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.
«This way, gentlemen, mind the step.»