Deadlight-Hall(49)

Later, ashes had been scraped out of the now-cold, now-quiescent furnace so that a funeral service could be held and decent burial be given. There was some kind of official enquiry, and Leo had to explain to a policeman what had happened. He tried to do this as clearly as he could. Mr Hurst had stumbled, he said, and fallen into the furnace. No, he did not know how the furnace came to be alight. No, he had not touched anything – of course he had not. Asked why he had been there in the first place, he said he had been exploring; he remembered being there when he had meningitis as a small child, and he was curious to see the place again. He did not say anything about seeing Sophie and Susannah, because he was no longer sure if he had seen them, and he did not say anything about the figure who had called for the children.

The policeman said he had done very well, and he was not to worry. He would not have to attend the enquiry or the inquest.

People in the small farming community were shocked and horrified at Simeon Hurst’s terrible death, although several hardier souls asked if it was true that it had not been possible to distinguish the contents of the furnace from his remains, so that the funeral might be read over nothing more than, well, over bits of clinker?

The verger said that this was unfortunately true, but the vicar was going to hold the service anyway, and they must just trust in God that they would be chanting the Twenty-Third Psalm and praying for the resurrection of life over some remaining bits of Simeon Hurst at the very least, and not over pieces of anthracite. As for those attending the wake at Willow Bank Farm afterwards, the vicar had said they were please to remember not to refer to funeral bak’d meats under any circumstances whatsoever.

Several ladies from the neighbourhood came to the farmhouse on the morning of the funeral to cut sandwiches and make tea and coffee, because Miss Hurst, poor soul, could not be expected to cope. Leo could perhaps help with handing round the sandwiches, could he? When Leo said he could, the ladies were pleased and told one another what a very nicely behaved boy he was, and how well repaid Simeon and poor Mildred had been for taking him into their home.

Mildred Hurst lay on her bed and sobbed for two days, after which she got up, put on a black frock of ancient cloth and forgotten style, netted her hair, and presided ferociously over the sandwich-cutting party. The sandwiches were egg and cress, cheese and chutney, and shrimp and anchovy paste. Leo heard one of the ladies say that ham was the usual offering, but that nobody had had the heart – or the stomach – to bake a ham.

During the sandwich-cutting Miss Hurst was given several glasses of elderflower wine by one well-meaning lady, and several glasses of brandy by another, neither of whom realized what the other had done, both of whom thought it would help the poor soul to pluck up a bit. After the second round of brandy, Miss Hurst said that she was perfectly all right, and Simeon would not have wanted a lot of wailing and beating of breasts. Everything must be devout and respectful, and please would people cut that bread thinner for the sandwiches otherwise it would not go round and she was not made of money.

Leo sat next to her during the service, and hoped nobody noticed that she took frequent and furtive sips from a small silver flask. Before the congregation went out to the graveside, she sprayed the front of her fur tippet with a scent bottle labelled Attar of Roses. It smelled peculiar, but it helped cover up the brandy fumes.

During the wake at the farmhouse, Leo heard the vicar’s sister say that Deadlight Hall had been shut up and a fence put round it. ‘Downright dangerous,’ she said, disapprovingly, and the lady to whom she was speaking said, in a low voice, that it was not the first time there had been a dreadful tragedy there.

‘I suppose they’ll try to sell it,’ said her listener.

‘Oh, they’ll try,’ said the vicar’s sister. ‘But I shouldn’t think they’ll succeed. Nobody will want it.’





THIRTEEN


Life changed after Simeon’s death. The farm began to fail, not all in one tumble, but little by little. Things that wore out were not replaced. Livestock dwindled. Crops did not have just one bad year, which most farmers expected, but several in a row.

Miss Hurst employed a manager, but the place became less and less prosperous. She herself did not change very much with the years; she continued to have her elderflower wine – ‘Just a little nip for comfort,’ she said – and the vicar continued to call regularly. Miss Hurst was always pleased to see him – a very kind gentleman, she said, entirely trustworthy, and most helpful over financial affairs. She did not understand these things, and Simeon had always handled such matters. If she had to go to the bank or the solicitor’s offices, the vicar always accompanied her, and his sister went along as well, because dear Cuthbert was an unworldly soul, and must be guarded against hussies such as Mildred Hurst. So they had gone all together in the vicar’s little rattletrap car, Miss Hurst in the back, her feet primly together, the vicar’s sister seated in the front so that Miss Hurst could not throw out any lures.