“In that case,” replied Sir Julian, “it would certainly be better not to have the injection. It might rouse up just those sensations which we are desirous of avoiding. You will take the prescription, then, and do what you can to lessen the immediate strain as far as possible.”
“Oh, yes—I’ll take it easy, thanks,” said Lord Peter. He rolled his sleeve down neatly. “I’m much obliged to you. If I have any further trouble I’ll look in again.”
“Do—do—” said Sir Julian, cheerfully. “Only make an appointment another time. I’m rather rushed these days. I hope your mother is quite well. I saw her the other day at that Battersea inquest. You should have been there. It would have interested you.”
The vile, raw fog tore your throat and ravaged your eyes. You could not see your feet. You stumbled in your walk over poor men’s graves.
The feel of Parker’s old trench-coat beneath your fingers was comforting. You had felt it in worse places. You clung on now for fear you should get separated. The dim people moving in front of you were like Brocken spectres.
“Take care, gentlemen,” said a toneless voice out of the yellow darkness, “there’s an open grave just hereabouts.”
You bore away to the right, and floundered in a mass of freshly turned clay.
“In the mortuary; the Duchess of Denver is with her. Your mother is wonderful, Peter.”
A dim blue light carried by somebody ahead wavered and stood still.
Two Dantesque shapes with pitchforks loomed up.
“Nearly done, sir.” The demons fell to work again with the pitchforks—no, spades.
Somebody sneezed. Parker located the sneezer and introduced him.
“Mr. Levett represents the Home Secretary. Lord Peter Wimsey. We are sorry to drag you out on such a day, Mr. Levett.”
“It’s all in the day’s work,” said Mr. Levett, hoarsely. He was muffled to the eyes.
The sound of the spades for many minutes. An iron noise of tools thrown down. Demons stooping and straining.
A black-bearded spectre at your elbow. Introduced. The Master of the Workhouse.
“A very painful matter, Lord Peter. You will forgive me for hoping you and Mr. Parker may be mistaken.”
“I should like to be able to hope so too.”
Something heaving, straining, coming up out of the ground.
“Steady, men. This way. Can you see? Be careful of the graves—they lie pretty thick hereabouts. Are you ready?”