Bruce Alexander - Person or Persons Unknown

He had nevertheless chosen rightly. That became evident when, in the near distance, I spied the light from a lantern held still, then swung slowly in a signal of welcome. When we arrived, there was an open gate and a burly fellow in his shirtsleeves in the cool night air holding high the lantern. He, I supposed, was the gravedigger. Without a word, he went before the team of horses and led the way down a track towards another light not so very far away. When we were close, I spied the figure of a man standing by a considerable heap of dirt and an open hole.

At a gesture from the gravedigger, the driver reined in. He and Mr. Donnelly climbed down, and I hopped over the side. As the other two pulled the tailgate down and pulled out the coffin, Mr. Donnelly took me aside.

“Jeremy,” said he, “there was something I forgot to mention to you. She should be given a family name for purposes of the service. I know you said you had no idea of it, but perhaps you could think of something appropriate?”

I had thought one might be needed and was ready with it.

“Perhaps ‘Angelo’ would do,” said I. Even I knew a bit of Italian.

He smiled. “That should do very well.”

And so we set out, the four of us, for the grave which was only yards distant — Mr. Donnelly bearing the lantern and lighting the path; the teamster and the gravedigger carrying the coffin, and I, the solitary mourner, bringing up the rear.

The priest was dressed in the way that a common laborer might be. A young man, not much over thirty, he looked big and strapping as one of Sir John’s constables — yet he had the face of a scholar and wore a gentle expression. Mr. Donnelly went forward to him, and they talked in low tones. The coffin was brought to the graveside and placed on the supports above the hideous hole. I held back, not knowing what part I was to play in all this. So I remained for a minute or two until Mr. Donnelly beckoned me to him. The priest had asked to meet me.

“Father,” said Mr. Donnelly to the priest, “this is Jeremy Proctor. He is responsible for this. I’ve simply implemented his wishes.”

“Well, it’s a very decent thing you’re doing, Jeremy.” He offered me his hand, which was rough with calluses, and I took it, removing my hat with my other hand.

The priest continued: “We’ll just bury the poor girl, and let him who is without sin cast the first stone. That’s as Our Lord would have it.” He, too, was Irish by the sound of him.

Mr. Donnelly took a place close to the priest and held high the lantern. The priest opened a blackbound book, looked round him, and said in a most solemn tone, “Let us begin.” Then, did he commence to read the Latin office for the dead. His voice droned on for many minutes. It is a language that fits ill to the tongue. I comprehended a fair part, though my knowledge of it was and remains meagre. Whole sections of it he seemed to have by heart, for he would raise his eyes from time to time and chant certain passages in a gruff voice made sweet for the occasion. At me he looked when he commended to God the soul of “Maria Maddalena di Angelo,” adding a significant flourish to the name I had given her. There was business with a sort of wand which he produced and used to sprinkle the coffin with water. Then, finally, he gave a nod to the rest of us. Mr. Donnelly set aside his lantern and pointed to the straps beneath the coffin. I grasped the one nearest me, which was held the other side of the grave by the teamster. The priest himself pulled out the supports, and we began slowly lowering the coffin into the deep hole. As we did so, the priest tossed a handful of dirt upon the coffin, and intoned a few more words in Latin. It was only then, as Mariah reached her final resting place, that the tears came. I wiped at them with my coatsleeve, coughed and sniffled, and so brought them under control. The teamster and the gravedigger were winding in the straps, tugging roughly to pull them free.

The priest turned to me. “I regret, Jeremy,” said he, “that she must be laid to rest in such circumstances as these — in the darkness, in this plain field, without a Mass to see her on her way. I assure you, though, that I shall say a Mass for the repose of her soul tomorrow morning, and I shall remember her in my prayers ever after.”

“Thank you. Father.” Mr. Donnelly had coached me in the proper address.

“You’re a good lad. I wish we had you as one of ours.” Then to Mr. Donnelly: “You may leave now. Mr. Dooley and I will take care of all the rest that needs doing.”

And thus dismissed, Mr. Donnelly took me by the arm and we walked back together to the wagon.

So it had been accomplished. Though one more chapter in the story of my relation to Mariah remained to be written, I did not then know that, and I felt at that moment a sense of completion, of duty done, a peace with a kind of emptiness within.

Having left Mr. Donnelly at his door in Tavistock Street, I walked to Bow Street with five guineas jingling in the bag in my pocket. I had not expected there would be any amount left for me, and I urged Mr. Donnelly to take all, or at least part of it, for he had arranged everything. Yet he had declined.

“No, Jeremy,” he had said, “it was my pleasure to aid you in this — and a very great pleasure it was.”

“But what am I to do with such a sum?”

“Why, save it, of course. You may well have need of it in the future.”

It was near ten o’clock when I entered Number 4. Inside I found an unexpected hum of excitement. There were loud voices from far within, perhaps from Sir John’s chambers, and a buzz of talk in lower tones from much closer by. Then, as I advanced, I saw it was Mr. Langford and Mr. Baker who were talking near the strong room. Mr. Baker broke off his talk and came to me. The commotion from Sir John’s chambers continued. Besides Sir John’s voice, there was another — a familiar grumbling basso even deeper than his — and the two were raised together in contention.

“Jeremy, lad,” said he, “you’ll be glad to know that Mr. Langford spied that fellow, Tolliver, leavin’ the coach house. He detained him and brought him here to Sir John.”

Was I glad to hear that? I was not at all sure.

Constable Langford came sauntering over, the very picture of self-satisfaction.

“He gave me a bit of argument, he did — him and that woman with him, said she was his wife,” said he. “But all I needed do was tap my club and tell him he could come quiet or not, it was all the same to me — but he would come. He takes a look at his little lady, who’s saying, ‘Oh dear, what does this mean? What can it be about?’ and such like, and he decides to give me no more trouble. And I was just as glad of it, ‘cause he’s a strong one for fair. He hauled two big portmanteaus here from the coach house with no strain.”

“Did he say where he had been?” I asked.

“Didn’t he, though? Many times over, he did. Said he’d been the whole month in Bristol for to court this woman who’d answered an advert he’d posted there. A right pleasant-lookin’ thing she is, as you might say, though not what you’d call young. She chimes in and says, ‘You would not expect me to marry a man I did not know, would you?’ “

“Well,” said I, “it may be just as they said. Mr. Tolliver is a widower. I have reason to know he desired to marry.”

“And she a widow. Don’t mistake, Jeremy. I’d as soon he cleared himself of any doubts Sir John might have. Many’s the time I’ve bought meat from him, and he seems right enough. But you must admit his sudden departure was right queer. And when Sir John says he wishes to detain a fellow for a bit of a talk, by God, I’ll detain him!”

“I take it that is Mr. Tolliver in there with him now,” said I.