The Faerie Queene

Joan’s funeral service finished with the hymn most beloved of sailors, “Eternal Father, Strong to Save.” While the congregation sang the familiar words, Ted, Strike, Dave Polworth and three of Ted’s comrades in the lifeboat service shouldered the coffin back down the aisle of the simple cream-walled church, with its wooden beams and its stained-glass windows depicting purple-robed St. Maudez, for whom both village and church were named. Flanked by an island tower and a seal on a rock, the saint watched the coffin-bearers pass out of the church.

O Savior, whose almighty word

The winds and waves submissive heard,

Who walked upon the foaming deep,

And calm amidst the rage did sleep…

Polworth, by far the shortest of the six men, walked directly behind Strike, doing his best to bear a fair share of the load.

The mourners, many of whom had had to stand at the back of the packed church, or else listen as best they could from outside, formed a respectful circle around the hearse outside as the shining oak box was loaded onto it. Barely a murmur was heard as the rear doors slammed shut on Joan’s earthly remains. As the straight-backed undertaker in his thick black overcoat climbed back into the driver’s seat, Strike put an arm around Ted’s shoulders. Together, they watched the hearse drive out of sight. Strike could feel Ted trembling.

“Look at all these flowers, Ted,” said Lucy, whose eyes were swollen shut, and the three of them turned back to the church to examine the dense bank of sprays, wreaths and bunches that created a jubilant blaze against the exterior wall of the tiny church.

“Beautiful lilies, Ted, look… from Marion and Gary, all the way from Canada…”

The congregation was still spilling out of the church to join those outside. All kept a distance from the family while they moved crabwise along the wall of the church. Joan would surely have delighted in the mass of floral tributes and Strike drew unexpected consolation from messages that Lucy was reading aloud to Ted, whose eyes, like hers, were puffy and red.

“Ian and Judy,” she told her uncle. “Terry and Olive…”

“Loads, aren’t there?” said Ted, marveling.

The now-whispering, milling crowd of mourners were doubtless wondering whether it would be heartless to set out immediately for the Ship and Castle, where the wake was to be held, Strike thought. He couldn’t blame them; he too was craving a pint and perhaps a chaser too.

“‘With deepest sympathy, from Robin, Sam, Andy, Saul and Pat,’” Lucy read aloud. She turned to look at Strike, smiling. “How lovely. Did you tell Robin pink roses were Joan’s favorite?”

“Don’t think so,” said Strike, who hadn’t known himself.

The fact that his agency was represented here among the tributes to Joan meant a great deal to him. Unlike Lucy, he’d be traveling back to London alone, by train. Even though he’d been craving solitude for the past ten days, the prospect of his silent attic room was cheerless, after these long days of dread and loss. The roses, which were for Joan, were also for him: they said, you won’t be alone, you have something you’ve built, and all right, it might not be a family, but there are still people who care about you waiting in London. Strike told himself “people,” because there were five names on the card, but he turned away thinking only of Robin.

Lucy drove Ted and Strike to the Ship and Castle in Ted’s car, leaving Greg to follow with the boys. None of them talked in the car; a kind of emotional exhaustion had set in.

Joan had known what she was doing, Strike thought, as he watched the familiar streets slide past. He was grateful they weren’t following to the crematorium, that they would reclaim the body in a form that could be clutched to the chest and borne on a boat, in the quiet of a sunny afternoon to come, just the family, to say their last, private farewell.

The Ship and Castle’s dining-room windows looked out over St. Mawes Bay, which was overcast but tranquil. Strike bought Ted and himself pints, saw his uncle safely into a chair among a knot of solicitous friends, returned to the bar for a double Famous Grouse, which he downed in one, then carried his pint to the window.

The sea was Quaker gray, sparkling occasionally where the silvered fringes of the clouds caught it. Viewed from the hotel window, St. Mawes was a study in mouse and slate, but the little rowing boats perched on the mudflats below provided welcome dabs of cheer-ful color.

“Y’all right, Diddy?”

He turned: Ilsa was with Polworth, and she reached up and hugged Strike. All three of them had been at St. Mawes Primary School together. In those days, as Strike remembered it, Ilsa hadn’t liked Polworth much. He’d always been unpopular with female classmates. Over Dave’s shoulder, Strike could see Polworth’s wife, Penny, chatting with a group of female friends.

“Nick really wanted to be here, Corm, but he had to work,” said Ilsa.

“Of course,” said Strike. “It was really good of you to come, Ilsa.”

“I loved Joan,” she said simply. “Mum and Dad are going to have Ted over on Friday night. Dad’s taking him for a round of golf on Tuesday.”

The Polworths’ two daughters, who weren’t renowned for their good behavior, were playing tag among the mourners. The smaller of the two—Strike could never remember which was Roz and which Mel—dashed around them and clung, momentarily, to the back of Strike’s legs, as though he were a piece of furniture, looking out at her sister, before sprinting off again, giggling.

“And we’re having Ted over Saturday,” said Polworth, as though nothing had happened. Neither Polworth ever corrected their children unless they were directly inconveniencing their parents. “So don’t worry, Diddy, we’ll make sure the old fella’s all right.”

“Cheers, mate,” said Strike, with difficulty. He hadn’t cried in church, hadn’t cried all these last horrible days, because there’d been so much to organize, and he found relief in activity. However, the kindness shown by his old friends was seeping through his defenses: he wanted to express his gratitude properly, because Polworth hadn’t yet permitted him to say all he wanted about the way he’d enabled Strike and Lucy to reach the dying Joan. Before Strike could make a start, however, Penny Polworth joined their group, followed by two women Strike didn’t recognize, but who were both beaming at him.

“Hi, Corm,” said Penny, who was dark-eyed and blunt-nosed, and who’d worn her hair pulled back into a practical ponytail since she was five. “Abigail and Lindy really want to meet you.”

“Hello,” said Strike, unsmiling. He held out his hand and shook both of theirs, sure that they were about to talk about his detective triumphs and already annoyed. Today, of all days, he wanted to be nothing but Joan’s nephew. He assumed that Abigail was Lindy’s daughter, because if you removed the younger woman’s carefully penciled, geometrically precise eyebrows and fake tan, they had the same round, flat faces.

“She was ever so proud of you,” said Lindy.

“We follow everything about you in the papers,” said plump Abigail, who seemed to be on the verge of giggling.

“What are you working on now? I don’t suppose you can say, can you?” said Lindy, devouring him with her eyes.

“D’you ever get involved with the royals, at all?” asked Abigail.

Fuck’s sake.

“No,” said Strike. “Excuse me, need a smoke.”

He knew he’d offended them, but didn’t care, though he could imagine Joan’s disapproval as he walked away from the group by the window. What would it have hurt him, she’d have said, to entertain her friends by talking about his job? Joan had liked to show him off, the nephew who was the closest thing she’d ever have to a son, and it suddenly came back to him, after these long days of guilt, why he’d avoided coming back to the little town for so long: because he’d found himself slowly stifling under the weight of teacups and doilies and carefully curated conversations, and Joan’s suffocating pride, and the neighbors’ curiosity, and the sidelong glances at his false leg when nobody thought he could see them looking.

As he stumped down the hall, he pulled out his mobile and pressed Robin’s number without conscious thought.

“Hi,” she said, sounding mildly surprised to hear from him.

“Hi,” said Strike, pausing on the doorstep of the hotel to pull a cigarette out of the packet with his teeth. He crossed the road and lit it, looking out over the mudflats at the sea. “Just wanted to check in, and to thank you.”

“What for?”

“The flowers from the agency. They meant a lot to the family.”

“Oh,” said Robin, “I’m glad… How was the funeral?”

“It was, you know… a funeral,” said Strike, watching a seagull bobbing on the tranquil sea. “Anything new your end?”