GOD SAVE THE QUEEN’!
When the time came to leave for the church service, Flora put on her courage along with the black coat and the hat that looked like a fruitcake which Lady Gossinger had insisted on lending her for the occasion. As she was getting into the car she overheard Miss Doffit telling Sir Henry she was glad it was raining, because funerals weren’t supposed to be pleasant little outings with a picnic hamper from Fortnum & Mason stowed in the backseat of the car, along with a plaid traveling rug to be spread out on the cemetery grass. Flora did not hear Sir Henry’s response, because Vivian, who had opened the car door for her, now closed it very quickly.
The service, which was held at St. Sebastian’s—a rather vulgar-looking late-Victorian church with flashy stained-glass windows, located midway between Nether Woodcock and Maidenbury—included all Mr. Hutchins’s favorite hymns. There were no flowers, by request.
And Flora noticed when the coffin was brought down the aisle that it was a little dusty on top, but she tried not to think how this would have vexed her grandfather. It was important to focus on uplifting thoughts.
In addition to the Gossinger family and its employees, there were a goodly number of people lining the pews; but not so many that it looked as though free raffle tickets had been handed out at the door. The rector, Mr. Aldwin, was a roly-poly figure with a twinkle in his eye that even the solemnity of the occasion could not quite banish.
“Isn’t he a lovely man?” piped up a voice from the back of the church. “Such a nice change from the old rector. Mr. Roberts used to stand in the pulpit like he was stuck in the dock at the Old Bailey, falsely accused of cold-blooded murder.”
Then Sir Henry, there was no mistaking his mumbling voice, said, “You look like you’re about to faint, Mabel, m’dear. Awfully stuffy in here. Don’t suppose they ever open those confounded windows.”
One of the differences between Mr. Aldwin and his predecessor was that where Mr. Roberts had been partial to the occasional glass of sherry, Mr. Aldwin liked a pint of Guinness when the occasion arose. Despite only being on the job a couple of weeks, the rector spoke with boundless affection and admiration of the Dearly Departed, concluding with the assertion that Mr. Hutchins had ever been a good and faithful servant of the Almighty.
“He was that and all.” A woman’s voice floated up from behind Flora. “Devoted, that was Mr. Hutchins. Worked for the almighty Gossingers most of his life and ends up in the toilet. Doesn’t seem right, that’s what I say!”
Fortunately, at that moment the organist struck up the final hymn and Mr. Aldwin, now looking positively jolly, plunged into the first verse of “Shall We Gather
At the River,” while beating time on the rim of his pulpit. And soon almost everyone was joining in with equal gusto, causing Mrs. Much, who sat in the second pew, to whisper into Flora’s ear that it sounded like a sing-along down at the pub.
“And I’m not sure your Grandpa was that sort, dear. You know, the kind to be doing a knees-up at The Golden Fleece.”
Neither did you like him very much,
thought Flora. It was a comfort to have Sir Henry step forward to take her hand, as if she were still a little girl with stubby pigtails, and lead her from the church.
“Must say you’re holding up frightfully well, m’dear,” he said as they stepped out into the rain that bounced off his bald head. “But shouldn’t be afraid to break down, you know. I’m not ashamed to say I’ve shed a few tears m’self. Even caught her Ladyship having a bit of a sniffle this morning.”
“It was pitiful to see her so upset. Only a good woman would take the loss of a servant, even one of Hutchins’s sort, so much to heart.” Miss Sophie Doffit spoke up from right behind them, then added softly, “Surely no one could possibly think Mabel wasn’t genuinely shocked by what happened.”
The old lady was wearing a pale pink hat with downy feathers adorning one side, and a matching edge-to-edge coat quite unsuited to the weather. Her resemblance to the Queen Mother was more startling than usual. Several children who had been brought along, and told to behave themselves or be very sorry afterward, began jumping up and down and pointing excitedly at Miss Doffit.
This rude display stopped abruptly, however, when the naughty little things noticed a woman standing at the edge of the path who looked like a witch. Her cloak was a mustard-and-black plaid and she had extraordinarily long purple fingernails. At that moment she was
staring at one little boy in particular in a lip-smacking sort of way. He let out a terrified squeal when she beckoned to him with one of her claws and offered him a piece of barley sugar.
The parents immediately rounded up their offspring and marched them away, while Flora stood looking into space, unaware that the witch woman had taken a couple of steps toward her before apparently changing her mind and retreating. By this time Lady Gossinger had emerged from the church on her nephew Vivian’s arm. It was impossible, with the rain now pelting down, for Flora to get a clear view of her face.
The drive to the cemetery and the walk down the mossy path to the graveside was also mercifully blurred by the steady rain. To the accompaniment of depressed-looking trees rustling in the chilly breeze, the rector imparted to the standard verses, including the one about “ashes to ashes,” a heartiness that again bordered on the jovial.
In a voice that carried on the wind, Miss Sophie Doffit declared the new rector was a vast improvement on Reverend Roberts, who had frightened her into deciding to forgo laying up treasures on earth, in order to have a hope of being admitted to the outskirts of heaven. Where, from the sound of it, she added, the vast majority of people lived in council houses in less than salubrious neighborhoods. Someone coughed. And Vivian held a black umbrella over Flora’s head.
The mourners, who included the witch woman with her mustard-and-black cloak flapping like a live thing, closed into a dark, silent huddle when the coffin was lowered into the grave. Flora found herself worrying that old Miss Doffit would move a little too close and fall in headfirst, thereby putting her knickers on view to all and sundry.
They would be pale pink, Flora decided, trimmed with handmade lace and little ribbons. It was easier for her to think about something like that than to dwell on the fact that the one person in the world whom she loved was gone forever. Suddenly she realized that they hadn’t sung
all
Grandpa’s favorite hymns in the church.
Much to her own surprise, Flora opened her mouth and began singing “God Save the Queen” in the reedy off-key voice that had caused the music teacher at the village school to call her aside one day and suggest (in the kindest possible way) that in future she should just open and close her mouth like a fish.
A boy, the one who hadn’t been particularly brave when the witch offered him a sweet, giggled.
Flora didn’t hear, nor did she notice when first Vivian and then several other straggling voices joined hers, until everyone was singing. She tossed a handful of moist earth onto the coffin and turned to walk quickly—almost at a run—away from everyone including the Gossingers, toward the waiting car.
Sir Henry had made the arrangements for her driver. He was married to Mrs. Warren who worked in the gift-shop-cum-tearoom at Gossinger, and would herself be traveling back to the house with Mrs. Much and Mr. Tipp. Flora wasn’t eager for chitchat, but it seemed unfriendly to sit in state in the back of the car. So she climbed in front with Mr. Warren and gave him a smile that was clouded by the brim of her hat.
“You sit quiet, little lass,” he told her, “I’ll have you home in next to no time.” The words, so kindly spoken, sent a chill through her, because the emptiness waiting for her back at Gossinger Hall was so enormous she was afraid she would get lost in it and never find her way out.
Mr. Warren said he knew a shortcut back to Gossinger Hall. He was a man in his late forties with a scholarly face and a receding hairline. Nothing worried him, his wife had been heard to say on many occasions with exasperation. Perhaps he was having an off day,
but he didn’t strike Flora as a particularly good driver. He hummed hymn tunes as they bounced on and off a few curbs, pruning a few hedges along the way, and almost clipping a bus stop. Flora tried not to clutch the edge of her seat.
After motoring haphazardly along winding country lanes, they wound up in Maidenbury, a middle-size town in the opposite direction from Gossinger. Mr. Warren said—without appearing too embarrassed by the detour—that he was sure he could find another shortcut.
“There’s no rush,” Flora assured him, and thanked God for seat belts as they skidded to a stop at a crossroad, narrowly missing a man cloaked in rain and carrying a bulging briefcase. She was about to roll down her window and inquire if he were all right when, to her amazement, the man opened the car door and climbed, without so much as a by-your-leave, into the backseat.
“Keep looking straight ahead,” he said in a pleasantly modulated voice. “I’ve just been to the local bank and made a rather large withdrawal.”
“That’s very interesting, mate,” replied an unruffled Mr. Warren as Flora brought a hand up to her throat, “but I’m not driving a bus.”
“Public transport just isn’t in the cards today.” The stranger settled himself comfortably. “Not after the grueling time I had conducting my banking transaction, with a gun in one hand and a note saying how much in the other. To make matters worse, the young woman teller wasn’t particularly polite. I’m thinking of writing out a complaint on one of those little evaluation forms. Of course,” the man conceded, “she could just have been having an off day.”
“We all have them,” agreed Mr. Warren, as he attempted to pass a bus and narrowly avoided a collision with an oncoming lorry.
“Ah, well,” said the man in the back, “I’m sure you nice people will understand I feel like pampering myself. Which means, if it’s not too much of an imposition, that I’d like to lean back in this very comfortable seat while you keep this car moving. Anywhere will do. I’m not concerned so long as it is in the opposite direction from Maidenbury. And speedily, if you please, because as you might surmise I am in something of a hurry.”
“You just robbed a bank? And you can’t afford a taxi?” Mr. Warren let loose a laugh, clearly intended at shoring up Flora’s spirits; but she noticed that he put his foot down on the accelerator as instructed.
“Sorry, I don’t have any small change. Nothing under fifty-pound notes.” The man in the back chuckled softly to demonstrate that he too had a sense of humor. He tapped out a merry little tune on the briefcase as they shot forward into the mist.
“But you do have the gun?” Flora suddenly had the oddest feeling that her grandfather, not Mr. Warren, sat next to her. She could hear him saying as clear as day:
“Now you know what’s expected of you, Flora. At all times, in all situations, we represent the Family.”
And she felt her spine stiffen as she said, “Because if you don’t have a gun, Mr. Bank Robber, it would be rather silly for me and Mr. Warren to sit here like a pair of lemons. Wouldn’t it?”
“By Jove, I like your spirit,” said the man.
“Let’s just assume he has a gun, lass,” chimed in Mr. Warren.
“You’re right,” Flora conceded, “because it seems to me he’d have to be the biggest dimwit alive to hitch a ride without a means of protecting himself. For all he knows we could be a couple of homicidal maniacs going on our wicked way after digging graves all afternoon.” She raised her hands, grimy palms up.
“I’ve a feeling his sort doesn’t scare easy,” Mr. Warren whispered as he swerved around a lorry and sent a cyclist pedaling into a shop doorway.
“You’re wrong,” said the bank robber in a weakened voice as they bounced over a couple of potholes. “Your driving has the potential to scare me to death. Forget what I said about speed, old chap. We don’t want some busybody of a policeman hightailing after us.”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” Mr. Warren replied equably; “we turn here,” he gave the steering wheel a mighty spin, “onto a country road that hardly sees any traffic at this time of day.”
“I don’t want to be a pain in the rear, if you will pardon the pun,” said the man in the backseat, “but I do have a tendency to car sickness. It helps if I try not to think about it, so how about telling me a bit about yourselves?”
“You’d find us ever so boring,” Flora assured him.
“Not at all. I’m a people person. One has to be, in my line of work. I offered my gun to the woman standing next to me at the bank, explaining that it would get her to the front of the queue in a hurry, and she repaid my kindness by going into hysterics. But let’s get back to you two.”
“We’re on our way back from a funeral,” Mr. Warren told him.
“Not someone near and dear, I hope?”
“My grandfather.”
“Left all alone in the world, she is,” put in Mr. Warren. “Her mother died when she was tiny and her father,” he cleared his throat, “was also taken away from her at an early age.”
“Poor little orphan! Please accept my condolences.” The man sounded so completely sympathetic that it was easy to forget he was a bank robber.
“Grandpa took a fall.”
“Wasn’t pushed, was he?” Interest added a slight cockney edge to the man’s voice, where before it had
been upper-crust. And the thought flashed through Flora’s mind that he had many voices and probably almost as many faces.
“Of course he wasn’t pushed,” she retorted as the car slammed to a stop and immediately lurched forward again. “It was an accident. Grandpa must have turned dizzy and—”
“Sorry to interrupt your sad story, my dear. But the truth is I’m beginning to feel somewhat dizzy myself. One regrets looking a gift horse in the mouth, but our friend’s driving doesn’t appear to agree with me. So, if it wouldn’t be too much bother, I’d appreciate being put down at the next corner.”
“If you say so, mate.” Mr. Warren managed to sound disappointed as he drew to a bumpy stop. “I don’t suppose,” he added as the rear door opened, “you’re the sort that takes from the rich and gives to the poor.”