Sunday, February 9
The remains of Sarah Cowie were interred in the morning. The chaplain said a few prayers in the church, heard only by Clarenceux. A woman had cleaned out the cauldron and sewn the remains of the head into a leather budget; she had washed and prepared the headless corpse for its shroud, but she had no wish to attend the funeral. She accepted her money from Clarenceux and left.
After the interment in the cemetery of St. Bride’s, Clarenceux spoke to the chaplain. He looked into the grave and crossed himself, aware that the gravediggers were nearby, anxious to fill it in. The chaplain too wanted to go. Clarenceux closed his eyes and fumbled in a pocket. He pulled out some coins.
“You do not know this, Mr. Bowring, but that woman had a secret. She was compromised by a Catholic woman in the north who thought that by forcing women to carry out her acts of terror, she could avoid arousing suspicion. But in using Sarah, that Catholic woman miscalculated. Not every thief is without conscience. And Sarah especially had compassion. Her fall was that she once gave into temptation: she stole some plates and other pewter things worth a total of four shillings and two pence. I would like to atone for that, her original crime, and donate to one of the altars the same sum for the benefit of her soul.”
Bowring looked sternly at Clarenceux. “Mr. Clarenceux, we do not maintain altar funds as we used to in the old days. It is against the law. And if she was a thief…”
“But, Mr. Bowring, please—for the benefit of her soul.”
“I am quite sure that her soul is in Heaven or Hell as she deserves, Mr. Clarenceux, and there is nothing you can do about it now,” he said, turning away.
“Then for the poor,” implored Clarenceux, following him, trying to control his anger. “Can you accept it on behalf of her soul for the poor?” He put his left hand firmly on Bowring’s shoulder to stop him. When Bowring turned around, Clarenceux held the coins up in his face. “For the poor—or have you forgotten them?”
“Very well,” Bowring said coldly. “For the poor.” He took the money. “Good day, Mr. Clarenceux. May the souls of all the departed rest in peace.” He bowed and walked away across the churchyard.
Clarenceux silently said the words of the Lord’s Prayer to himself, then went into the church and sat alone. He thought of Sarah Cowie’s fate, and Rebecca Machyn’s, and that of his servant Joan, and his wife’s plight. Their suffering made him angry again, and helped him fix his mind on what he now had to do.
He would never again attend a service in this church. He looked up at the carved vine–entwined columns; after thirty years, he was going to leave forever. The place he sat in would be occupied by someone else. His place as Clarenceux would be taken by someone else. The idea of dying seemed not an end of himself but so many pieces of his identity falling apart. There would still be someone living in his house, someone sitting in his place in church, someone acting as Clarenceux: it was just that that person would have a different heart. What was in his mind would disperse, and what mattered of his life would be continued through his daughters, even though they did not see what he saw or know what he knew. For a moment it seemed unambiguously clear, how unimportant knowledge was. Knowledge seemed just a means to an end, like his house or his possessions—not an end in itself.
He rose from the pew. After forty-eight years of life, most of it thinking and preparing, he had knowledge in abundance. If it was just a means to an end, he was going to put it to good use.
***
Back at his house, Clarenceux assisted Thomas in boring two holes in the base of the chest that he kept in the closed-up shop. He then helped him move it onto the cart that Thomas had bought. Fyndern had taken a shine to one of the new horses: a pretty young brown-and-white mare. Clarenceux watched him brushing the animal’s coat and realized it was a long time since he had seen him with a pack of cards. There had been a change in him, a loss of desperation.
As Thomas and the boy rode away on the cart, Fyndern turned and waved.