Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [62]
“Good morning, Mistress March. If I can be of any service to you, or offer you any comfort—”
“I doubt it, young man,” she said tersely, “except to keep my granddaughter sufficiently occupied in good works that she doesn’t run off and marry unsuitably, and end up getting murdered for her money!”
“That would be rather pointless,” Tassie murmured. “You wouldn’t leave me any if I did that.”
“If anyone murdered you it would be for your tongue!” the old lady snapped at her. “Kindly remember you are in church, and don’t be flippant.”
“Good morning, Miss March.” The curate bowed his head.
“Good morning, Mr. Hare,” Tassie said demurely. “Thank you for your concern. I expect Grandmama would be grateful if you called upon her.”
“I’d rather have Mr. Beamish,” the old lady interrupted. “He’s a good deal nearer to death than you are. He understands bereavement, loss, seeing one’s own blood caught up in unholy passions, to fall victim to its rages, and pay its price.”
The curate gasped, and turned it into a sneeze.
“Indeed?” Vespasia said from the row in front, without turning her head. “If that is so then you know a great deal about Beamish that I do not.”
Tassie was making a curious little gurgling noise into her handkerchief, and the curate moved on to speak to William and Sybilla. Charlotte dared not twist around to observe.
The service was somber and intoned in the curious singsong voice of formalized grief. At moments, though, there was something vaguely comforting about it, perhaps no more than an expression of darker emotions that had been suppressed till now. This was an acknowledgment of what was unspeakable in the house; here was death and its physical corruption given name, instead of closed into the mind and forbidden the tongue, but always waiting just beyond, behind the spoken word. Even the organ notes shivered through the ear and held an eternal quality, so that one could hear them long into the next note. They seemed to come from the whole fabric of the church and the away into it again. The stonework and the jewel windows and the pipes were all one with the sound.
Emily stood straight and silent, and under her veil it was impossible to see her face. Charlotte could only guess her feelings. Between them Edward was stiff and upright, but he pressed very close to Emily and his free hand was clenched hard.
The last organ notes faded into the high arches of stone, and they turned slowly to face the worst. Six men in black, all expression wiped from their faces, lifted the coffin and walked in step, carrying it sedately out into the hard sunlight. Two by two the congregation followed, led by Emily and Edward.
The grave was a neat-edged hole in the damp earth. The Ashworths had never cared for a family crypt or mausoleum, preferring to spend their money on the living, but of course there would be a marble headstone, perhaps carved and gilded in time. Now all that seemed irrelevant, even vulgar.
Beamish, still pink-faced, his thick white hair ruffled by the wind till it looked like a pie frill round his head, was beginning to recite the familiar words. He was happy with these because they gave him no option, no room to have to invent his own, but still he avoided Emily. He glanced once at Aunt Vespasia and tried to smile, but she looked so drained and frail it died on his lips. He continued waveringly, his mind fogged with dawning suspicion.
Charlotte looked round at the faces. One of them here had killed George. Had it been a moment of passion, perhaps now turned to terror or remorse? Or did whoever it was feel justified, perhaps released from some danger? Or was the murderer grasping at a reward?
The most obvious suspect was Jack Radley. Could he have imagined Emily would ... what? Marry him? Surely that was the only answer. If he were capable of thinking she would accept him at all, then merely to be her lover would hardly merit killing George. If Emily were a widow she would almost certainly be a rich one,