“About the funeral, Mrs. Munnings.”
“Lor, Mr. Rendell! You’ve taken the very words out of my mouth.”
“You could help me quite a lot, if you would.”
“Anything to oblige you, Mr. Rendell.”
“It’s like this. I’ve put an announcement in the papers, of course. Among other things, it says: “Flowers to 4, Waldegrave Road,’ and——”
“Flowers! There won’t be no flowers! Why, the pore feller hadn’t a relative and——”
“We don’t know that,” Rendell cut in. “He may have some in the North. So I think it would be better if you and Mrs. Marks stayed at home—in case of unexpected arrivals. It would be a great relief to me if you did.”
“Well, I’ve said it before and I say it again—anything to oblige you, Mr. Rendell.”
But her tone lacked conviction, for disappointment paralysed her. Rendell’s request created civil war in Mrs. Munnings. Determination to please him conflicted with her desire to attend the funeral. But her greed was greater than her morbidity and so it triumphed. It was, in fact, so much greater that she accepted Rendell’s flimsy fiction, concerning the possible arrival of relatives, in a wholly uncritical spirit.
That night Rendell went to Marsden’s room and briefly reported his success. He ended by saying:
“So there will only be the two of us at the funeral to-morrow. We leave here at twelve.”
“But—I’m not coming!”
“You’re not!”
“No. Funerals depress me.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes, frightfully. But, I say,” Marsden went on quickly, “did you actually put an announcement in the papers, mentioning flowers, and all that?”
“Yes, of course. Wrayburn’s known hosts of people in his day. Surely to God someone will turn up—or send a wreath—or do something!”
“I doubt it,” Marsden replied judicially, “people are pretty callous nowadays. Personally, I’m not sending a wreath, but then—of course—we didn’t hit it off. That’s the fact—and there’s no point in being sentimental.”
“None whatever.”
Rendell left it at that, and went down to his own room.
So, at twelve the next day, a hearse—with one wreath on the coffin—and a car, with one occupant, left Chelsea.
It was a blank anonymous day, grey with frost, but Rendell scarcely noticed it. He was in that state in which nothing seems so fantastic as facts. He was attending the funeral of a man called Denis Wrayburn. He was paying for it. He was the solitary mourner. A few weeks ago he had not known of Wrayburn’s existence. He had met him because of Ivor Trent—a man he did not know, and had not seen. Those were the facts, but they seemed like fictions. Rendell felt he was watching himself.
Then, incontinently, he remembered a remark of Rosalie’s concerning Wrayburn. He had asked her what she made of him and, after a silence, she had said:
“Have you ever seen a photograph of a polar landscape?”
“Yes—why?”
“I saw one once—and it reminded me of Wrayburn.”
That was pretty good, in its way. Terror—isolation—beauty. Yes, he knew what she meant. . . .
It would take some time to get to the Crematorium. It was odd how he had instinctively decided on cremation. They had asked him about an urn and a plaque. He had not replied—and the man had said:
“Some people decide to have the ashes scattered in the garden.”
And, again, he had known instinctively that this was appropriate. Then nothing would bear witness to Wrayburn’s sojourn on earth. Somehow that seemed right to Rendell. . . .
He looked out of the window. A man had taken his hat off and now stood staring at the hearse with apathetic interest. He had a round red face, with fish-like eyes, and a heavy corpulent body. Nevertheless Rendell felt grateful to him. He had become Wrayburn’s mourner for ten seconds.
At last the car drew up at the Crematorium, Rendell went to the chapel, confident he would find someone who had known Wrayburn. But it was empty.
A few minutes later the brief service began. Rendell occupied the pew for the chief mourners, but he heard and saw nothing. He was alone. That fact dominated him. No one else had come, or sent a flower.
At a given point in the service, the coffin slowly moved from its resting place and disappeared through a narrow aperture. Rendell watched it vanish, feeling that a fantastic dream had reached its climax.
The service ended—and the parson shook hands with him. Then an official appeared and asked.
“Would you care to see the garden, sir?”
“Thank you. Yes, I should.”
They walked in silence till they reached a long colonnade, facing a garden.
“It doesn’t look its best to-day, sir, I’m afraid, but it’s a beautiful garden.”
“I am glad to have seen it. Thank you so much.”
And now? Well, now, of course, he would drive back to Chelsea. It was over. There was nothing more to be done here.
He went to the car and said to the driver:
“Take me to 4, Waldegrave Road, Fulham, will you?”
After all, he would have to see Mrs. Munnings once more.
Meanwhile, Mrs Munnings was awaiting him in a state of prostration, the day having proved an unfortunate one for her.
In the first place, she and Mrs. Marks had made certain preparations for the refreshment of Wrayburn’s relatives. Tea had been laid in Mrs. Munnings’ room, and a large cake—coated with magenta-coloured icing—stood proudly in the centre of the table.
But time had passed and no one had arrived. This in itself was irritating enough, for Mrs. Munnings had rehearsed a long speech—dealing with her devotion to the departed—and was anxious to deliver it. Mrs. Marks, too, eagerly anticipated this event—having heard the speech three times, and not wishing the experience to be repeated indefinitely.
But the non-arrival of relatives was not the cause of Mrs. Munnings’ prostration. In fact, she had forgotten it. It was a scratch—and Mrs. Munnings had just received a blow.
She had been out most of the morning with Mrs. Marks, and certain of her lodgers—who were most anxious to see her—had remained ignorant of her return till nearly one o’clock. Then three of them burst in on Mrs. Munnings and Mrs. Marks and announced that they must speak to the former on a matter of urgent importance.
Two were elderly women, the third being an old man with a jovial expression, who drank a bit, but always paid his rent regularly. They represented Mrs. Munnings’ oldest and most reliable lodgers. Also, and above all, each of them was afraid of her.
But now they trooped into her room—very excited, very scared, and all talking simultaneously. It was some time therefore before Mrs. Munnings could elicit a coherent statement, but, first by shouting them down and then by cross-examining each in turn, she managed to learn the facts.
Briefly summarised, these were to the effect that, since the night of Wrayburn’s suicide, they had slept very badly. At first they had thought this was only nerves, but—last night and the night before—each of them had heard sounds in Wrayburn’s room. Yes they had! Mrs. Munnings could say what she liked, but they had. Sounds of hammering—then a curious sound as if someone was on hands and knees plugging the cracks in the floor. And that wasn’t all! Last night Miss Wilkins—the elder of the two women—had heard someone in the passage outside her room. She got up and opened the door—and there was a Figure on the stairs with a bottle of whisky in its hand. Oh yes there was! She saw it with her own eyes, and seeing was believing, so she had always been told. And Miss Wilkins wasn’t staying any longer in a haunted house. No, she wasn’t—not likely! And neither were the others. They were all frightened to death—and they were all going now. They had packed and were leaving immediately. And here was a week’s rent. And if Mrs. Munnings took their advice she’d get rid of the house just as soon as she could.