“She must be buried at once.” That was my first address to my host when I took a seat at breakfast upon the morrow. My appetite had returned, but I could not allow myself to think of freshly laid eggs before the matter was in some way settled. “What arrangements have been made for her?”
His eyebrows performed their little dance. “Well, none yet, sir. I’d supposed t’ parish would ’ave ter bury ’er—”
“The parish?” I interjected, “Nonsense. There must be someone she called her own who could take care of matters.”
He frowned. “None, sir. ’Er mother’s gone, years back, and ’er father went afore ’er. She’d only got ’er ’usband, sir, an’ . . .”
He had no need to finish his sentence.
“She really had no one else?” I thought of my little Linnet with her dainty form and shy looks, cast alone into such a world, into such a fate. It was often said that city folk were all the poorer for not knowing their closest neighbour, whilst in the country everyone knew everybody, that they all helped one another. I shook my head. “None at all? Then I shall do it.” I had never before carried out such a task, but I knew my father could not be spared, even if he were willing to come to Halfoak. The idea was strange, taking such a thing upon my own shoulders, and my right hand strayed to the pocket wherein lay that lock of my poor cousin’s hair. “Yes, of course I shall. I must see about it at once.”
Widdop nodded as if this was what he had hoped; I thought I detected relief in his features. No doubt he would be glad to have the use of his wash house once more. “Then you’ll be wantin’ t’ ca’penter, sir.”
“The carpenter?”
“For t’ coffin, an’ that.”
“Ah. Of course.”
“Now t’ crowner’s done wi’ ’er.”
“The crown—The coroner. Yes.” Reality was crowding in once more. The idea of someone examining that blackened form, of placing it in a wooden box . . .
I swallowed hard, no longer sure I felt hungry. “And, I suppose, I must see the undertaker.”
“Undertaker’s t’ ca’penter, sir.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Aye. Years now—says ’e does t’ box, mun as well do t’ rest of it an’ all.”
“Ah—I see,” I said, though I didn’t, not really. I nodded my head in what I hoped was a knowing fashion.
“Well, folk’ll be right glad on it, sir. An’ to think I thowt tha’d come from t’ papers—or from a waxwork or some such thing, come to take a likeness an’ make a show o’ what went on. I’m sorry for it.”
I waved his words away. “Perhaps you could inform people in the village,” I said, “that the funeral will take place most urgently. There should be memorial cards, of course—though there can be no mask or photograph—and other such matters, all with due regard to degrees of kin, though I scarcely see how—”
He shook his head, taking a moment to reply. “They’ll not fuss about none o’ that,” he said in a low voice, and he shifted his feet as though suddenly eager to be gone. He muttered something about bringing my breakfast.
He returned in due course with a dish laden with eggs and bread and dripping and fried kidneys and I set to, famished once again, pausing only briefly to wonder why it was that he suddenly did not seem able to look me squarely in the eye.
It was odd walking towards the sleeping church once more, thinking how soon it must be woken to ring the last knell for my poor cousin, and yet it was a relief to think of being rid of that black thing in the wash house. It was something I could barely connect with her at all; I longed for it to be gone, as the whole village must, so that I could think of her once again as rivalling the birds in their endless song of summer.
My daze of yesterday had passed. I quickly settled matters with the carpenter, who promised to set about making arrangements to have the body measured before returning to his workshop to begin work forthwith. I had also sent a boy over to the next village with a telegram, informing my family that there were affairs to settle which might occupy me for several days yet. This was becoming a most perplexing situation, raising all manner of questions in my mind, but the most pressing thing was to give to my cousin the peace she deserved after all that she had suffered.
The church door opened to my hand with a gentle creak. The wood had weathered to the utmost smoothness, and the smell of the interior of the church was all of comfort: dust and time and the pages of what must be the oldest book of all, along with the faintest hint of beeswax. All inside was quiet, save for an almost inaudible rustling that might have been the movement of mice. I passed through the porch, with its stone benches worn to a dip at their centre, and found the church quite empty. I cast my eyes over the double row of dark pews, imagining them darker still with the villagers all dressed in the colour of mourning, and realised there was someone here after all: a girl of fourteen or fifteen, her hair caught back under a cap, was on her hands and knees. A sudsy cloth in front of her revealed her purpose. She caught my eye and stood at once, dropping into an awkward curtsy, though she did not speak a word.
I asked after the whereabouts of the parson, whereupon she gave an eager nod and led me back out of the church door, around to the side and through the graveyard with its greened and leaning stones. The peacefulness of it all was a salve to the heart. The idea of my cousin finding at last such a resting place comforted me—and then it served to remind me that we would also need the services of a gravedigger. Before I could start to fret over how long it should all take or speculate over whether that gentleman would also be the carpenter, the silent girl stopped in front of me and pointed towards a little wooden gate set into the farthest wall, from whence came the sound of somewhat forced whistling.
I thanked her, approaching the gate and leaning over it prior to opening it only to find myself almost nose to nose with a white-haired fellow in spectacles, engaged in securing runner beans around a pole. He was in his shirt-sleeves and he blinked at me myopically, his lips still pursed, though now no sound emerged. I made my apologies, introduced myself and apprised him that I sought the parson, upon which his demeanour warmed.
“Come in—do!” he said, hastening to open the gate, which he did with three sharp tugs. I stepped from the graveyard directly into the garden, which I saw was half covered in some lush blossom foaming across the lawn; from the corner of my eye it appeared to be half in the thrall of winter, in spite of the heat of the day.
He recovered his flat-topped felt hat from its place on the wall and mopped his forehead with a handkerchief as he led the way into the house, calling to the maid to bring us tea with bread and butter. This raised such a storm of a clatter I feared for his china, but, unconcerned, he led me into a small parlour with a view of a narrow lane bordered by a hedge liberally festooned with honeysuckle. He turned his back upon it and bade me to sit, before saying, “Forgive my appearance. It is an evil, you know, of such a small living.”
I was uncertain what reply I should make, and so I merely nodded and had instead begun to tell him the purpose of my visit when he held up a hand to stem my words, nodding his head sagely, as if he knew everything already.
“The day after tomorrow,” he pronounced.
“Ah—sir, I had hoped that everything might be in readiness tomorrow,” I began. “The condition—the advanced state of—of decomposition, sir, is such—”
“The day after tomorrow will be quite sufficient,” he intoned, “and will allow for all the necessary preparations.”
I wondered whether the tone he used, which was somewhat grey and listless, was the same in which he would make his sermons. “The carpenter is already at work—”
He nodded again as if he had heard it all once, twice, thrice before. “We must not progress with unseemly haste,” he said. “The young lady in question must have all due care paid her at this time.”
“Of course she must—but she has lain there, in the wash house, for a week already. It’s—” It’s an abomination is what I wished to say, and yet I did not.
There were more nods, as if he were in full agreement. “You will find Widdop, the landlord, most eager to assist in any way you require. The carpenter also. And Mary Gomersal, the widow of a local man, is quite able, in her small way; a little midwifery, as well as the laying out of the dead.”
The laying out of the dead. I imagined the woman I had met, cowering about the wash house doorway, trying to clean the charred thing I had seen; her cloth rasping away the layers of burnt skin . . .
I closed my eyes. I opened them to see the parson leaning back in his chair, contemplating the ceiling.
“I—I have met her,” I faltered. “Mrs. Gomersal, I mean.” I recounted our odd meeting on Pudding Pye Hill and the parson stirred then, as if he were angry, but just at that moment the door opened and in came our tea and bread and butter, borne on a tray the dimensions of a moderately sized table. It was followed into the room by a red-faced buxom woman taking short, noisy breaths. We fell silent as she laid it all out and bustled away again without ever once glancing at either of us.
I felt a hand close about my wrist and I started and looked up to see the parson leaning towards me, his eyes staring most earnestly into mine. “What you have to know,” he said, “is that they’re riddled with superstition and nonsense. Riddled! Have a care not to listen overmuch; simply tell them what you need of them.” He let me go and settled back once more. “That is what I recommend. Ha!”
Again, I did not know how to reply.
“Their beliefs have only the barest tincture of holy writ,” he continued. “There is little wonder that God chose to smite the tree at the heart of the village with lightning. It reeks of sulphur, and they are little more than heathens!”
“You have heard their tales, then? That my cousin was stolen away by the fairies?” I threw a trace of mockery into my voice so that he should know at once I would have nothing to do with such outlandishness.
He leaned forward once more, this time fairly hissing into my face, a light burning in his eyes, “Fairies and elves? Brownies and goblins? Do you know what they are in reality?”
Nothing, I thought. Nothing is what they are. But I contented myself with merely shaking my head.
“Devils, sir! Devils and demons, sent to lead good men astray. Fairies? There is no such creature. All are children of Lilith; they are nothing of Pan. These fellows think them things of nature, but they are none! Only emissaries of Satan himself, aye, of old Mister Splitfoot as they call him, and by their split feet shall ye know them. Look into their eyes and you shall see no soul! If they seek to steal humans away, it is only to pay their tithe to Hell! They are come to enchant and to enrapture and whisper in ears that are eager to listen, and as for those who seek them out—those who go looking to find evil—why, they shall find it, sir, and only harm shall come to them!”
Before I could even consider that his sermons might be more lively than I had heretofore imagined, he slammed down his palm for emphasis, unfortunately catching the edge of the tray. The teapot slopped; the cups jumped on their saucers and the thinly sliced bread greedily drank the tea which spilled upon it. I stared down at the darkening edges.
“Such was her husband,” he said, “and see what came of it, God have mercy upon his soul!”
To that I had no answer, and it came to me that it was odd to hear the man spoken of at all, let alone in such a way. Indeed, I could barely recall any other person even mentioning him to me—in my mind he was some shadowy, faceless creature, something a little less than human who had emerged from darkness only to commit this terrible deed before melting into formlessness once more the moment I ceased to think of him.
Mercy upon his soul? An image rose before me, a white grin in a blackened visage, and I passed a hand across my eyes.
The parson did not appear to notice my distress. “The day after tomorrow, then,” he said, and poured out the tea as if nothing untoward had happened, then passed me a cup, the saucer still swimming in what had already been spilled.