The voice droned on, intoning the prayers for the dead.
‘Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts; shut not up thy merciful eyes to our prayers: but spare us Lord most holy, O God most mighty, O holy and merciful saviour, thou most worthy judge eternal, suffer us not at our last hour for any pains of death to fall from thee.’
The Constable pulled the collar of his coat close about himself. He was almost the only mourner, exactly as the pimp had predicted. His men had abandoned him in the end, his friends on the Corporation had forsaken him. The only one left, so he’d heard, had been the old woman from the parlour, who’d tended him like a baby in his last days. She stood a few yards away, a bent crone covered head to toe in deep black.
Worthy had died two days before, gently, in his sleep. The old woman had discovered him early Sunday morning, her banshee wailing dragging the neighbours from their rest.
The Constable had heard of the death as he left the morning service. Lister had been waiting outside the Parish Church, his face eager with the news and the chance of seeing Emily for a few brief minutes. Nottingham had sent him to find Sedgwick, and the three men had spent the afternoon at the jail, making their plans.
The procurer had been correct. Once he’d gone the fighting would begin in earnest and they needed to be ready. Everyone who thought himself a hard man would be on the streets, threatening the whores and trying to become king. They had to make sure all the pretenders were knocked down.
He hadn’t spoken to Worthy since the man had told him he was dying. There seemed to be nothing more to say, no farewells to be made; they’d come quite naturally to the end of words.
The vicar finished his litany, closed his prayer book and lowered his head. Nottingham bent to pick up some of the dirt piled by the grave. He raised his hand and spread his fingers, letting the dust and clumps fall loudly on to the wood six feet below.
‘. . through our Lord Jesus Christ, who shall change our vile body that it may be like to his glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself.’
A time had ended.
He turned away and walked across the churchyard to the spot he knew so well, where his older daughter, Rose, had lain since February. He stood and looked down at the sinking mound of grass. Another few months, once another winter had passed, and they’d finally be able to put up the headstone for her.
In the beginning, after she’d died, he’d come here often to feel close to her, to talk to her and say all the things he felt he couldn’t tell anyone else. Now, although he still loved her so much, he no longer came regularly. He’d allowed her memory to grow fainter, relinquishing her rather than trying desperately to hold on to her.
He sighed, knelt, and plucked away a few weeds. He was sick of death, of the bodies he’d seen, the people he’d had to tell, the faces he’d known who were no longer there. Too many of them over the years.
Slowly he pushed himself upright, his knees tight and aching as he rose. He was growing older himself, and he hoped that this winter wouldn’t be as bad as the last one. Bye, love, he said softly to Rose and made his way to the lych gate where Sedgwick was waiting.
‘He’s finally in the ground then?’
The Constable nodded.
‘He is. And it’s where we’ll all be in the end, John. Think on.’
