“He was right,” Mr. Donnelly had said to me, “for when I told her I could give her no more, she refused even to speak to me.”
“I cannot say it was different with Mariah,” said I then. “But to see a life wasted, then taken even before there be hope of change — where is the justice in that?”
“Life is not just, Jeremy. It is simply a space of time that is given us. We do with it what we can.”
“Even so,” said I, “I should like to do something for her.”
That something I wished to do I left unstated, though I had formed a plan in my mind which was contingent upon the receipt of the reward I had been promised. Now that I had been given it by Sir John, I hoped that indeed it might be accomplished.
Mr. Donnelly did in fact arrive not long after Sir John’s visit. And. after a cursory examination — nothing so thorough as he had given me the day before — he pronounced me “coming along nicely.”
“May I leave my bed and walk about? I should like to dress and eat dinner with the rest.”
“That perhaps, but no more for today.”
There was silence between us. Then did I pick up the bag of guineas and give it a jingle.
“I have received my reward,” said I, “ten guineas in all.”
“Would that it had been more,” said he. “Would that there were not another murderer to be caught.”
“Mr. Donnelly, I should like you to take this money and arrange for Mariah to be buried properly.”
“Are you sure you want to do this, Jeremy?”
“I am sure. Will it be sufficient?”
“Oh yes, if — There are some difficulties.”
I had foreseen that. “She is from Italy and would be of the Roman faith?”
“Yes, there’s that, but there are priests here in Lx)ndon. They have no church and are here more or less in disguise, you might say.”
“There is no burial ground?”
“There is a field up above Clerkenwell whose purpose is kept in strict secret. There are no markers and no monuments, but it is hallowed ground.”
“What, then, are the difficulties?”
“Well, first of all, she would have to be buried at night, unseen, and without much in the way of ceremony.”
“Yes, but in a coffin and put where she would wish to be laid to rest.”
“There is, however, the priest to be persuaded. I know none of them here, yet back in Dublin I would say one would have difficulty convincing a priest that a woman of her profession should be buried alongside those who had had a fair chance of dying in a state of grace.”
All that was somewhat beyond me, yet I caught the sense of it. “Perhaps,” I said, “if you were to say that her last act was to refuse one who would have her — might that not make a difference? Perhaps show she was on her way to bettering herself?”
“Oh, it might. Jeremy, I’ll see what can be done. More than that I cannot promise.”
Thus it came about that next evening I was in the back of an open wagon riding on my way to Clerkenwell. Mr. Donnelly had taken care of everything — rented the wagon and the team from a livery stable, hired an Irish teamster, and found a priest who would officiate at the burial. He had even engaged a woman to come into his surgery and wash and dress Mariah’s body in a suitable way for interment. At my request, no rouge or paint was used upon her face. I was granted one last look before the coffin was shut. She looked quite as she had that first time I had seen her as a young acrobat in Covent Garden when she had smiled at me and kissed my shilling so prettily. So it was she would be buried. Bending down, I kissed her on the forehead, yet I had no tears as the lid was fitted over the simple oblong box and nailed down by the teamster. Then did he and Mr. Donnelly carry the coffin downstairs. It was of no great weight. The teamster claimed he could have managed it on his own.
The two of them sat upon the wagon box, and I, meaning no insult certainly, upon the coffin. I was dressed in my best and wore that bottle-green coat which she so admired. All that marred my appearance was the bandage wrapped round my head. I had thought my hat might cover it, yet it did not. I had expected questions when Mr. Donnelly called for me at nightfall, and I appeared as if dressed for a ball. But neither my appearance nor my unstated destination were remarked upon by any in the household. I strongly suspected that Mr. Donnelly had acquainted them with the purpose of our mysterious trip. In any case, all I received from Sir John and Lady Fielding, and even from Annie, were sympathetic looks and courteous wishes for a good evening. It was better so. I had no wish either to make explanations or evade them.
The teamster knew the way. He had been recommended to Mr. Donnelly by the priest as one who had made the trip many times before and could be trusted to keep the location of the cemetery secret. Through the thin evening traffic, he moved the horses swiftly at a light trot. Yet even so, we went a considerable distance. On St. John’s Street, we passed through Clerkenwell and soon found ourselves alone on IsHngton Road, passing through open fields. Here there could be highwaymen out on the scamp, looking to rob us of whatever was left in that leather bag of guineas in Mr. Donnelly’s pocket. Yet before we met any such challenge, the driver slowed the team and turned it to the left to take us down a country road like unto any one of a dozen I had seen us pass along the way by bright moonlight. How he could have told this one from the others was quite beyond me.
He had nevertheless chosen rightly. That became evident when, in the near distance, I spied the light from a lantern held still, then swung slowly in a signal of welcome. When we arrived, there was an open gate and a burly fellow in his shirtsleeves in the cool night air holding high the lantern. He, I supposed, was the gravedigger. Without a word, he went before the team of horses and led the way down a track towards another light not so very far away. When we were close, I spied the figure of a man standing by a considerable heap of dirt and an open hole.
At a gesture from the gravedigger, the driver reined in. He and Mr. Donnelly climbed down, and I hopped over the side. As the other two pulled the tailgate down and pulled out the coffin, Mr. Donnelly took me aside.
“Jeremy,” said he, “there was something I forgot to mention to you. She should be given a family name for purposes of the service. I know you said you had no idea of it, but perhaps you could think of something appropriate?”
I had thought one might be needed and was ready with it.
“Perhaps ‘Angelo’ would do,” said I. Even I knew a bit of Italian.
He smiled. “That should do very well.”
And so we set out, the four of us, for the grave which was only yards distant — Mr. Donnelly bearing the lantern and lighting the path; the teamster and the gravedigger carrying the coffin, and I, the solitary mourner, bringing up the rear.
The priest was dressed in the way that a common laborer might be. A young man, not much over thirty, he looked big and strapping as one of Sir John’s constables — yet he had the face of a scholar and wore a gentle expression. Mr. Donnelly went forward to him, and they talked in low tones. The coffin was brought to the graveside and placed on the supports above the hideous hole. I held back, not knowing what part I was to play in all this. So I remained for a minute or two until Mr. Donnelly beckoned me to him. The priest had asked to meet me.
“Father,” said Mr. Donnelly to the priest, “this is Jeremy Proctor. He is responsible for this. I’ve simply implemented his wishes.”
“Well, it’s a very decent thing you’re doing, Jeremy.” He offered me his hand, which was rough with calluses, and I took it, removing my hat with my other hand.
The priest continued: “We’ll just bury the poor girl, and let him who is without sin cast the first stone. That’s as Our Lord would have it.” He, too, was Irish by the sound of him.