The Price of Murder by Bruce Alexander Page B

might toss a handful of dirt upon the coffin, but the offer was declined. At another signal, the two pallbearers picked up the ropes with which the coffin would be lowered into the open grave. Yet there was something still to be done. The vicar seemed to be looking at me and pointing down. At first, I had no notion of what he wished from me, yet a bit of gesturing made it all clear: I was to pull out the cross bars that supported the coffin. I scrambled to it, and as the pallbearers supported the box with the ropes, I whisked the wooden bars out from under it. And then slowly, little by little, it disappeared down into the darkness of the earth. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . .”
    Oddly, Mr. Deuteronomy seemed to regain his composure immediately after the graveside service. He went straight to the vicar and, after blowing his nose loudly into a silk kerchief and dabbing at his eyes to dry the tears, he pulled from his coat pocket a purse filled with coins and opened negotiations with the clergyman.
    And, for my part, I sought out Walter Hogg that I might discover how he came to participate in these proceedings. As it happened, he was on the far side of the grave, working free one of the ropes on which the coffin had rested. He wound it swiftly and expertly round his arm. He seemed eager to be away. Clarissa followed me out of curiosity and listened in.
    “May I have a word with you, Mr. Hogg?”
    “Well, I haven’t much time now, have I? Must be on to another funeral,” said he.
    “Have you something to do with the church here?”
    “Naw, naw, ’tain’t like that at all.”
    “But you’re not a friend of Mr. Plummer, are you? I seem to recall from our conversation that you . . .”
    “No, I told you I never had sand enough to walk up to him and meet myself up to him. Arthur and me”—he nodded at his companion—“we work for the embalmer. Learning the secrets of the trade, as you might say.”
    “Surely not as an apprentice? You’re a good deal too old for that.”
    “No, we just works for him. That’s all. Part of workin’ for him is we fill in as pallbearers when it’s necessary, as so it was today.”
    “Well, all right,” said I, “but wouldn’t you like to meet Deuteronomy Plummer? I’d be happy to introduce you.”
    “No time for that. Like I say, another funeral.”
    With that, he turned his back on me and, having concluded his winding of the rope, he called quietly to his companion: “Arthur, you ready, are you?”
    Arthur nodded, shouldered his coil of rope, and shuffled about, indicating his readiness to depart. Walter Hogg turned back to me.
    “Now, if I understood a-right,” said he, “that little girl in the coffin, she was some relation to Mr. Deuteronomy, ain’t that so?”
    “That’s so,” said I.
    “Well, I wonder, will he be riding at Newmarket this Sunday? It’s a King’s Plate race—all the best from all the counties will be there. Didn’t mention anything about that to you, did he?”
    “Not a thing.”
    “Just as I feared. Well, I’ll go there and take me chances. Goodbye to you, young sir”—with a nod to Clarissa—“and to you, young lady.”
    Then did he leave with Arthur in tow. The two men headed for the gate that led to Bedford Street. Their wagon was there in the alley, no doubt, and indeed, I vaguely recalled an embalmer’s shop in King Street, if I were not mistaken. But it was not the sort of thing that would stay in your head, was it?
    “What was that all about?” Clarissa whispered.
    “I’m not sure,” said I quite honestly. “Just someone popping up where he wasn’t expected. Probably just a coincidence.”
    “Writers of romances know there is no such thing as ‘just a coincidence,’” said she smugly. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t like the looks of the fellow at all.”
    “I’ll tell you all that I know about him later on.”
    “See that you do.”
    Having come at last to a figure that suited them both, Mr.