Resurrection Row by Anne Perry Page B

hid a smile.
    “And there is a portrait artist,” Vespasia continued, “Godolphin Jones, but he has been absent for some little while, in France, I believe, so he could not have dug up Augustus. And I can think of no possible reason why he should wish to.
    “The only other person,” she concluded, “is an American called Virgil Smith! Quite outrageous, of course. Society will abhor him if he is brazen enough to remain here next Season, but then on the other hand he is laden with money from something quite uncouth, like cattle, out in wherever it is he comes from, so they will not be able to refrain from courting him at the same time. It should be greatly entertaining. Except that I hope the poor creature does not get too hurt. He really is very good-natured and seems to be quite without airs, which is such a change. Of course, his manners and his appearance are both disasters, but money covers a multitude of sins.”
    “And kindness even more,” Charlotte pointed out.
    “Not in Society!” Vespasia stared at her. “Society is all to do with what seems, and nothing to do with what is. That is one of the reasons you will find it uncommonly difficult to discover whether Augustus was killed, by whom, or why—and still less if anybody cares!”
    While Charlotte was sitting in Vespasia’s carriage being driven home, feeling self-conscious but utterly pampered, turning over in her mind the fruits of the journey, or rather the lack of them, in the churchyard of St. Margaret’s two gravediggers were standing in the rain for a moment’s respite from the long and heavy duty of preparing the earth to receive Augustus Fitzroy-Hammond yet again.
    “I dunno, ’Arry,” one of them said, wiping the drop off the end of his nose. “I’m beginning to think as I could make me livin’ purely out o’ this, just buryin’ ’is lordship. No sooner does we ’ave ’im down there as some great fool goes an’ digs ’im up again!”
    “I know what you mean,” Harry sniffed. “I dreams about this, I does! Spend me life goin’ in an’ out o’ this bleedin’ grave. You should ’ear what my Gertie says about it! She says it’s only them wot’s murdered as won’t rest, an’ I tell you, Arfur, I’m beginnin’ to think as she’s right! I don’t suppose this is the last time we’ll be in an’ out of ’ere!”
    Arthur spat and took up his spade again. The next blow hit the coffin lid. “Well, I’ll tell you this, ’Arry, it’s the last time I will! I don’t want no truck wiv murder, or them w’ot’s been murdered. I don’t mind buryin’ nice decent corpses what ’ave died natural. I’ll bury as many of them as you like. But there’s two things as really gets me. One is babies—I ’ate buryin’ kids—and the other is them w’ot’s been murdered. An’ I already buried this one twice! If’n ’e don’t stay there this time, they needn’t ask me to do ’im again—’cos I shan’t! Enough’s enough. Let the rozzers find out ’oo done ’im in, then maybe ’el’ll stay there, that’s w’ot I say.”
    “Me too,” Harry agreed vehemently. “I’m a patient man, God knows I am. In this line you gets to see a lot o’ death, you gets to know w’ot’s important and w’ot ain’t. We all comes to this in the end, and some folks as forgets that might do better if they remembered. But my patience is wore out, and I won’t stand by for no murder. I agree wiv yer, let the rozzers bury ’im theirselves next time. Do ’em good, it would.”
    They had cleaned the earth off the lid of the coffin and climbed out of the grave again for the ropes.
    “I suppose they’ll want this thing all cleaned up fit to look at?” Arthur said with heavy disgust. “They’ll ’ave another service for ’im, like as not. They must be fair sick o’ payin’ their last respecs.”
    “Only it ain’t last—is it?” Harry asked drily. “It’s second to last, or third, or fourth? Who knows when ’e’ll stay