“Please, ma’am, sit by the fire, it’ll warm you up nicely and you’ll be dry in no time,” he said, directing me to a chintz-covered armchair nearest the hearth. The room was small, and oversupplied with chairs.
Pouring us cups of tea—he had just brewed a fresh pot, he would not take no for an answer—he continued to express his regrets about the weather and assured us we were welcome to stay as long as we liked.
Jesperson managed to insert a question into our host’s hospitable flow: “I assume you are the caretaker—or should we call you the guard?”
“Why, bless you, sir, I am both of those, and more: caretaker, watchman, guard, head gardener, gravedigger, spare mourner, and guide, should a guide be needed,” he said proudly. “Eric Bailey at your service. If you want to know anything about Park Grove Cemetery—past, present, or future—I’m the man to ask. Or perhaps you’d like to take away one of our informative brochures, to read at your leisure?”
“Thank you—most kind—” murmured Jesperson, putting out his hand for the little booklet but distracted by something on the wall.
Following his gaze, I saw a system of bells with numbers and letters beneath each one, reminiscent of something I had seen in large houses for summoning servants, although I could not think how that would serve in a graveyard.
“If you was thinking to purchase a plot, I’m happy to answer your questions, but I don’t handle that side of the business, so I’d have to refer you to—”
“No, no,” said Jesperson. “We are here on behalf of a young lady who, while paying a visit to one of the graves—Rather than go into the whole story, let me simply say that she lost an item and believes that a man she encountered may be of help.”
Mr. Bailey did not look entirely convinced by this flimsy concoction, and I wished we had spent more effort in creating a plausible excuse for our questions. “An hitem? What sort of an hitem? If anything was lost here, I’d be the one to find it, you may be certain. I go over the grounds every—”
“We’d like to speak to this gentleman,” Jesperson said, abandoning his story and opening the drawing book. “Do you recognize him?”
It was immediately clear that Mr. Bailey did. “Why, I should say I do! Although I don’t suppose Mr. Smurl would be gratified by the likeness—quite sinister, he looks there, and I’m sure I’ve never seen him with such an expression in life!” Then he frowned and looked at us suspiciously. “ ’Ere! Your friend wasn’t meaning to imply Mr. Smurl might have taken her ‘hitem’?”
“Certainly not,” Jesperson said quickly. “I hope you did not mistake me—I meant to cast no aspersions—but if we could find him … she would be most grateful, and we, on her behalf …”
Unexpectedly, the caretaker chuckled. His suspicions had vanished, and he seemed genuinely amused. “The young lady would like to see Mr. Smurl again, I suppose! Yes, I should not be surprised! And did she drop her ’ankerchief in his path, to tempt him? Ooh la la! I have seen it all before, too many times …” He shook his head, and then composed his face into seriousness. “You had better tell your young friend that Mr. Smurl is a ’appily married man.”
Jesperson frowned and shook his head. “From the picture, he does not strike me as a ladies’ man. Is Mr. Smurl a frequent visitor to the cemetery?”
“Why, I should say he is! He’s my guv’nor! One of the founders and chief stockholders in Park Grove Cemetery, not to mention being a long-established, well-respected undertaker, and an important member of the local community.” He shifted about in his seat, picked up a card from a stack on the table, and—Jesperson’s hands being occupied with the drawing book—gave it to me.
Smurl & Snigg
Undertakers of Quality since 1879
121 The High Street
Sydenham
Remembering Felicity had said that the man in the cemetery had addressed her sister as “Mrs. Merle”—I felt the chill touch of horror as I understood.
Mrs. Smurl.
I was on my feet almost before I knew it. “We have to go,” I said. “At once.”
My partner did not question my urgency; he had made the same connection, although he managed to maintain a polite demeanor and thank our host even as I charged out the door, back into the rain, the thought of Alcinda’s probable fate burning inside me.
But what could I do? I had no idea where to find her. I paced up and down, my thoughts in an uproar, my garments getting wetter, until Jesperson hailed a cab and gently but firmly handed me inside. “Courage, ma brave,” he murmured, close to my ear, and somehow this worked like a dash of smelling salts to clear my head.
“We mustn’t let Smurl know we are on to him,” I said. “I will pretend to have a … some elderly, distant relation near the end of life, and make inquiries about his services. Perhaps, I don’t know, perhaps I can find out where he lives. You, meanwhile, must keep watch, I think, and follow him when he leaves. See if he goes home—or anywhere else—for his dinner, or at the end of the day. How does that sound?”
“Like a sensible course of action.”
The journey to the funeral parlor on the high street took little more than five minutes; we could easily have walked it, and saved the fare, although, as the rain was falling even more heavily now, I considered the benefits of arriving only a trifle damp rather than thoroughly sodden and uncomfortable. After paying the driver, my partner walked off briskly to wait until he should see me emerge.
My heart was beating a little too fast for comfort when I opened the door. A bell tinkled as I entered, and then I was greeted by a voice nearly as high and sweet.
“Welcome. Do come in, my dear, and tell me how we may be of service.”
The woman who came towards me with her hands outstretched as if ready to take some burden from me was, I estimated, in her early thirties; decorously attired in lavender silk, brown hair neatly coiffed, plain-featured except for a pair of melting and expressive dark eyes.
“I should like to speak with Mr. Smurl, if you please.”
Clasping her hands (since I had neither taken nor filled them), she made a moue of regret and shook her head. “I am afraid he’s not available for personal consultation at all today—or tomorrow. He is a very busy man, our Mr. Smurl! Perhaps I might be of service? I am Miss Hyacinth Snigg, the daughter of Mr. Edgar Snigg, who is also unavailable at the moment, but you must not let that concern you in the least. I am fully informed about all aspects of the business, and can answer any questions, and am well qualified to give advice. Will you take a seat?” She gestured to a small couch covered in dark red plush.
“No, thank you; you’re very kind, but I would particularly like to speak to Mr. Smurl.”
The polished, professional sorrow of her expression gave way to a different, more genuine feeling. “Perhaps you do not understand. I am not a receptionist, but a full partner in this firm, which has been my entire career for almost ten years now.”
“My dear Miss Snigg!” Now I was annoyed—with myself. “You misunderstand me. I meant no disrespect. If I wished to make arrangements for a funeral, or to take advice on that subject, I should be more than happy to take your advice.”
She frowned a little. “You have not come here to discuss funeral arrangements?”
I bit my lip. “Not exactly. That is … The matter is complicated and quite urgent. I really must speak to Mr. Smurl. He is the only one who can help me with this matter. I don’t mind waiting. If he could see me for just a few minutes, I could explain.”