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.