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.
 
“Hold up, old man,” said Parker.
 
“Where is Lady Levy?”
 
“In the mortuary; the Duchess of Denver is with her. Your mother is wonderful, Peter.”
 
“Isn’t she?” said Lord Peter.
 
A dim blue light carried by somebody ahead wavered and stood still.
 
“Here you are,” said a voice.
 
Two Dantesque shapes with pitchforks loomed up.
 
“Have you finished?” asked somebody.
 
“Nearly done, sir.” The demons fell to work again with the pitchforks—no, spades. 224
 
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?”
 
“Right you are, sir. You go on with the lantern. We can follow you.”
 
Lumbering footsteps. Catch hold of Parker’s trench-coat again. “That you, old man? Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Levett—thought you were Parker.”
 
“Hullo, Wimsey—here you are.”
 
More graves. A headstone shouldered crookedly aslant. A trip and jerk over the edge of the rough grass. The squeal of gravel under your feet. 225
 
“This way, gentlemen, mind the step.”
 
The mortuary. Raw red brick and sizzling gas-jets. Two women in black, and Dr. Grimbold. The coffin laid on the table with a heavy thump.
 
“’Ave you got that there screw-driver, Bill? Thank ’ee. Be keerful wi’ the chisel now. Not much substance to these ’ere boards, sir.”
 
Several long creaks. A sob. The Duchess’s voice, kind but peremptory.
 
“Hush, Christine. You mustn’t cry.”
 
A mutter of voices. The lurching departure of the Dante demons—good, decent demons in corduroy.
 
Dr. Grimbold’s voice—cool and detached as if in the consulting room.
 
“Now—have you got that lamp, Mr. Wingate? Thank you. Yes, here on the table, please. Be careful not to catch your elbow in the flex, Mr. Levett. It would be better, I think, if you came on this side. Yes—yes—thank you. That’s excellent.”
 
The sudden brilliant circle of an electric lamp over the table. Dr. Grimbold’s beard and spectacles. Mr. Levett blowing his nose. Parker bending close. The Master of the Workhouse peering over him. The rest of the room in the enhanced dimness of the gas-jets and the fog.
 
A low murmur of voices. All heads bent over the work.
 
Dr. Grimbold again—beyond the circle of the lamplight.
 
“We don’t want to distress you unnecessarily, Lady Levy. If you will just tell us what to look for—the—? 226 Yes, yes, certainly—and—yes—stopped with gold? Yes—the lower jaw, the last but one on the right? Yes—no teeth missing—no—yes? What kind of a mole? Yes—just over the left breast? Oh, I beg your pardon, just under—yes—appendicitis? Yes—a long one—yes—in the middle? Yes, I quite understand—a scar on the arm? Yes, I don’t know if we shall be able to find that—yes—any little constitutional weakness that might—? Oh, yes—arthritis—yes—thank you, Lady Levy—that’s very clear. Don’t come unless I ask you to. Now, Wingate.”
 
A pause. A murmur. “Pulled out? After death, you think—well, so do I. Where is Dr. Colegrove? You attended this man in the workhouse? Yes. Do you recollect—? No? You’re quite certain about that? Yes—we mustn’t make a mistake, you know. Yes, but there are reasons why Sir Julian can’t be present; I’m asking you, Dr. Colegrove. Well, you’re certain—that’s all I want to know. Just bring the light closer, Mr. Wingate, if you please. These miserable shells let the damp in so quickly. Ah! what do you make of this? Yes—yes—well, that’s rather unmistakable, isn’t it? Who did the head? Oh, Freke—of course. I was going to say they did good work at St. Luke’s. Beautiful, isn’t it, Dr. Colegrove? A wonderful surgeon—I saw him when he was at Guy’s. Oh, no, gave it up years ago. Nothing like keeping your hand in. Ah—yes, undoubtedly that’s it. Have you a towel handy, sir? Thank you. Over the head, if you please—I think we might have another here. Now, Lady Levy—I am going to ask you to look at 227 a scar, and see if you recognise it. I’m sure you are going to help us by being very firm. Take your time—you won’t see anything more than you absolutely must.”
 
“Lucy, don’t leave me.”
 
“No, ............