne Perry - Resurrection Row

Timothy’s face screwed up, and he looked at Fleetwood.

Fleetwood rose to the occasion.

“A good meal, all you can eat before you do the job,” he promised. “And a guinea afterwards. I’ll make a wager-a fiver if I win the first race with it after that-”

“You’re on!” Timothy said instantly. “I’ll be there for dinner tonight, start work in the morning.”

“Good. You can sleep in the stable.”

Timothy lifted his scruffy hat in a sort of salute, perhaps a sealing of the bargain, and Carlisle turned to leave again.

Fleetwood repeated the address, with instructions on how to reach it, then ran after Carlisle before he was lost to sight and he found himself marooned in the nightmare place.

They passed through the worst of the rookery again and toppled out into the fine rain of a narrow street almost underneath the shadow of the church.

“Dear God!” Fleetwood wiped his face. “Makes me think of Dante and the gates of hell-what was it written over the cave?”

“‘Abandon hope, all ye who enter here,’” Carlisle said quietly.

“How in the name of humanity do they bear it?” Fleetwood turned up his collar and drove his hands into his pockets.

“It’s better than the workhouse,” Carlisle replied. “At least they reckon it is. Personally, it seems much the same to me.”

Fleetwood stopped. “Better!” he said in broad disbelief. “What are you talking about, man? The workhouse provides food and shelter, safety! It’s a charitable place.”

All the anger was purged out of Carlisle’s face; his voice was a gentle as milk. “Have you ever been to one?”

Fleetwood was surprised. “No,” he said honestly. “Have you?”

“Oh, yes.” Carlisle started walking again. “I’ve been working quite hard on this bill of St. Jermyn’s. I dare say you’ve heard of it?”

“Yes,” Fleetwood said slowly. “Yes, I have.” He did not look at Dominic, and Dominic did not dare to look at him. “I suppose you’d like my help when it comes up in the House?” Fleetwood said casually.

Carlisle flashed him a dazzling smile.

“Yes-yes, please, I would.”

Alicia had written to everyone she could think of, recalling a good few of Augustus’s relatives who had married well and whom she would never have contacted for any other reason. She found most of them insufferably dull, but the cause overrode all her previous inhibitions.

When she had exhausted her imagination on the subject and everything was sealed and in the post, she decided to go for a walk in the Park, in spite of the miserable weather. She had a feeling of good spirits inside her that simply cried for exercise, for the stretching of the body and opening of the lungs. Had it not been so absolutely ridiculous she would have liked to run and skip like a child.

She was striding along in a fashion unbefitting a lady, her head in the air, enjoying the bleak beauty of the trees against the ragged clouds far above. In the Park it was almost still; heavy drops glistened and dripped from twigs. She had never considered February had any loveliness before, but now she took pleasure in the stark simplicity of it, the soft, subdued colors.

She had stopped to watch a bird in branches above her when she was aware of overhearing a conversation immediately the other side of the tree.

“Did you really?” The voice was so soft that she did not at first recognize it.

There appeared to be no answer.

“Come and tell me all about it then,” the voice continued.

Again there was silence, except for a faint squeak.

“My, well, how about that! You are a clever girl.”

Then she knew it; at least she was almost sure she did. It sounded too soft, too American to be anyone but Virgil Smith.

But whom on earth was he talking to?

“My, you are beautiful! Well, come on now, tell me all about it.”

An appalling thought came to her; he must be making advances to some servant or streetwalker! How dreadful! And she had accidentally come upon him. How could she possibly get away without embarrassing them both quite unforgettably? She froze.

Still there was no reply from whomever he was speaking to.

“You pretty thing.” He was still talking gently, softly. “You beautiful girl.”

She could not stay any longer overhearing a conversation that was obviously desperately private. She took a step to creep, in the lee of the tree trunk, till she was back on the path and could affect not to have noticed him.

Her foot cracked on a twig, and it broke loudly.

He stood up and came around, enormous in a greatcoat; square, like the tree itself.

Alicia shut her eyes, her face burning up with her distress for him. She was sure it must be scarlet. She would have given anything not to have been witness to his shameful conduct.

“Good morning, Lady Alicia,” he said with the softness she had heard in it before.

“Good morning, Mr. Smith,” she replied, swallowing hard. She must force herself to carry it off with some aplomb. He was an American and a social impossibility, but she should know how to conduct herself whatever the occasion.

She opened her eyes.

He was standing in front of her, holding a little calico cat that was stretching and curling under his arms. He saw her glazed look and glanced down at the animal, his fingers running gently over its fur. She could hear the little creature singing even from where she was.

The color rose up to his face also when he realized she had overheard him talking to it.

“Oh,” he said a little awkwardly. “Don’t mind me, ma’am. I often talk to animals, especially cats. I’m kind of fond of this one in particular.”

She breathed out a sigh of immense relief. She found she was grinning foolishly, a sudden, bubbling happiness inside her. She stretched out her fingers to touch the cat.

Virgil Smith was smiling, too, a shining tenderness in his face.

For the first time she recognized it and knew what it was. Only for a moment did it surprise her; then it seemed like something familiar, amazing and beautiful, like the leaves bursting open in the milky sunshine of spring.

Pitt considered what might be reasonable, what he might expect to receive, and then requested three additional constables to help him with the enormous task of sorting and identifying the photographs in Godolphin Jones’s shop.

He was granted one, along with the one he already had.

He dispatched them both back to Resurrection Row with instructions to find a name for every face, and then an occupation and a social background, but not to allow any part of the picture to be seen other than the head and to ask no questions and to give no information as to where or in what circumstances the photographs had been found. This last instruction had been repeated to him by his superiors with much anxiety and a great deal of hemming and hawing as to whether there might not be some other way of tackling the whole matter. One superintendent even suggested tentatively that perhaps it would be advisable to overlook the tragedy as insoluble and turn their attention to something else. There was, for example, a nasty case of burglary that was still outstanding, and it would be a most useful thing if they could recover the property.

Pitt pointed out that Jones had been a society artist and that anyone who had lived in an area like Gadstone Park could not be murdered and then merely forgotten, or other residents of such areas would feel distinctly uneasy as to their own future safety.

The point was conceded him, unhappily.

Then Pitt himself went back to the Park and Major Rodney. This time he would not be put off by the major’s anger or protestations; he could no longer afford to be. If the murderer of Godolphin Jones had taken advantage of the grave robbings to hide his own crime, as St. Jermyn had suggested, then the death of Lord Augustus was irrelevant. There was no point in looking any further for sense or connection between Albert Wilson, Horrie Snipe, W. W. Porteous, and Lord Augustus, because there was none. As far as either motive or means was concerned, the murder of Godolphin Jones stood alone. The key to them surely lay in the pornography shop in Resurrection Row, or in the little book with its hieroglyphic insects, or both.