Mr. Donnelly took a place close to the priest and held high the lantern. The priest opened a blackbound book, looked round him, and said in a most solemn tone, “Let us begin.” Then, did he commence to read the Latin office for the dead. His voice droned on for many minutes. It is a language that fits ill to the tongue. I comprehended a fair part, though my knowledge of it was and remains meagre. Whole sections of it he seemed to have by heart, for he would raise his eyes from time to time and chant certain passages in a gruff voice made sweet for the occasion. At me he looked when he commended to God the soul of “Maria Maddalena di Angelo,” adding a significant flourish to the name I had given her. There was business with a sort of wand which he produced and used to sprinkle the coffin with water. Then, finally, he gave a nod to the rest of us. Mr. Donnelly set aside his lantern and pointed to the straps beneath the coffin. I grasped the one nearest me, which was held the other side of the grave by the teamster. The priest himself pulled out the supports, and we began slowly lowering the coffin into the deep hole. As we did so, the priest tossed a handful of dirt upon the coffin, and intoned a few more words in Latin. It was only then, as Mariah reached her final resting place, that the tears came. I wiped at them with my coatsleeve, coughed and sniffled, and so brought them under control. The teamster and the gravedigger were winding in the straps, tugging roughly to pull them free.
The priest turned to me. “I regret, Jeremy,” said he, “that she must be laid to rest in such circumstances as these — in the darkness, in this plain field, without a Mass to see her on her way. I assure you, though, that I shall say a Mass for the repose of her soul tomorrow morning, and I shall remember her in my prayers ever after.”
“Thank you. Father.” Mr. Donnelly had coached me in the proper address.
“You’re a good lad. I wish we had you as one of ours.” Then to Mr. Donnelly: “You may leave now. Mr. Dooley and I will take care of all the rest that needs doing.”
And thus dismissed, Mr. Donnelly took me by the arm and we walked back together to the wagon.
So it had been accomplished. Though one more chapter in the story of my relation to Mariah remained to be written, I did not then know that, and I felt at that moment a sense of completion, of duty done, a peace with a kind of emptiness within.
Having left Mr. Donnelly at his door in Tavistock Street, I walked to Bow Street with five guineas jingling in the bag in my pocket. I had not expected there would be any amount left for me, and I urged Mr. Donnelly to take all, or at least part of it, for he had arranged everything. Yet he had declined.
“No, Jeremy,” he had said, “it was my pleasure to aid you in this — and a very great pleasure it was.”
“But what am I to do with such a sum?”
“Why, save it, of course. You may well have need of it in the future.”
It was near ten o’clock when I entered Number 4. Inside I found an unexpected hum of excitement. There were loud voices from far within, perhaps from Sir John’s chambers, and a buzz of talk in lower tones from much closer by. Then, as I advanced, I saw it was Mr. Langford and Mr. Baker who were talking near the strong room. Mr. Baker broke off his talk and came to me. The commotion from Sir John’s chambers continued. Besides Sir John’s voice, there was another — a familiar grumbling basso even deeper than his — and the two were raised together in contention.
“Jeremy, lad,” said he, “you’ll be glad to know that Mr. Langford spied that fellow, Tolliver, leavin’ the coach house. He detained him and brought him here to Sir John.”
Was I glad to hear that? I was not at all sure.
Constable Langford came sauntering over, the very picture of self-satisfaction.
“He gave me a bit of argument, he did — him and that woman with him, said she was his wife,” said he. “But all I needed do was tap my club and tell him he could come quiet or not, it was all the same to me — but he would come. He takes a look at his little lady, who’s saying, ‘Oh dear, what does this mean? What can it be about?’ and such like, and he decides to give me no more trouble. And I was just as glad of it, ‘cause he’s a strong one for fair. He hauled two big portmanteaus here from the coach house with no strain.”
“Did he say where he had been?” I asked.
“Didn’t he, though? Many times over, he did. Said he’d been the whole month in Bristol for to court this woman who’d answered an advert he’d posted there. A right pleasant-lookin’ thing she is, as you might say, though not what you’d call young. She chimes in and says, ‘You would not expect me to marry a man I did not know, would you?’ “
“Well,” said I, “it may be just as they said. Mr. Tolliver is a widower. I have reason to know he desired to marry.”
“And she a widow. Don’t mistake, Jeremy. I’d as soon he cleared himself of any doubts Sir John might have. Many’s the time I’ve bought meat from him, and he seems right enough. But you must admit his sudden departure was right queer. And when Sir John says he wishes to detain a fellow for a bit of a talk, by God, I’ll detain him!”
“I take it that is Mr. Tolliver in there with him now,” said I.
“Oh, you may be sure of it. They been growlin’ at each other right strong. The butcher won’t back down. Says it was his right to go off when and where he liked — had no need to ask permission.”
“They been at it half an hour at least,” said Constable Baker.
“Is his wife in there with him?” I should not have wanted her to hear details of the murder of Elizabeth Tribble and of the brutality that had been inflicted upon her dead body. To hear the man she had just married was suspect in such a crime would surely be more than she could bear.
“No,” said Constable Langford, “and ain’t that strange? When I went upstairs to tell Sir John I’d detained his man for him to question, Lady Fielding come down with him and invited Mrs. Tolliver up for a cup of tea — all friendly like, she was. ‘Call me Kate,’ she says. I tell you, the butcher looked at her right grateful. The two women are up there in the kitchen right now, I reckon.”
“It would probably be best then if I stay here,” I ventured.
“Prob’ly would,” Mr. Baker agreed.
I had not long to wait. As I listened to Mr. Langford’s proud report, the voices from the rear had quietened considerably. While they could still be heard, they seemed no longer to be raised in strife. That I felt to be encouraging.
Eventually the two appeared. Neither spoke to the other as they approached us, and yet they gave the impression that all had been said. There was evidently naught of anger between them, nor for that matter did either of them smile.
“Constable Langford,” said Sir John, “I have just had a frank exchange of views with Mr. Tolliver. I hold him at fault for failing to be available for further questioning and to testify at the inquest into the death of Nell Darby. He holds me at fault for failing to be specific in this and failing to emphasize the importance of this duty I placed upon him. In any case, he produced the letter that brought him to Bristol and read it to me. He has returned a married man, truly, so there can be no doubt of the nature and success of his mission. He has left the letter with me for further study. And so there is no need to detain him further. Therefore I ask you to accompany him and his good wife to their residence in Long Acre. And you might this time give him a hand with his baggage.” Then, turning to Mr. Tolliver: “There. That should satisfy you.”
“It does, completely. You are a gentleman, sir.”
“Of course I am,” said Sir John, a bit snappish. “That is what the ‘Sir’ before my name is meant to denote. Now, who will go up and fetch Mrs. Tolliver?”
“I will. Sir John,” said L
“Oh? Jeremy? You’re back? Good. You should no doubt find her tete-a-tete with Lady Fielding in the kitchen.”
With that, I marched up the stairs, reflecting that all I had got from Mr. Tolliver was a sullen nod of recognition. Surely he could have done better. Pausing at the door, I decided to knock out of respect to Lady Fielding’s guest. I received from the other side the door a cheery invitation to enter.