In the plane he thought he saw her long black hair, encasing her head like a shroud, halfway down the plane. Then, to his joy, there in the open luggage rack above her was the box, clearly marked with the Anova logo and the legend ‘plants – this was up.’ Never had the English language seemed so sweet. He sat heavily in the vacant seat beside her. ‘Thank you!’ he said softly. And slowly she turned her head to acknowledge him.
Trexler’s wife answered the knock at the door.
‘My husband is expecting you, Dr Bloomfield.’
‘Ray, please.’
‘Of course. How silly. I still haven’t got used to having you as a brother-in-law.’
‘Maia managed to keep it from you all that time?’
Sirita blushed. ‘Well, no, of course not. We are too close for that. Actually I’ve known since you brought those plants to us from Chiang Mai.’ She brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his lapel. ‘I can’t think how one of them happened to find its way here, though.’
‘Oh, these things happen. We can’t all be perfect, can we?’ Suddenly Bloomfield looked embarrassed. ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘that was tactless of me. Please forgive me.’
‘No need to be, really. They say the cataract can be removed and that there’s sight behind it. I go in next month – it should be fine.’
‘I’m really glad,’ Bloomfield said. ‘Oh, before I see Martin – if you don’t mind me asking – is everything all right… between you, I mean?’
Sirita smiled ruefully. ‘No, but when it happens I think the separation will be… well… cordial.’
‘Do you think he’ll accept me… as a member of the family, so to speak?
‘It will be a great shock for him.’
‘Yes, true. But not half as much as this.’ Bloomfield withdrew from his coat pocket a large brown envelope and laid it on the hall table. ‘I sent it off two days ago. This copy is for Martin.’
‘What did you decide to call it?’
‘Paphiopedilum bloomfieldii.’
‘It will hurt him.’
‘I know,’ Bloomfield said, making for Trexler’s door.
DUST TO DUST
The Reverend Lucas Parsons smiled to himself as he replaced the Church Times in the rack beside his chair. Curious how the recent spate of thefts had occurred around his own minster town of Bixworth. First it had been lead from the roofs, a crime he had forestalled in his own church by installing CCTV. But that hadn’t prevented the theft of the church plate from the chest in the vestry and candlesticks from the altar, even though the church door was kept permanently shut. He rose from the chair, called to Mrs Webley, his housekeeper, to say that he was going out and ambled across the lane to the graveyard where mourners were already gathering for the interment. Drops of rain struck his starched white cuff, narrowly missing the half-concealed book of common prayer under his arm.
The hearse was already drawn up outside the porch. He could make out in its sombre interior only a single wreath of white carnations on the teak coffin. As he approached, the incongruent simplicity of it made him slow his pace. Here had been a man whose ostentation in life had marked him out as a likely villain, a petty criminal of humble origins with a taste for cars, women and fast living. And that was how Lucas had portrayed him in that last fateful sermon; not naming him, of course, but indirectly denouncing the evils that had descended upon the village that everyone believed had only one origin. Looking back, might he have been a bit hasty in assuming that Harvey Crib’s lifestyle had been funded by crime? Hinting, even, that the theft of the church plate – upon no evidence whatsoever, as one parishioner had pointed out – could be laid at this man’s door? It came as a not unpleasant surprise to be told that, with Harvey’s suicide, the police files had been effectively closed.
But Lucas was not one to dwell on such matters. Whatever the weather he enjoyed these outdoor services: the mown grass between graves in the shadow of the great yew, the dashes of colour that flecked the graveyard after recent inhumations. Especially, he savoured the rich loam walls of freshly dug graves – and an order of service more in harmony with these outside elements than with the sullen interior of his somewhat dilapidated church.
Besides the bearers there were precisely seven people, stiff and erect, peering into the void. They included the deceased’s nephew, Tony Crib, and his wife Samantha, whom he knew as neighbours. The rest he assumed were relatives; it seemed unlikely that the surly Harvey had had any real friends, and his business acquaintances would have thought it in their best interests to stay away. But one never could tell.
Lucas was soon in full flight, revelling in the drama of the words. ‘Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay…’
Accustomed to fixing his gaze on the church tower at such times it took several seconds before he realised the gathering had been joined by a young man shabbily dressed in black who looked about him nervously before bowing his head. Unaccustomed to being interrupted Lucas ignored him and continued, ‘…in the midst of life we are in death: of whom may we seek for succour, but of thee, O Lord, who for our sins art justly displeased…’ He could see the mourners’ sidelong glances, but the flow could not be interrupted, not now. ‘…yet, O Lord God most holy, O Lord most mighty, O holy and most merciful Saviour, deliver us not into the bitter pains of eternal…’
‘Reverend,’ the intruder whispered.
‘…eternal death. Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts; shut not thy merciful…’
‘Reverend!’
‘…merciful ears to our prayers; but spare us…’ Suddenly his resolve was broken. ‘What?’
‘I need to speak with you.’
‘Can’t you see I’m burying someone?’
‘That’s just it, Reverend.’
‘Just what?’
‘You’re not.’
Lucas beamed at the mourners and soldiered on. ‘…spare us, Lord most holy, O God most mighty…’ Then he gave up. ‘Friends, I think my colleague has a special message of condolence that must precede the casting of the earth. Pray bear with us for just one moment.’
‘Who are you?’ he hissed. ‘What do you want?’
‘Palin, Sir, from the undertakers. There’s been a… em… mix-up.’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘He’s not in there.’
Sensing something was amiss Tony Crib shuffled up to them. ‘Something up, Reverend?’
‘A small technicality, Anthony. Sorted in a moment.’
Palin was now becoming agitated. ‘Didn’t you hear what I said? I said that’s not him in there.’
‘Where is he then – soaring over the treetops?’
‘Boring his way downwards, more like,’ Tony said.
Tony Crib grasped Palin’s lapels. ‘Look, you. My uncle’s waited a lifetime for this – but not half as much as we have – and you’re not going to spoil it.’ A look of enlightenment crossed his face. ‘Hey! Penny’s just dropped. Local uni. It’s rag day, isn’t it?’ To Palin he said, ‘You’re a bloody student aren’t you?’
‘Do I look…’
‘Admit you’ve been rumbled. Good try but now you can just bugger off. Empty handed.’
‘Alright,’ Palin said. ‘I tried to tell you but you wouldn’t listen. On your own heads be it. I’m off.’
‘Well spotted Anthony,’ Lucas said. He turned to one of the bearers. ‘You know that man?’
‘Seen him about. Trainee I think.’
Samantha, who had been listening intently, came across to them. ‘Well, we’re not burying anything until we’re sure it’s Uncle Harvey.’