Bellman & Black (38 page)

With all these arrangements to be made, there was not a moment to sit and pray by the corpse. This passed without comment. It was a decade since that dinner, and the family had altered their expectations of him since. He was simply Mr. Critchlow’s business partner, and given
the nature of his business, they took for granted now that he expressed his sympathy and respects professionally.

“What am I to do about the business, Mr. Bellman?” Mrs. Critchlow asked in the middle of a conversation about velvet for the coffin cloth. “We have no son to take over my husband’s interests, and my sons-in-law . . .” Her sons-in-law were too grand—she didn’t need to speak the words aloud—for anything so sordid as retail.

“Don’t worry about it. I will buy you out.”

“Really? Is it as simple as that?”

He didn’t even need to see Anson about a loan: the money was ready and waiting in the sleeping account. He called at the Westminster & City on his way back to the shop.

“Is it the right time to extend your exposure in the marketplace?” Anson wondered aloud.

“Why ever not?”

“The way things are going . . . The judge has found in favor of the Welsh doctor, you know. It is not against the law in England to dispose of a body by cremation.”

“What difference does it make to us whether a body is buried or burned? It is still a funeral. There must still be a coffin, attendants, mourning clothes.”

“It is change, Bellman, and change never comes singly. Every day more voices are raised against the expense of funerals. Powerful voices too. People are spending less, you must have noticed? This funeral for Critchlow . . .” He didn’t say the words, but what he was thinking was that such a funeral would never be seen again. The days of such lavishness were on the wane.

But Bellman’s instructions were firm. Anson did the paperwork for the transfer of funds, though he was not happy about it. As for his own capital, well, he had come out of crepe a few months previously and put the money into the new crematorium they were building at Watford.

As Bellman made these preparations for the funeral, there was an
excitation underlying his activity. Energized, renewed, he was his old self once more. The days contained their usual complement of hours, hours were made up of sixty minutes, no more, no less. His thoughts were ordered, he felt hunger at appropriate times, and though his nights were short, he slept without artificial aid. He lived and worked with the expectation that these worries of his were about to be set right. The day and time of the funeral were fixed; the procession would be a fine one; Bellman & Black would make the event as gravely beautiful and as expensively solemn as any earl’s or duke’s, and the example would be an inspiration to all who saw the procession pass.

More important than all the rest: Black was sure to be there.

·  ·  ·

On the day, Bellman was ready early. He joined the procession and walked with a flutter of trepidation in his chest. Today, he told himself, things would be settled once and for all. For good or for ill, he could not say, but there was at least one thing he could count on: no longer would he live in a state of uncertainty.

The passers-by stopped out of respect to the funeral procession. Some bowed their heads in prayer for the stranger whose death interfered briefly with their day. Others whispered, wanting to know who it was, enclosed in that ebonized box with its brass eternal serpent fittings and ivy engraved plaques. All heard the grateful voice inside that said, It is not I who dies! Some heard it continue, Not today, at any rate. The plumes bobbed and floated impressively above the six black horses, finely turned out and groomed till they shone. The polished hearse, the sober mutes, the blackest crepe . . . Nothing in heaven could be finer, Bellman thought, than this spectacle of death, and the crowd watched it pass with sadness and admiration and sympathy in their eyes—though one or two, Bellman noted, wore another new expression: cool judgment.

·  ·  ·

Entering the church, the mourners bowed their heads. Each mind, in each still living skull, considered the eternity that Mr. Critchlow had already
entered into, and which awaited them. All except one, that is, for Bellman’s head was raised, and he looked about him with intent concentration. Those who had entered ahead of him were already seated. He studied the backs of their heads, frowning and staring, trying to identify each scalp, each pair of shoulders. Was that him? No. Nor that one.

Some stranger—not Black—turned his way and sent a frowning rebuke. He bowed his head apologetically, mimicked the subdued demeanor of the other mourners, but could not quell the intensity of his curiosity. As soon as the man looked the other way he could not help but raise his head and continue his search.

All through the service, while he sang and prayed and knelt and stood and sat, his eyes were too vigilant, and his turning of the head this way and that caused no little disturbance to those who had the misfortune to be placed by him. It was plain to all that Mr. Bellman had forgotten why they were gathered together in church today. His mind was elsewhere. The frowns grew more pointed; certain mourners turned to each other and tut-tutted their disapproval.

Bellman grew agitated at realizing that Black was nowhere to be seen. He even turned to look behind him: rows of black-suited mourners glared at him. They were angry, disconcerted, disapproving—but they were not Black. Where was he? Where?

Then he exclaimed aloud. “Of course!” Black would not come here, to the church! He would be there for the burial! Had he not seen him always on the way in or out? Or at the very graveside? Critchlow was to be buried not at this church’s overcrowded graveyard, but at the cemetery, in leafy peace, on the edges of the city. He must go there immediately!

“Excuse me!” he muttered, in his impatience, and he shuffled his way to the end of the pew, not minding whose toes he crushed, and he half ran back along the aisle to the door, which he opened noisily before escaping.

No athlete nor any thief could have covered the distance as fast.
Bellman drew all eyes as he raced through the streets. Red-faced and panting heavily he came to the cemetery gates and staggered in. He knew the spot—he had selected it himself.

Here was the grave. A beautiful position, with views and greenery all around. He himself had selected the design for the tomb that was to be erected here: a grand and elaborate affair with three angels, scrolls describing Critchlow’s paternal and civic virtues, and a small spaniel, its likeness taken from the painting of the one Critchlow had loved as a young man. It would be magnificent.

Today it was just a pit in the earth.

No one was there.

“He will come!” Bellman muttered. “He will come.”

He paced all the paths, a hundred yards in each direction. Coming back to the grave site he peered into it. Just in case. Seeing a large tombstone not far off, he clambered up, hoping for a better vantage point, but slipped in his haste, grazing his hands and losing a button or two from his jacket. He brushed at the stains on his trousers, but only added blood to them and muddied his hands further. On his second attempt he achieved his objective and got himself a clear view of the area around the burial spot. Not a sign of anyone approaching.

“Black!” he hollered. “Here I am, waiting for you! Make yourself known!”

There came a rustling in a patch of bushes. Branches swayed, and—Bellman’s heart leapt—a figure stepped out onto the path. But it was only a grubby young fellow roused from sleep, a gardener or gravedigger or other such person, yawning and rubbing his eyes, and on seeing Bellman he looked alarmed and backed away, then turned and sprinted in the direction of the gates.

Bellman sighed and sat down. His arm was aching. He must have landed badly when he slipped. The pain brought sudden tears to his eyes, and wiping them away, he added a smear of dirt and grass and blood to his sweating face.

There was time yet. Black wouldn’t be expecting him so early, he reflected. In half an hour the others would come, and that would be the moment. He was at the end of his energy now. He could only sit and attend to his modest, frail hope that Black would take pity on him. In this mood of passivity he allowed time to pass. He took out his watch from his breast pocket and saw that it had stopped. He wound it and held it to his ear. Nothing.

He reached automatically for his calfskin book, but he had forgotten it. He didn’t even have the energy to marvel at having forgotten the one thing he took everywhere with him. Dulled and dazed he remained there, still as a mannequin at Bellman & Black, and did absolutely nothing until the others arrived.

It was Anson who separated himself from the crowd of mourners and came to Bellman’s side.

“Whatever is it, my friend?”

He took Bellman’s arm, and though he did it gently, the action made him wince.

“Come, let me see you home. You are not well.”

But Bellman would not move, nor did he even look at or seem to hear Anson. He kept his eyes on the funeral party, scarcely blinking. Anson was aware that Bellman’s behavior in the church had been awry, and he noted that here, for all the eccentricity of Bellman’s appearance and unnatural alertness, he was at least quiet and still. Rather than risk agitating him by bringing him away now, he resolved to stay with him and wait until after the interment to get his friend to a doctor.

Bellman looked. If he did not pick Black out of the crowd around the grave, he would see him afterward. As the mourners departed in pairs and small groups there would be one solitary figure left, and it would be him . . .

His eyes shifted restlessly, always on the move. Every shuffle, every tilt of a head caught his attention. He expected from one moment to the next to see the face he was looking for. The face he would know instantly
that would be looking for him. His feet were ready. Before Black was even aware of his approach, there he would be, at his side.

And now all was over. There was a bit of hand shaking, back patting. The exchange of consoling words. Bellman wished the mourners would stand farther apart, so that his view might be unoccluded.

At last the first of them departed, then others.

When all but the last few mourners, were gone, Bellman remained there, staring.

“Are you coming?” Anson asked him. He placed a hand gently on Bellman’s shoulder, but Bellman appeared not to notice, so he took his arm and tried to lead him to the path.

“Let me take you home,” he suggested. But Bellman had no home. “Why don’t you go to your daughter for a few days . . .”

With a bellow of rage, Bellman threw off his hand. Anson leaped hurriedly out of the way. The last lingerers eyed them in alarm, casting wary glances over their shoulders at the staring man with blood on his face, then hurried away.

Now alone with Bellman, Anson considered what to do for the best. He would go to the guardian of the cemetery, he decided. It needed two of them to get Bellman safely into a cab and to a doctor. Briskly he went to fetch help, leaving his friend staring into the grave and weeping, as though his own soul were buried in it.

When he returned with a burly fellow to help, Bellman was nowhere to be seen.

B
ellman & Black was closing. The last customer departed, and Pentworth bowed in deep sympathy as he closed the door behind her. As he was about to lock the door a familiar silhouette appeared out of the evening shadow and came up the steps. Mr. Bellman. Pentworth opened the door again. It was not his place to notice his employer’s unusual appearance, so he feigned not to see it.

As the office door opened, Verney looked up. Mr. Anson had called this afternoon with an unlikely story about the funeral. He found it hard to credit. Clearly something had happened, but it couldn’t be as he had been told . . . On seeing Bellman’s face, he put his questions away.

“The figures are on your desk,” Verney said uncertainly, and Bellman only raised a hand to silence him. Without even a glance in his direction, he entered his office and shut the door firmly behind him.

Verney supposed that if Bellman wanted him he would let him know. In the meantime he got on with his regular work. His fingers danced uncertainly; more than once he had to start a calculation over again for loss of concentration.

Half a dozen times someone came knocking: a handful of senior staff worked on well beyond closing time. “Is Mr. Bellman back? I wanted . . .” and each time Verney shook his head.

“Come back another time.”

At the end of an hour he didn’t dare knock and interrupt his manager. For another thirty minutes he occupied himself with things that
didn’t need doing, and when at the end of it Bellman’s door was as firmly closed as before, he put his coat on and left for home.

Behind the closed door, habit made Bellman pick up the monthly figures from his desk. Sales were down—for the third month running—but Verney’s neat figures and ruled lines marshaled disruption and trouble into an appearance of order and harmony. Slowing sales and growing losses were neatly aligned, columns and rows still worked out, whichever way you added and divided. It was scant consolation to know that the falling profits were so impeccably recorded. Bellman sighed heavily, and the prospect of the long evening weighed painfully upon him. I am abandoned, he thought. The one he was looking for could not be found. What was he to do with the rest of his life?