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Entering the church, the mourners bowed their heads. Each mind, in each still living skull, considered the eternity that Mr. Critchlow had already entered into, and which awaited them. All except one, that is, for Bellman’s head was raised, and he looked about him with intent concentration. Those who had entered ahead of him were already seated. He studied the backs of their heads, frowning and staring, trying to identify each scalp, each pair of shoulders. Was that him? No. Nor that one.
Some stranger—not Black—turned his way and sent a frowning rebuke. He bowed his head apologetically, mimicked the subdued demeanor of the other mourners, but could not quell the intensity of his curiosity. As soon as the man looked the other way he could not help but raise his head and continue his search.
All through the service, while he sang and prayed and knelt and stood and sat, his eyes were too vigilant, and his turning of the head this way and that caused no little disturbance to those who had the misfortune to be placed by him. It was plain to all that Mr. Bellman had forgotten why they were gathered together in church today. His mind was elsewhere. The frowns grew more pointed; certain mourners turned to each other and tut-tutted their disapproval.
Bellman grew agitated at realizing that Black was nowhere to be seen. He even turned to look behind him: rows of black-suited mourners glared at him. They were angry, disconcerted, disapproving—but they were not Black. Where was he? Where?
Then he exclaimed aloud. “Of course!” Black would not come here, to the church! He would be there for the burial! Had he not seen him always on the way in or out? Or at the very graveside? Critchlow was to be buried not at this church’s overcrowded graveyard, but at the cemetery, in leafy peace, on the edges of the city. He must go there immediately!
“Excuse me!” he muttered, in his impatience, and he shuffled his way to the end of the pew, not minding whose toes he crushed, and he half ran back along the aisle to the door, which he opened noisily before escaping.
No athlete nor any thief could have covered the distance as fast. Bellman drew all eyes as he raced through the streets. Red-faced and panting heavily he came to the cemetery gates and staggered in. He knew the spot—he had selected it himself.
Here was the grave. A beautiful position, with views and greenery all around. He himself had selected the design for the tomb that was to be erected here: a grand and elaborate affair with three angels, scrolls describing Critchlow’s paternal and civic virtues, and a small spaniel, its likeness taken from the painting of the one Critchlow had loved as a young man. It would be magnificent.
Today it was just a pit in the earth.
No one was there.
“He will come!” Bellman muttered. “He will come.”
He paced all the paths, a hundred yards in each direction. Coming back to the grave site he peered into it. Just in case. Seeing a large tombstone not far off, he clambered up, hoping for a better vantage point, but slipped in his haste, grazing his hands and losing a button or two from his jacket. He brushed at the stains on his trousers, but only added blood to them and muddied his hands further. On his second attempt he achieved his objective and got himself a clear view of the area around the burial spot. Not a sign of anyone approaching.
“Black!” he hollered. “Here I am, waiting for you! Make yourself known!”
There came a rustling in a patch of bushes. Branches swayed, and—Bellman’s heart leapt—a figure stepped out onto the path. But it was only a grubby young fellow roused from sleep, a gardener or gravedigger or other such person, yawning and rubbing his eyes, and on seeing Bellman he looked alarmed and backed away, then turned and sprinted in the direction of the gates.
Bellman sighed and sat down. His arm was aching. He must have landed badly when he slipped. The pain brought sudden tears to his eyes, and wiping them away, he added a smear of dirt and grass and blood to his sweating face.
There was time yet. Black wouldn’t be expecting him so early, he reflected. In half an hour the others would come, and that would be the moment. He was at the end of his energy now. He could only sit and attend to his modest, frail hope that Black would take pity on him. In this mood of passivity he allowed time to pass. He took out his watch from his breast pocket and saw that it had stopped. He wound it and held it to his ear. Nothing.
He reached automatically for his calfskin book, but he had forgotten it. He didn’t even have the energy to marvel at having forgotten the one thing he took everywhere with him. Dulled and dazed he remained there, still as a mannequin at Bellman & Black, and did absolutely nothing until the others arrived.
It was Anson who separated himself from the crowd of mourners and came to Bellman’s side.
“Whatever is it, my friend?”
He took Bellman’s arm, and though he did it gently, the action made him wince.
“Come, let me see you home. You are not well.”
But Bellman would not move, nor did he even look at or seem to hear Anson. He kept his eyes on the funeral party, scarcely blinking. Anson was aware that Bellman’s behavior in the church had been awry, and he noted that here, for all the eccentricity of Bellman’s appearance and unnatural alertness, he was at least quiet and still. Rather than risk agitating him by bringing him away now, he resolved to stay with him and wait until after the interment to get his friend to a doctor.
Bellman looked. If he did not pick Black out of the crowd around the grave, he would see him afterward. As the mourners departed in pairs and small groups there would be one solitary figure left, and it would be him . . .
His eyes shifted restlessly, always on the move. Every shuffle, every tilt of a head caught his attention. He expected from one moment to the next to see the face he was looking for. The face he would know instantly that would be looking for him. His feet were ready. Before Black was even aware of his approach, there he would be, at his side.
And now all was over. There was a bit of hand shaking, back patting. The exchange of consoling words. Bellman wished the mourners would stand farther apart, so that his view might be unoccluded.
At last the first of them departed, then others.
When all but the last few mourners, were gone, Bellman remained there, staring.
“Are you coming?” Anson asked him. He placed a hand gently on Bellman’s shoulder, but Bellman appeared not to notice, so he took his arm and tried to lead him to the path.
“Let me take you home,” he suggested. But Bellman had no home. “Why don’t you go to your daughter for a few days . . .”
With a bellow of rage, Bellman threw off his hand. Anson leaped hurriedly out of the way. The last lingerers eyed them in alarm, casting wary glances over their shoulders at the staring man with blood on his face, then hurried away.
Now alone with Bellman, Anson considered what to do for the best. He would go to the guardian of the cemetery, he decided. It needed two of them to get Bellman safely into a cab and to a doctor. Briskly he went to fetch help, leaving his friend staring into the grave and weeping, as though his own soul were buried in it.
When he returned with a burly fellow to help, Bellman was nowhere to be seen.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Bellman & Black was closing. The last customer departed, and Pentworth bowed in deep sympathy as he closed the door behind her. As he was about to lock the door a familiar silhouette appeared out of the evening shadow and came up the steps. Mr. Bellman. Pentworth opened the door again. It was not his place to notice his employer’s unusual appearance, so he feigned not to see it.
As the office door opened, Verney looked up. Mr. Anson had called this afternoon with an unlikely story about the funeral. He found it hard to credit. Clearly something had happened, but it couldn’t be as he had been told . . . On seeing Bellman’s face, he put his questions away.
“The figures are on your desk,” Verney said uncertainly, and Bellman only raised a hand to silence him. Without even a glance in his direction, he entered his office and shut the door firmly
behind him.
Verney supposed that if Bellman wanted him he would let him know. In the meantime he got on with his regular work. His fingers danced uncertainly; more than once he had to start a calculation over again for loss of concentration.
Half a dozen times someone came knocking: a handful of senior staff worked on well beyond closing time. “Is Mr. Bellman back? I wanted . . .” and each time Verney shook his head.
“Come back another time.”
At the end of an hour he didn’t dare knock and interrupt his manager. For another thirty minutes he occupied himself with things that didn’t need doing, and when at the end of it Bellman’s door was as firmly closed as before, he put his coat on and left for home.
Behind the closed door, habit made Bellman pick up the monthly figures from his desk. Sales were down—for the third month running—but Verney’s neat figures and ruled lines marshaled disruption and trouble into an appearance of order and harmony. Slowing sales and growing losses were neatly aligned, columns and rows still worked out, whichever way you added and divided. It was scant consolation to know that the falling profits were so impeccably recorded. Bellman sighed heavily, and the prospect of the long evening weighed painfully upon him. I am abandoned, he thought. The one he was looking for could not be found. What was he to do with the rest of his life?
Outside the window a rook flapped ragged and unsettled over the rooftops of Regent Street. Bellman turned his back on it and, resigned to the task, stood before his chart, pen in hand. With the black pen he entered a black cross to mark the month’s sales. The parabola had a quality to it that he recognized. I could have predicted this degree of drop, he thought, and then corrected himself. How on earth could that be the case? But it was true. He had seen this curve before.
He switched to the blue ink. Next month. What were people dying of now? There was Critchlow, dead of old age. There were thousands like him. He thought of Fred, dead of having lived and loved and made bread for—what? Fifty years? How many like him? A good many.
Fred was the same age that he was, wasn’t he? Staring at the curve on the wall, he suddenly realized that he and Fred were almost exactly the same age. They had birthdays in the same month. Fancy thinking of that, now! His cousin Charles too. Poor Charles. And that other boy . . . Luke. Whom he himself had . . . So long ago.
He blinked.
He could see the whole trajectory of the arc. The apex of the curve. The exact spot where it loses velocity. He could foresee the terminal point. He entered his cross with certitude. He knew. He had seen it before.
A sudden anxiety made him wonder about the rook he had seen over the rooftops a moment ago. What was it doing now? He moved urgently to the window. The sky was deep blue, not yet so dark that he would not see the outline of a rook against it. But it is too late for a rook, he thought. I can’t have seen it. They will all be gone to their treetops by now. Scanning the roofline for the silhouette of a rook, he felt it. A tingle at the back of the neck, the stirring of the bone marrow when someone has their eye on you . . .
He turned and spoke in the same moment: “There you are!”
Seated comfortably in the armchair by the fireside, Black looked pleased to see him. Even in shadow, the mild amiability of his smile did not fade in the face of Bellman’s startled vexation.
“What kept you? I’ve been looking everywhere!”
“Me? I’ve been here all along.”
“All along?” Bellman wondered whether he had misheard.
Black inclined his head with grace, without explanation.
“I suppose it doesn’t matter. You’re here now.”
Black was peaceable, at ease. His curious gaze settled on Bellman as if he was expecting him to take the lead. Flustered, Bellman seemed to have forgotten all his negotiating skill. “I have drawn up a contract for you,” he began, somewhat flustered. “It’s here, somewhere.” He opened a drawer and rummaged. How many years ago had he written it? He extracted a sheaf of papers that dated from the right period, fanned them out on his desk, but the contract wasn’t immediately obvious. Blast! Why hadn’t he kept it separately somewhere? His hands trembled as he grasped another bundle of papers. “I know it’s here! I can find it, if you give me a few minutes. It’s just a question of time.”
“Of course.”
Bellman glanced up. With an easy gesture, Black seemed to indicate that he was not in any great hurry.
“Perhaps you would like to see the ledgers while you are waiting?” Bellman took them two at a time from the shelf to make an armful. “You’ll find the records are up to date, very complete, nothing forgotten!”
“Nothing forgotten?” Was there a touch of irony in Black’s voice?
Crossing the room to place the ledgers on the side table within reach of Black, he had the odd sensation that Black’s silhouette grew darker the closer he got.
“Not a thing! It’s all there! Bank statements too, if you want! They’re here, look.” He was already at the shelf where the bank documents were archived, pulling out box files when he stopped. “Forgotten what? What kind of thing do you mean?”
And before Black could answer, Bellman, suddenly suspicious, asked another question: “Who let you in? Verney?”
Black shifted in his chair. His face was in shadow.
“The safe . . .” Bellman said, with a mouth so dry the words were as feathers in his mouth. “I can advance you part of your share as soon as you like. Tonight. Here and now.”
The safe’s dial was stiff; the effort of turning it helped calm his quaking hands. The door swung open on the day’s takings, counted out in a heap of felt bags. He spilled money from the felt bags onto the desk, talking ten to the dozen all the while. “Sales have dropped a little lately. It is nothing to be concerned about. The public sentiment is wavering in the matter of death ritual. In a little while habits will reassert themselves, and we shall know where we are again. Death never goes out of fashion. It is the one sure thing!”
He was talking too much, he knew it, his jollity smacked of overconfidence; no one but a novice would be persuaded. But Black’s silence was full of questions that he did not know the answer to and preferred not to hear, so on he babbled. The new cremations, exchanging one style of ritual for another. “There is always the same need for consolation, you see! Some things never change!”
In a great hurry he emptied bag after bag on the desk. The money made a small mountain, so that the topmost coins began to slide down the heap to the edges. Some rolled off the edge to the floor. “Look! Even with this decline—temporary, of course—we are doing well. It can’t be said the business is failing. Far from it.”
The coins on the floor had their own velocity. They rolled in all directions, under the cupboard, toward the door, under the chair.
“Twenty-five percent, that’s what I envisaged. It will make you a wealthy man. But that’s open to negotiation, of course. It’s just a starting point. We can talk it all through. I’m not an unreasonable man. I want to see your contribution amply recognized. If fifty percent seems more appropriate, make your case. I’m more than happy to listen.”
Black said nothing. Bellman’s heart was beating so fast he could barely get his breath.
“Fifty percent it is, then. I told you I was prepared to be generous, didn’t I? Shall we agree to that?”
He sat and dipped a nib in the ink. “I can rewrite this contract here and now, as we speak—” and he could too, except that there was nowhere to put the paper to write. He swept an arm across the table to clear a space. More coins fell streaming from the desk. Some of them rolled in Black’s direction. One came to rest at his feet and his cloaked arm reached down from his chair to retrieve it from the carpet. Bellman felt a small relief at the knowledge that some part of his debt at least was in the hands of his debtor. It was a start.
But as Bellman started to write, out of the corner of his eye he saw Black place the runaway coin indifferently on the unconsulted ledgers.
So far as he could make out in the thickening gloom, Black looked bemused. Or sad. Or else was smiling kindly at him, as though he, Bellman, was a young boy who had failed to understand something.
“Seventy-five percent,” he proposed, gabbling. “It’s not as if I need the money myself. I’m quite wealthy enough . . .”
When he got no response his nerve failed him. “Eighty?” It seemed a lot, but he sensed the beginning of the relief that would come from having the matter at last settled. It would be worth it, for Dora’s sake. Worth more, even.
“Or ninety? You were the one who recognized the opportunity, after all.”
Ink was leaking from his pen. The contract was nothing more than an ink blot, a shape that could have been anything.
“The opportunity?” Black queried, gently.
“Of course!” Bellman stared. “That night when we entered into partnership. Bellman & Black! You must remember!”
There came a soft rustling and a movement that Bellman interpreted as a shrug. “I thought it was your idea.”
“ ‘I see an opportunity!’ That’s what you said!”
Black was looking into the fireplace. “And you thought I meant this.”
“What did you mean, then?”
Bellman could see almost nothing of Black in the shadows. He appeared only as a darkly shrouded form. The faint gleam of his garments suggested there was light somewhere to be reflected, but where it was coming from Bellman couldn’t say. And there was too the gleam of his black eyes, intelligent, not unkind exactly, but intransigent. Never had Bellman felt himself so keenly seen.
“I will transfer ownership entirely to you,” he said. “For that I will need your full name.”
The silence told him he had gone astray somewhere. He was on the wrong track. He placed his pen on his desk.
“Why have you come? I should have made it clear at the time, I realize that now, but Dora—” He felt foolish and ignorant, as he hadn’t felt in years.
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