called down, "It's a dead man, sir."
As the carriage inched slowly forward, Edward leaned toward the window. He saw ahead a stalled omnibus, passengers leaning out of the windows, and on the pavement he saw three Peelers bending over a crumpled form, the legs twisted in a macabre position, blood everywhere, the poor victim himself obscured by the Peelers and the press of curious onlookers. Somewhere in this vast city, there would be a pitiful pocket of grief this night. Corpses, if not men, were always loved.
The traffic was thinning, the scene outside his window a manageable flow. He remembered as a child his mother bringing him to William Pitch's house, delicious fortnights prowling the British Museum and the lovely empty fields beyond. He smiled openly now, remembering how his mother had given him stern instructions never to mention the family secret, that her half-sister, Jane, and William Pitch were not legally married. But then she'd always hastened to reassure him that the duration and intensity of their union made them wed in the eyes of God. It seemed a silly point then and now.
From atop the high seat he heard John Murrey calling to him again. "Great Russell Street, was it, sir?"
"Yes, John, straight ahead, then to the left." As they drew near his destination, he made an attempt to straighten himself from the jogging ride. He'd taken certain pains with his dress, knowing how important such matters were to his Aunt Jane. He'd forced himself into black peg-top trousers, a buff-colored waistcoat, and black coat. On the seat
beside him was a polished and brushed beaver hat which he'd thought once to wear, but now upon studying it, he changed his mind. He'd come to see, not be seen. Old Jane would forgive him.
While he was still eyeing the hat, the carriage stopped. He looked out. "No, John, it's just ahead—"
"Can't get no closer, sir. Look for yourself."
Quickly he leaned out of the window. On both sides the street was lined with carriages, as many as a dozen, blocking the passage in front of William's house. What in the—
Puzzled, he alighted the carriage, gave John instructions for waiting, then started down the pavement on foot. He passed a knot of idle coachmen having a pipe and a chat, their liveries clearly bespeaking the importance of their masters.
Looking up, he saw a gentleman in a black frock coat just emerging from the red brick house. Then Edward was running, his fears increasing with his speed. He took the walk at breakneck speed and saw in his mind's eye for just a flash a young boy, seven or eight, running belatedly for dinner, his younger brother trailing behind him, both grimy from their play in the empty fields.
"I beg your pardon, sir—" His breath caught in his throat as he approached the departing priest. "Could you tell me—"
Then beyond the priest, standing in the opened doorway, he saw his Aunt Jane, her figure still slim and erect at seventy, a handkerchief pressed to her lips. Her gown was black, her face a contortion of pain.
"Edward?" she inquired gently as though age and tears had dulled her vision.
It was a distance of a dozen steps from where he stood to her outstretched arms, and with every step, Edward prayed. Don't let him be dead.
Then he was standing beside her on the threshold, trying to read the grief in her face. Gently he took her in his arms, felt her frail body press closer to him as though for protection.
"I just sent for you," she whispered. "He's been asking for you over and over—"
Edward closed his eyes. Thank God. He held her a moment longer, breathing deeply of her lavender scent, the young boy within him as insistent as ever. Let Aunt Jane fix it. Come, Aunt Jane will hold you.
"What happened?" he asked quietly, trying to send the boy away.
She stood back, making a valiant attempt to control her tears. "Late last night, he was working—at his desk. I heard him call for the girl, and the next thing—" A fresh wave of tears coursed down her
As the carriage inched slowly forward, Edward leaned toward the window. He saw ahead a stalled omnibus, passengers leaning out of the windows, and on the pavement he saw three Peelers bending over a crumpled form, the legs twisted in a macabre position, blood everywhere, the poor victim himself obscured by the Peelers and the press of curious onlookers. Somewhere in this vast city, there would be a pitiful pocket of grief this night. Corpses, if not men, were always loved.
The traffic was thinning, the scene outside his window a manageable flow. He remembered as a child his mother bringing him to William Pitch's house, delicious fortnights prowling the British Museum and the lovely empty fields beyond. He smiled openly now, remembering how his mother had given him stern instructions never to mention the family secret, that her half-sister, Jane, and William Pitch were not legally married. But then she'd always hastened to reassure him that the duration and intensity of their union made them wed in the eyes of God. It seemed a silly point then and now.
From atop the high seat he heard John Murrey calling to him again. "Great Russell Street, was it, sir?"
"Yes, John, straight ahead, then to the left." As they drew near his destination, he made an attempt to straighten himself from the jogging ride. He'd taken certain pains with his dress, knowing how important such matters were to his Aunt Jane. He'd forced himself into black peg-top trousers, a buff-colored waistcoat, and black coat. On the seat
beside him was a polished and brushed beaver hat which he'd thought once to wear, but now upon studying it, he changed his mind. He'd come to see, not be seen. Old Jane would forgive him.
While he was still eyeing the hat, the carriage stopped. He looked out. "No, John, it's just ahead—"
"Can't get no closer, sir. Look for yourself."
Quickly he leaned out of the window. On both sides the street was lined with carriages, as many as a dozen, blocking the passage in front of William's house. What in the—
Puzzled, he alighted the carriage, gave John instructions for waiting, then started down the pavement on foot. He passed a knot of idle coachmen having a pipe and a chat, their liveries clearly bespeaking the importance of their masters.
Looking up, he saw a gentleman in a black frock coat just emerging from the red brick house. Then Edward was running, his fears increasing with his speed. He took the walk at breakneck speed and saw in his mind's eye for just a flash a young boy, seven or eight, running belatedly for dinner, his younger brother trailing behind him, both grimy from their play in the empty fields.
"I beg your pardon, sir—" His breath caught in his throat as he approached the departing priest. "Could you tell me—"
Then beyond the priest, standing in the opened doorway, he saw his Aunt Jane, her figure still slim and erect at seventy, a handkerchief pressed to her lips. Her gown was black, her face a contortion of pain.
"Edward?" she inquired gently as though age and tears had dulled her vision.
It was a distance of a dozen steps from where he stood to her outstretched arms, and with every step, Edward prayed. Don't let him be dead.
Then he was standing beside her on the threshold, trying to read the grief in her face. Gently he took her in his arms, felt her frail body press closer to him as though for protection.
"I just sent for you," she whispered. "He's been asking for you over and over—"
Edward closed his eyes. Thank God. He held her a moment longer, breathing deeply of her lavender scent, the young boy within him as insistent as ever. Let Aunt Jane fix it. Come, Aunt Jane will hold you.
"What happened?" he asked quietly, trying to send the boy away.
She stood back, making a valiant attempt to control her tears. "Late last night, he was working—at his desk. I heard him call for the girl, and the next thing—" A fresh wave of tears coursed down her
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