Fallen Grace - Mary Hooper [71]
Immediately she went from the workroom and hurried down the stone steps leading to the cool chamber which that day contained the gentlemanly corpses of Mr Truscot-Divine and Mr Mayhew, both due to be buried at Brookwood the following day. They were quite ready for their ceremonials, lying in their coffins in their best suits, their arms neatly folded across their chests. The lids rested loosely on the coffins, for these wouldn’t be nailed down until just before their interment. Grace knew this was to guard against them being buried prematurely (and, of course, to allow Mr Unwin the opportunity to relieve the corpses of any valuable objects).
It was fiercely cold in the room. One candle burned in a tin holder, and this flickered and guttered in the damp, creating shuddering shadows and a dark, morbid atmosphere. It did not deter Grace, however, and she picked the nearest coffin, which happened to be that of Mr Truscot-Divine, moved the lid and slipped the certificate inside and under his mattress. As she did so she could not help but be reminded of the other time she’d done such a thing: the sad addition that she had, some six months earlier, made to that other coffin in that other place. How strange that that moment was so inextricably bound up with this . . .
But it was no time for reminiscence, and, lifting her skirts, she quickly ran back up the stairs to the workroom. She could hear noise and confusion in the red room – the voices of both Unwin cousins and Rose, crying and protesting – and decided it might be wise to go and speak to Mrs Unwin and thus obtain some sort of alibi. She found this lady in one of the workrooms with Jane and two other girls, fashioning wax flowers into wreaths.
Grace dipped a curtsey. Over the last few days she’d found it extremely difficult to hide her hatred of the Unwin family and remain polite and deferential towards them, and now – in view of what she’d discovered about Sylvester Unwin – it was a struggle to sound normal.
‘I’ve almost finished the bay wreath, madam, and didn’t know whether to make a start on the pillow embroidery next,’ she said, holding up the new piece of work she’d taken from the basket. ‘Or perhaps you want me to begin something else?’
Mrs Unwin smiled falsely at Grace, employing a lot of teeth and gum, for she, too, was trying to act normally and as if not engaged in a mighty subterfuge. ‘Do take whatever piece you want to from the work basket, Grace,’ she said. ‘How did you manage with the bay wreath?’
‘Quite well, madam,’ Grace said meekly. ‘Would you like to see what I’ve done?’
‘Indeed. You sew so very nicely – some of the girls would do well to try and emulate you.’
‘Thank you, madam,’ Grace said while the other girls stared at her resentfully. ‘I’ll bring it for you to see.’
The tiny embroidered bay wreath was brought in, examined and shown to the other girls – then suddenly thrust back into Grace’s care when a distracted George Unwin flung open the door.
‘It’s gone!’ he shouted to his wife.
Mrs Unwin turned to stare at him. ‘What has?’
‘The document! What d’you think?’
‘But I saw it myself not half an hour ago. How could it have gone?’
‘Never mind if it could, it has!’
Mrs Unwin suddenly remembered where they were, and that discretion was their byword. ‘Not in front of the girls, in particular –’ She stopped herself. ‘Let us go to the red room.’
Mr Unwin left and Mrs Unwin followed him, silent and dismayed. Lately, she’d been unable to think of anything except the coming inheritance, which (she’d decided) would finance her retirement to a seaside villa. She’d had enough of the funeral trade, of pretending concern, of giving sympathy when she didn’t feel any, of feigning interest in the vexing question of