The Death of Mrs. Westaway

To his left was a bearded man with dark blond hair fading to gray at the temples, who looked close enough to the images she’d seen of Abel Westaway for Hal to guess that the final bearer, on the rear right, must be the third son, Ezra.

He was by far the youngest man in the group, and where his brothers were fair, Ezra was dark, and deeply tanned. He was also the only person in the whole church who was not wearing an expression of careful sorrow—in fact, as he drew level with Hal, he flashed her a curving Cheshire cat smile, and she felt a jolt of shock—it was so very inappropriate for the time and place.

In confusion, she turned away, pretending she hadn’t seen, and faced the front of the church, feeling her cheeks burn.

It wasn’t just the smile—though that was bad enough. It was that there had been something . . . something flirtatious in his grin, in the twinkling eye, close to a wink. He doesn’t know he’s your uncle, she told herself. He has no idea who you are.

That’s because he’s not your uncle, replied her conscience, snippily.

It was like two voices warring in her head. Hal pressed her gloved hands to her forehead, feeling the coldness of the rain still soaked into the wool, and she knew if she didn’t get it together she wouldn’t even make it as far as the wake, she would be found out for the impostor she was before they had even left the church.

The bearers made their slow way past her, deposited the narrow coffin at the top of the church, and filed dutifully into the pews at the front, followed by the little gaggle of family members trailing behind.

And the service began.

CHAPTER 10

* * *

An hour later, it was over—or almost. The sparse congregation filed out into the driving rain to stand around the grave as the coffin was lowered into the raw earth, and the priest raised his voice to intone blessings over the shriek of the wind off the sea.

It was almost dusk now, and the temperature had dropped even further—and Hal was shivering uncontrollably in her thin coat, but nevertheless she was grateful for the wind and the rain. Under cover of the weather, no one could read her expression as anything other than pinched and pained. Her eyes were watering with genuine tears, as she blinked away the drops that trickled from her hair into her eyes. No one would have expected her to cry—she knew that—but the next test was the wake, back at Trepassen House, and Hal knew that there, she could not escape scrutiny. It was a relief not to have to think about the expression on her face or her defensive body language for just a few minutes—here, huddled around the grave with the wind lashing in the mourners’ faces, she could hug herself protectively and blame nothing but the weather.

At last, though, the priest said his final words, and Harding threw a handful of gritty earth from the covered bucket at the side of the grave. It splashed, rather than thudded, onto the wooden coffin lid, and he passed the pail to his brother Abel, who threw a handful in his turn, shaking his head as he did, though Hal could not tell what the gesture meant. Round the circle it went, handful after handful, a few flowers, limp with wet, following the earth into the grave. The last to take the pail was Ezra. He flung the earth almost carelessly, and then turned to Hal, standing in his shadow, just behind his shoulder, trying to efface herself from notice.

He said nothing, just held out the bucket, and Hal took it. As she did, the feeling struck her that there was something profoundly wrong in what she was about to do—blasphemous, almost, in this symbolic act of burying a woman she had no connection with. But the eyes of the family were upon her, and she had no choice.

The earth was clagged with rain now and she had to pull off her glove and dig into the mud with her nails.

It thudded down onto the coffin with a strange finality, and she handed the pail back to the curate.

“Ashes to ashes,” said the priest over the noise of the wind and waves, “dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life . . .”

Hal wiped her muddy palm surreptitiously on her trench coat and tried to shut out his words, but the memories kept intruding—of the kind vicar who had presided over her mother’s cremation, of his meaningless words of comfort, and of the promises she could not believe. She felt the mud grit beneath her fingernails and she remembered, with a force that felt like a blow to the chest, the feeling of her mother’s ashes, gritting against her palm as she had scattered them on another December day, three years ago. She had gone to Brighton beach, on a day as windy as this, though dry, and she had walked down to the edge of the sea, her bare feet cold against the stones, and stood among the foamy weeds, watching as the ashes had tugged from her fingers and scattered across the sea.

As she stood, looking into the raw, wet mouth of the grave, Hal felt her heart clutch again with the pain of loss, as if an old, half-healed wound had been struck. Was it really worth doing this—putting herself through this again, the grim rituals of mourning and remembrance for what could be nothing more than an ugly lamp or a collection of postcards?

There are two paths ahead of you, they twist and turn . . .

She found her nails were digging into her palms, and she thought of the page of swords, striding out to meet the stormy seas, his sword upraised, his face determined.

The truth was, the two paths were gone now. She had chosen one—and shut off the possibilities of the other as if it had never existed. There was no way back, no point in second-guessing her decision. She had made the choice she needed in order to survive, and now the only way out was to push forwards—deeper into the deception. She could quite literally not afford to fail.

At last the final words were spoken, the priest began picking up his things, and the rest of the family began scattering, moving off towards the cars, their collars raised against the driving wind and rain.

Hal felt a flutter of fear in her stomach. She had to say something—and quickly. She had to ask one of them for a lift—but the thought of approaching these total strangers out of the blue was suddenly almost more terrifying than anything else. It wasn’t just the fear of being found out. It was something more basic—more childlike. Whom should she ask? How?

“I—” she said, but her throat felt stiff and croaky. “I—is it—”

None of them turned. Harding was in the front, surrounded by his three teenage children and flanked by a woman who must be Mitzi. Hal recognized Richard from Facebook, already fiddling with his phone as he followed his father towards the car park. Abel and Ezra were walking behind, deep in conversation. As she watched, Abel put his arm around his brother, squeezing him tightly as if in consolation, and Ezra shrugged away, a little impatiently.

The others had already scattered to a clutch of cars parked beneath the dripping yews.

She was in danger of being left behind in this deserted graveyard. Panic rose up in her throat.

“Excuse me,” she croaked again, more loudly, and then, as before, she felt a hand on her shoulder and turned sharply, to see Mr. Treswick standing there, his umbrella held out.

“Harriet. May I offer you a lift back to Trepassen?”

“Yes, oh yes.” Hal felt the words tumbling out, almost incoherently. “Oh, thank you so much, I wasn’t sure—”

“There will be no room in the funeral cars, I’m afraid, all the seats in the official cortège are taken up, but if you don’t mind sharing my own car . . .”

“N-n-not at all,” Hal said. Her teeth were chattering with cold, and she swallowed, trying to steady herself, make her gratitude less naked. “Thank you, Mr. Treswick, I really appreciate it.”

“Not at all. Here, you hold the umbrella—mind it doesn’t turn inside out, I’m afraid the sea gusts are rather unpredictable—and I will take your case.”

“Oh no,” Hal protested, “p-please!” but it was too late, somehow the little man had deftly removed the case from where she had let it rest on the graveled path, and the umbrella was in her hand, and he was forging through the rain to the car, parked down by the verge where the taxicab had set her down.

• • •

INSIDE THE VOLVO, MR. TRESWICK turned the heating up full, and as the car pulled out into the lane, splashing through the rutted puddles, Hal felt some of the chill begin to leave her fingers. In the graveyard she had thought that she might never be warm again—it was as if the cold had gone right through to her bones. Now the hot air blasting from the vents on the dashboard made her fingers sting and ache with the shock of the thaw, though the chilliness deep inside her seemed impenetrable.