The men with the shovels stopped and leaned on them. The grave was filled in, neatly mounded.
And occupied. For good.
“I consign this evil, worthless blight on the earth to the worms and the devils,” I said, loud enough for wives and daughters and Runners and revelers to hear. “I hope they both choke on him. Amen, amen and good night.”
And that, as they say, was that.
Epilogue
I made it to Natalie’s wedding, by the way. In the pleasant company of a certain Miss April Hawthorne. I even met Mr. Mays. He thanked me for what I’d done, so I guess Mrs. Mays finally told him the truth about Cawling Street and a man named Gorvis. He sent a man around to my office the next day, and when he left, I was twenty-five crowns richer.
Natalie greeted me at the reception, but no more than that, and I was glad. The last thing I’d wish on a new bride was any remembrance of that night in the cemetery.
The day after the wedding, Mama and I set out once again for Elfway.
Mama Hog can bake a fine pan of biscuits, when she puts her mind to it. Those biscuits and that Pinford ham were filling the cab with an aroma that set my stomach growling nearly loud enough to spook the horses.
Mama laughed. “You done et two of ’em, boy. Leave a few for poor Granny.”
We were nearly there. Granny had lain insensate for three days, tended by the best doctor I could afford. Despite the doctor’s best efforts, Granny woke, got up and was showing every sign of making a full and speedy recovery.
We’d been by every day since she’d awakened. Mama took her something new each trip-so far we’d shared a chocolate cake, a plate of deviled eggs, a platter of tomato sandwiches, and now, biscuits and ham.
According to Granny, we’d done all the right things, laying Gorvis to rest like we had. She had chortled about my arrival in the coffin, which she’d said was just my way of making a grand entrance.
The cab finally rattled to a halt, and Granny Knot herself, the right side of her face still swollen and blue, met us on her stoop.
“Well, well, if it ain’t Mister Markhat his-self. Leave your funeral wagon to home, did you?”
“Hello, Granny. You’re looking spry today.”
“I look like a beat-up, old woman, son, but thank ye all the same. Ya’ll come on in. I’ve got us some coffee a brewin’.”
We went in. Granny peeked under the cloth covering Mama’s basket and grinned.
“Now that there will set a body right.”
Granny’s shack stank of something burning. No, not just any something-I knew that smell.
“Granny, why are you baking dog crap?”
“I ain’t baking it, boy. I’m makin’ candles. Grave candles, for our favorite friend’s grave.”
Mama’s eyes went hard.
“Why? He ain’t tryin’ to come back, is he?”
Granny cackled. She waved her handful of rags in triumph.
“Whatever is left of him ain’t never comin’ out of that grave. Not after what you done. But these here candles stink worse to spooks than they ever will to us. I ain’t of a mind to let bein’ knocked in the head pass without some vengeance. So I reckon if there’s a shred of Mister Big Britches left he can choke on my candles every night for a spell.”
Granny winked. “Might be a long, long spell.”
Mama nodded. “Serves him right.”
“Look what I done. Left the coffee in the kitchen.”
“I’ll get it, set yourself back down.” Mama waddled off into the next room.
“I commend you, finder,” Granny said in a whisper. The rags she clutched fell into her lap. “Your actions saved my life and well as the lives of the Sellway woman and her daughter.” She frowned. “I apologize for allowing that beast to deceive me so easily.”
“That beast had a lifetime of practice at being a two-faced bastard, Granny. You’re here eating biscuits. He’s decomposing and sniffing dog crap candles. I’d say you didn’t have a thing to apologize for.”
She smiled. Mama trundled back inside, cups in her hands, a big grin on her wide whiskery face.
“Now, Granny. Tell us how you’re a feelin’ these days.”
I opened a window, grabbed a biscuit, and headed back out into the sun. Mama and Granny gabbed. The cemetery was so close I could have thrown my biscuit right over the hedge-wall.
Marris Sellway could sleep sound, these nights. And walk the streets without fear that the next turn of a corner would put her face to face with the monster of Cawling Street.
I finished the biscuit and wiped off the crumbs and wrapped a chunk of ham in a napkin for Three-leg.
I got up. “Need to stretch my legs, Mama,” I yelled. “Be back in a bit.”
And when I walked past Horace Gorvis’s fresh new grave, I whistled a merry tune, and, like Marris Sellway, I never once looked back.