Tim Powers - Hide Me Among the Graves

Through a gap in the milling mourners he caught a momentary glimpse of Lizzie Rossetti’s still profile in the coffin, and though she looked nothing like Adelaide McKee, she brought his thoughts back to McKee; one day McKee too would be dead. Though it was obviously true, the thought troubled him with something like a premonition of guilt. Crawford and McKee had not talked very much during the past week’s expeditions, but they had quickly established an unconsidered partnership, seldom having to discuss who paid for cabs or coffee or spoke first to a cemetery guard or policeman, always understanding from a nod or frown or gesture what was proposed to be done next.

His thought about Gabriel was echoing in his head — an ill-advised marriage.

And across the room he now saw the piping-voiced little bald gentleman they had met at Christina Rossetti’s house last Monday — Crawley or something, his name was.

McKee had noticed him too. “Christina’s suitor, Cayley,” she whispered, “who disapproves of her work with the lower orders.”

Crawford nodded, remembering. Cayley seemed to be registering disapproval today too, blinking across at one of the guests whose coppery red hair could admittedly use cutting, or at least brushing.

From the stairs beyond the doorway at his back Crawford heard someone say, “The hearse is here.” The phrase was repeated in muted tones through the crowded room, and people began bolting the remaining punch in their cups and crouching to set plates down against the walls.

“Pigs,” whispered McKee, and Crawford shook her arm reprovingly.

“Well, they are ,” she whispered.

“Artists,” he said quietly. “Poets.” He picked up one of the paper-wrapped funeral cakes from the tray by the door, blinked at the skull imprint in the black sealing wax, and tucked the thing into his pocket.

An old man moved aside from in front of them, and Crawford found himself looking straight into Christina Rossetti’s wide brown eyes. Her face looked both paler and younger by the gaslight, framed by her pulled-back brown hair and the high black neckline of her dress.

“Adelaide!” she said softly. “Mr. Crawford! It was good of both of you to come. I’m terribly sorry I wasn’t able to — Gabriel and I weren’t able to go with you, last week.” She looked at McKee. “And I’m very sorry to perceive that you haven’t found good news.” She glanced back toward Maria and Gabriel, and then whispered, “But we hope to end, today, the peril that we discussed at the zoo.”

“End it?” said McKee. “How?”

The little Cayley fellow had sidled closer and appeared to be trying to hear.

“I—” said Christina, “I’ll tell you after it has been implemented. The arrow is in flight, there’s nothing to be done but wait — for an hour or two.”

The people around them were shuffling toward the door, rocking from side to side the way people always did at solemn events, and Christina took McKee’s elbow in her left hand and Crawford’s in her right and led them forward.

“You came by cab?” she said. “I’m to be in the coach ahead of the hearse, but I’ll get you places in one of the mourning coaches.”

MARIA WAS STANDING BESIDE Gabriel now.

“It’s time to close the coffin,” she told him softly, and she leaned in and pushed Lizzie’s hair aside to lift the veil, which was heavy with the little inward-facing mirrors she had sewn onto the inner side of the lace. She carefully draped it over Lizzie’s calm face, making sure that it was even and wouldn’t be dislodged, and turned away with tears in her eyes.

Swinburne and William had taken hold of the coffin lid and had begun to swing it up, but Gabriel stopped them with a raised hand.

“I–I need to leave something of myself with her,” he said. His voice was unsteady. “Wait a moment.”

He blundered through the mourners and hurried down the hall to the bedroom, and very shortly he had returned carrying a battered octavo-sized notebook.

“All my poems,” Gabriel said hoarsely. “I send them with her.” He laid the notebook on Lizzie’s cold crossed hands and then bent over and rested his head on it.

Swinburne opened his mouth and closed it, blinking at the notebook in the coffin, and then said, “No, Gabriel, that’s just rude — she wouldn’t want you to sacrifice your poetry.”

William had been frowning, but now he said, “It’s for you to decide, Gabriel.”

Gabriel’s face was expressionless, but tears were coursing down his cheeks into his goatee. “My poetry henceforth is for her alone. Close it.”

Swinburne exhaled and spread his hands, but he and William nodded and solemnly closed the coffin.

THE HEARSE IN THE street out front was a black carriage with glass sides, and black ostrich feathers waved above the gold trim along the edges of the polished roof. The gold was dull under the gray morning sky. Four black horses were harnessed to it, blowing steam from their nostrils, and in addition to the coachman there were half a dozen attendants and two traditional “mutes,” all of them apparently provided by the undertaker and all wearing black silk hatbands and gloves; Crawford reflected that the funeral must have cost Gabriel a fair packet.

The four mourning coaches were designated by black velvet cloths roped over their roofs, and blankets of the same material on the pairs of horses.

Christina led Crawford and McKee down the pavement to the last of the four mourning coaches, behind which stood several cabs and carriages. Christina glanced back, but none of the attendants had followed them, and so with an impatient sigh, she herself stepped up to take hold of the silver handle and pull the door open.

She hopped back down, and, before turning away and returning to her family, she said, breathlessly, “Today I think we will free the world of my uncle.”

Crawford and McKee exchanged a wide-eyed glance, and then he helped her up into the coach and followed her in and took the rearward-facing seat.

He took his hat from the seat beside him and set it on his lap when another couple climbed in, and again he had to explain that he and McKee were friends of Christina’s but had never met the deceased. The newcomers shook their heads, probably wondering why such comparative strangers should merit seats in one of the mourning coaches, but contented themselves with frowning and staring out the windows. McKee caught Crawford’s eye and bobbed one eyebrow.

From where he sat, Crawford couldn’t see the pallbearers carry out the coffin and slide it into the hearse, but the line of vehicles eventually began moving and traced a long rattling curve out of the Chatham Place square and proceeded north between the stately old office buildings along Bridge Street.

The procession rolled along at a steady pace onward up Farrington Road, for many of the wagons and omnibuses and cabs gave right of way to the line of black-draped vehicles; and in less than an hour they had crossed the North London Road and were among country roads bordered by leafless trees, and the funeral carriages spread farther apart as the horses were urged into a fast trot. At bends in the road, Crawford could see the attendants who had been walking alongside the hearse now perched on top of it, clutching their hats among the fluttering black ostrich feathers.

The procession slowed and closed up again as the horses pulled the carriages up Highgate Hill, and when the road leveled out, the yard in front of the Highgate Cemetery arches was close by on the right.

McKee and Crawford let the other couple disembark first, and when they had followed them down the coach step and onto the packed sand, McKee led Crawford away from the press of carriages and horses and mourners rearranging their coats and hats.