“No, no,” said Laura, eagerly, “I am not tired. I had much rather stay. Don’t think of me. I have no sense of fatigue.”
Sampson shook his head dubiously, but gave way. They went to the village, and after making sundry inquiries at the post-office, Mr. Sampson and his companion repaired to a quiet, old-fashioned looking shop, in whose dingy window appeared the symbols of the gloomy trade conducted within.
Here they found an old man, who emerged from a workshop in the rear, bringing with him the aromatic odour of elm shavings.
“Come,” said Sampson cheerily, “you’re old enough to remember seventeen years ago. You look like an old inhabitant.”
“I can remember sixty years ago as well as I can remember yesterday,” answered the man, “and I shall have lived in this house sixty-nine years come July.”
“You’re the man for us,” said Sampson. “I want you to look up your books for the year 1856, and tell me if you buried Mr. Malcolm, of Ivy Cottage, Markham Lane. You buried Mrs. Malcolm first, you know, and the husband soon followed her. It was a very quiet funeral.”
The undertaker scratched his head thoughtfully, and seemed to retire into the shadow-land of departed years. He ruminated for some minutes.
“I can find out all about it in my ledger,” he said, “but I’ve a pretty good memory. I don’t like to feel dependent upon books. Ivy Cottage? That was Miss Fry’s house. I buried her a year ago. A very pretty funeral, everything suitable, and in harmony with the old lady’s character. Some of our oldest tradespeople followed. It was quite a creditable thing.”
Sampson waited hopefully while the old man pondered upon past triumphs in the undertaking line.
“Let me see, now,” he said musingly. “Ivy Cottage. I’ve done a good bit of business for Ivy Cottage within the last thirty years. I’ve buried—there—I should say, a round dozen of Miss Fry’s tenants. They was mostly elderly folks, with small annuities, who came to Chiswick to finish up their lives; as a quiet old-fashioned place, you see, where they was in nobody’s way. First and last I should say I’ve turned out a round dozen from Ivy Cottage. It was a satisfaction to do things nicely for Miss Fry herself, at the wind up. She’d been a good friend to me, and she wasn’t like the doctors, you know. I couldn’t offer her a commission. Malcolm! Malcolm, husband and wife, I ought to remember that! Yes, I’ve got it! a sweet young lady, seven and twenty at the most, and the husband drooped and died soon afterwards. I remember. She had a very plain funeral, poor dear, for there didn’t seem to be much money, and the husband was the only mourner. We buried him in rather superior style, I recollect; for an old friend had turned up at the last, and there was enough money to pay all the little debts and do things very nicely, in a quiet way, for the poor gentleman. There were only two mourners in his case, the doctor and an elderly lady from London, who followed in her own carriage. I remember the lady, because she called upon me directly after the funeral, and asked me if I was paid, or sure of being paid, as the deceased was her nephew, and she would be willing to perform this last act of kindness for him. I thought it a very graceful; thing for the lady to do.”
“Did she give you her address?” asked Sampson.
“I’ve a notion that she left her card, and that I copied the address into my book. It would be a likely thing for me to do, for I’m methodical in my ways; and with a party of that age there’s always an interest. She might come to want me herself soon, and might bear it in mind on her deathbed. Well, now I’ve called upon my memory, I’ll look at my ledger.”
He went to a cupboard in a corner of the and took down a volume from a row of tall, narrow books, a series which comprised “the story of his life from year to year.”
“Yes,” he said after turning over a good many leaves, “here it is. Mrs. Malcolm, pine, covered black cloth, black nails—”
“That’ll do,” interrupted Sampson, seeing Laura’s distressed look at these details, “now we want Mr. Malcolm.”
“Here he is, three months later. Stephen Malcolm, Esq., polished oak, brass handles—a very superior article, I remember.”
“There can be no mistake, I suppose, in an entry of that kind,” asked Sampson.
“Mistake!” cried the undertaker, with an offended air. “If you can find a false entry in my books, I’ll forfeit five percent, upon ten years’ profits.”
“There can be no doubt, then, that Mr. Stephen Malcolm died at Ivy Cottage, and that you conducted his funeral?”
“Not the least doubt.”
“Very well. If you will get me a certified copy of the entry of his death in the parish register, I shall be happy to recompense you for your trouble. The document is required for a little bit of law business. Is the doctor who attended Mr. Malcolm still living?”
“No. It was old Dr. Dewsnipp. He’s dead. But young Dewsnipp is alive, and in practice here. He can give you any information you want, I dare say.”
“Thanks. I think if you get me the copy of the register, that will be sufficient. Oh, by the way, you may as well find the old lady’s address.”
“Ah, to be sure. As you are interested in the family, you may
