After the chapel, there was the ordeal of the cemetery. Francis rode out there with his father in the back seat of a big black limousine furnished by the mortician. Beyond the edge of the cemetery where the earth had been opened for his mother’s entry, a meadow of green grass, growing brown in the sun, sloped down to the bank of a stream lined with poplars and oaks and elms. Overhead, while the service was read, a crow flew lazily and constantly cawed. Francis watched the trees and listened to the crow.
Happily, the graveside service was brief, and after it was completed everyone went away, and Francis went home with his father in the limousine. All the relatives began to leave then, to go back to wherever they had come from, and that was the best of a bad time, as the shabby old house approached emptiness and silence. After a while, before dark, no one was left but Francis and his father and Uncle Ted. Uncle Ted, who had to wait until morning to catch a train, was the oldest brother of Francis’ mother, and he and Mr. Etheridge, when all the others had gone, sat in the living room and talked. Francis, hardly noticed, sat behind them in a high-backed chair and looked out a window into the side-yard and listened to what was said.
“Luther,” Uncle Ted said to Mr. Etheridge, “I haven’t wanted to discuss this with you previously, but if you don’t take action in this business, you’re a fool, and that’s all I’ve got to say.”
“I intend to take action,” Mr. Etheridge said.
“If I were you, now that the funeral is over, I’d see a lawyer immediately.”
“I’ve made an appointment for tomorrow, Ted.”
“Good. In my opinion, you have a perfect case. Surely your landlord carries liability insurance.”
“Oh, yes. Certainly. He has numerous rentals, and could hardly afford to be without it.”
“It’s always easier if there’s insurance. If it comes to a jury, they have much less compunction about soaking a big company.”
“I have a notion it will be settled out of court.”
“Quite likely. You mustn’t accept too little, however. After all, your wife is dead and buried.”
“So she is, and I’ll not forget it for a moment. Any settlement will have to be most liberal.”
“Well, the liability is perfectly apparent, I should say. It’s almost criminal. That broken board at the head of the stairs should have been replaced long ago. It’s a landlord’s obligation to take care of such matters.”
Then, of course, Francis knew why his father had pushed his mother down the stairs. There was no longer the least need to wonder about it.
* * * *
He was in his room upstairs when the investigator from the insurance company came. Francis knew that the visitor was an investigator because Mr. Etheridge brought him right upstairs and showed him the loose board, and then they stood there in the shadowy hall at the head of the stairs and talked about what had happened. Francis had his door closed, and in the beginning could hear only the voices, not the words, and so he walked over silently from his bed, where he had been sitting, and opened the door a crack. Then he could hear clearly what was being said, and could see, by applying an eye to the crack, the investigator and his father standing face to face there in the shadows.
“It happened very suddenly,” Mr. Etheridge was saying. “My wife and I were in our room. She had a severe headache and wanted some aspirin, but she had left the bottle downstairs. I offered to get it for her, but she said no, she couldn’t remember just where she had put it and would have to look for it. She went out of the room, and I followed her, a few steps behind, thinking that I might be of help. When she reached the head of the stairs, she simply seemed to pitch down headfirst, almost as if she had dived. It happened so suddenly, as I said, that I couldn’t reach her, although I tried. She struck her head on the edge of one of the lower steps. Her collarbone was broken also, as you know, but the death was caused by the head injury. The doctor has certified that.”
“I know.” The investigator was a squat man with arms and torso far out of proportion to his legs, which were remarkably short. His voice had a harsh, rasping sound, as if he had a sore throat that was painful to talk through. “Are you positive she tripped? She didn’t merely faint and fall? You said she wasn’t feeling well. She had a severe headache.”
“No, no. She tripped. She didn’t merely collapse, as she would have done in fainting. She pitched forward with considerable momentum. That’s surely obvious from the distance she fell before striking the stairs. You can see the board here. It had rotted away from its nails and came loose. It projects above the others perhaps a quarter of an inch.”
“I see. It’s quite dangerous, being right at the head of the stairs. I’m surprised that you didn’t fix it yourself, Mr. Etheridge.”
“I should have. I reproach myself for not having done so. But I’m not handy at such things. It’s the landlord’s duty to keep the house in repair, and I reported the board to him. He assured me that he would have it replaced.”
“I assume that you were the only one who witnessed the accident?”
“Yes.”
“That’s too bad. It would simplify matters if there were someone to corroborate your testimony.”
“Well, there isn’t. My wife and I were alone in the house. The boy was outside playing.”
It was then that Francis opened the door of his room and walked out into the half and over to his father and the
