The Welfare of the Dead (26 page)

‘Of course,' replies Siddons, in a soothing undertone. ‘Come, we shall be late for the service.'

‘No. It makes no sense, don't you see? Why should this happen now?'

Siddons sighs. ‘My dear fellow, what do you want of me? Your wife and her pretty young cousin will be waiting.'

‘Who have you spoken to?' says Woodrow, persisting, his voice now rather desperate and frantic. ‘You must have told someone. That is the only explanation.'

‘I have spoken to precisely no-one. However, if you carry on in this manner, well, I fear you will give everything away, without my assistance.'

‘And we are in this together?'

‘Of course.'

‘Very well,' says Woodrow, taking a deep breath, ‘listen to me. At least postpone this month's payment. I swear, on my mother's life, the business cannot bear it. Nor can I.'

Siddons frowns. ‘Must we return to this?'

‘A month's grace is all I ask,' says Woodrow.

‘One might say I have done you enough favours.'

‘I will pay it back, with interest.'

Siddons sighs. ‘Oh, very well. You know, Woodrow, you do not look quite well. I thought as much last time we met.'

Woodrow looks away. ‘There are other . . . delicate matters.'

‘Really? What?'

Woodrow shakes his head.

‘You will not tell your oldest friend?'

Woodrow snorts in derision. ‘Friend?'

‘Truly,' says the undertaker, looking at him quizzically. ‘What is it? What is troubling you?'

Woodrow looks him in the eye. ‘I would not tell you if my very life depended upon it.'

S
T
. M
ARK'S CHURCH
in Myddleton Square is a rather imposing Gothic affair, set like an island in the square's very centre, flanked on all sides by tall four-storey Islington terraces. Indeed, the ornate tracery of its windows and high, pinnacled bell-tower are rather incongruous amidst the plain Georgian houses that surround it and there is almost something of the panopticon in its peculiar central location. Nonetheless, it is a popular location for Sunday worship amongst the residents of the parish, and, at the end of the service, it takes some time for the Woodrow family, accompanied by Joshua Siddons, to make their way to their waiting carriage.

‘Did you enjoy the sermon, Mr. Siddons?' asks Mrs. Woodrow, as they reach the vehicle.

‘Not bad, ma'am. In truth, I prefer a little stronger meat.'

‘I've never heard a fellow sound so wet,' adds Jasper Woodrow. ‘Wouldn't know the Lamb of God from his Sunday lunch.'

‘Woodrow! He will hear you. The poor man merely has a lisp.'

‘If you say so, my dear.'

‘In any case, I must be going, ma'am,' adds Siddons. ‘A pleasure, as always.'

‘You must come for dinner,' replies Mrs. Woodrow, ‘I will write an invitation tonight, I promise you.'

‘I would be honoured, ma'am. A great pleasure to meet you too, Miss Krout,' continues the undertaker, taking Annabel's hand and pressing it between his palms. ‘A great pleasure indeed.'

Annabel responds politely in kind and it is not long before Mr. Siddons strolls off across the square. Jasper Woodrow, in turn, motions his family inside the coach.

‘Come on, Lucinda,' says Woodrow, hurrying his daughter along.

The little girl clambers inside the coach, ignoring her father's proffered hand.

‘Where are we going?' asks Mrs. Woodrow, as the driver shuts the carriage door. ‘Not another surprise?'

‘Thought we might have a stroll round Abney Park, my dear, that's all, as the weather has improved.'

‘I don't think I've heard of that one,' says Annabel. ‘Is it similar to The Regent's Park?'

‘What an idea!' exclaims Mrs. Woodrow. ‘No, it is a little more appropriate for a Sunday. It is a cemetery; a very fine one.'

‘Ah, I see. Do you go there often?'

‘More so in the summer, dear. Woodrow, you don't suppose it is a little cold for Lucinda?'

‘Are you cold, child?' asks Mr. Woodrow.

The little girl shakes her head.

‘There, she is quite all right. Besides, a chap must keep a professional interest, eh? One likes to see what the prettiest widows are wearing. Where they go, the others follow.'

Mrs. Woodrow smiles. ‘My wag of a husband is joking, Annabel. As always, I counsel you to ignore him.'

Mr. Woodrow bows his head in mock penitence.

The journey to Stoke Newington takes little more than twenty minutes. Annabel observes the public buildings and theatres of Islington disappear, replaced by the white stucco of suburban terraces, interrupted only by the occasional church or chapel. At length, the Woodrows' carriage turns down Stoke Newington Church Street, a narrow road, whose houses largely eschew the organised dimensions of the architect's pattern book. Instead they seem an idiosyncratic mix of old cottages, ivy-clad red-brick mansions and quaint villas, made to proportions entirely in accordance to their owners' whim. Finally, the vehicle draws to a stop by an iron-work gate and railinged wall.

‘Here we are,' announces Mr. Woodrow.

‘Did you not prefer the main entrance, my dear?'

‘I think Miss Krout will find this gives a better view of the chapel.'

Melissa Woodrow agrees. Once they are settled upon the pavement Annabel notices a man sitting just inside the gates, upon the grass, by a solitary white tomb-stone, sheets of paper in his hand. Dressed in a cheap checked jacket, he gets up as they approach, doffing his rather battered-looking hat.

‘Plan of the park, sir? Shows all the walks and famous personages. All the best tombs. Just a penny? How about you, ma'am?'

‘No thank you,' says Jasper Woodrow, shepherding his group along, ‘I know the way.'

‘Really,' says Mrs. Woodrow, ‘as if we needed such a thing.'

Abney Park is a popular destination upon a Sunday. Small groups, men, women and children, clad mostly in black, move quietly along the gravel paths, admiring the manicured lawns, the multiplicity of carefully
arranged shrubs, noting the embossed cards testifying to each plant's Latin name, placed for the education of the passer-by. Others stop to read the inscriptions upon tomb-stones, memorials testifying to affectionate husbands and indulgent fathers.

Annabel Krout walks slowly with the Woodrows along the central path. The park itself is laid out around its ancient trees: a circular walk around a great cedar of Lebanon, graves radiating outwards; an avenue between twin rows of yews. But the focus is the chapel in the very heart of the cemetery; its steeple a lofty Gothic needle atop twin turrets, the stained glass of its rose window shining deep red and purple in the fleeting winter sunlight.

‘Don't you think it a beautiful location, my dear?' asks Mrs. Woodrow. ‘So very peaceful. Much nicer in the spring, of course.'

‘It's not,' says Lucinda Woodrow.

‘It is a very pretty park, though, Lucy,' says Annabel.

The little girl shrugs. ‘Apart from all the stones,' she says at last.

‘Lucy, my dear, look at this,' says Mrs. Woodrow with a sigh, gesturing to the tall pillar by her side, topped with a draped urn. ‘“If thou should'st call me to resign what most I prize; it ne'er was mine; I only yield thee what was thine; thy will be done.” What do you think that means?'

If Lucy Woodrow is about to answer, she is interrupted by an exclamation from her mother.

‘Why, look who it is!'

Annabel Krout follows Mrs. Woodrow's glance to see the approaching form of a familiar figure, Richard Langley.

‘Sir. Ma'am. Miss Krout,' says Langley, as he draws near, doffing his hat.

‘Why Mr. Langley,' says Mrs. Woodrow, ‘what a coincidence! Whatever brings you here?'

‘My parents are at rest here, ma'am, just along the way. They passed away last year. I make a point of visiting them once a month or so.'

‘Oh, I am so sorry to hear of your loss, sir,' says Mrs. Woodrow.

‘Thank you,' replies Langley. ‘Ah, perhaps you might care to see the plot? I am just on my way. There is a fine monument.'

‘In truth, sir,' says Mrs. Woodrow, hurriedly, ‘I confess I suddenly feel a little faint. Woodrow – there is a bench by the Watts Memorial, is there not? Could we sit down there for a moment? Mr. Langley, forgive me. But I am sure Annabel would be delighted, though, would you not, my dear?'

Annabel Krout smiles a little nervously. ‘Why, I suppose so.'

‘Very well,' says Langley. ‘If you do not object, sir?'

‘No, of course not,' replies Jasper Woodrow.

‘Shall we come back to the Memorial?'

‘Yes, we will wait there,' says Mrs. Woodrow, her voice sounding almost confidential, as if conspiring in a secret assignation.

Langley nods and, with a few pleasantries, leads Annabel along the path. Jasper Woodrow waits until they are both out of earshot before he addresses his wife.'

‘Melissa, are you quite all right?'

‘Woodrow, must you be quite so dense? That young man is smitten with Annabel, I swear it. I told you that we saw him at the park?'

‘Yes, indeed.'

‘Well, do you think this is a coincidence? He is positively pursuing her. These “chance” encounters!'

‘I hardly think it right the fellow should be following us about,' says Woodrow.

‘You were much the same with me, I recall, my dear.'

‘That was different. I am sure your dear cousin has no need of a match-maker.'

Melissa Woodrow looks coquettishly at her husband. ‘If you say so. Oh, Lucinda – please don't wander off.'

Lucinda Woodrow, in truth, seems stubbornly inert and not at all inclined to do anything of the sort. She returns to her mother's side without complaint, and the family then walk in silence, until they approach the Watts Memorial, where the famous hymn-writer stands immortalised in stone.

‘You know,' says Mrs. Woodrow, ‘when Mr. Langley returns, I shall invite him to dinner tomorrow night.'

‘Must you?' asks Woodrow, rather distractedly.

‘Of course! Woodrow, you must put some faith—'

‘My dear, forgive me, but I won't be a moment. A call of nature.'

Melissa Woodrow sighs, as her husband hurries off in the direction of the chapel.

‘Whatever shall we do with your father, my dear?' Lucinda does not reply.

Jasper Woodrow glances over his shoulder, then walks as quickly as he can, past the chapel, towards the rear wall of Abney Park.

He is not surprised to find that the small section of ground he is looking for is unattended by mourners and quite deserted by those engaged upon a casual perambulation of the park's avenues. Indeed, as he draws closer, the monuments become less grand; the
monoliths, angels and urns give way to merely a collection of wooden crosses. And in one plot the earth around is freshly turned, a series of wooden boards placed neatly across the grave of one Jeremy Sayers Munday.