by Blythe Baker
“Did I…am I here at the wrong time?” I asked, looking around.
“For the funeral?” Mr. James asked, walking toward me. He adjusted his glasses, shaking his head. “No, I’m afraid not. To be quite honest, I was rather certain that no one would be showing up. He was a complete stranger to everyone in town, and from what I have heard, was a bit troublesome to others.” He sighed, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “Even so, I expected there would be some that might come to pay their respects out of kindness…”
His brow furrowed as he looked at me.
“Why did you decide to come?” he asked, and I fell into step beside him as he started toward the front of the church.
“Well…” I said. “Sidney Mason and I met the man some time ago, and…I don’t know. He was looking for someone, seemed almost desperate. And with this war going on, haven’t we all lost someone?” I trailed off. “I’m sorry, I suppose I just hoped he would have been able to find whoever he was looking for, and something tells me he did not…”
Mr. James nodded his head. “Well, it was very kind of you to come. It certainly does not matter who we are, or where we have come from. God made us all, and He cares about each one of us. This refugee from Germany was no different, for God loves them as well.”
“I believe he was from Poland,” I said.
“Really?” Mr. James said. “There were a great many people who told me he was German…well, no matter. It’s tragic that he lost his life here, and I certainly wish it had turned out differently for him.”
“As do I…” I said.
He took a deep breath, glancing back at the doors to the sanctuary. “I have a feeling we aren’t going to have many more guests. Perhaps we should get started?”
“Yes, I think so,” I said.
I took a seat in the front pew, and instead of speaking from a distance, Mr. James came around to stand beside the table, his Bible lying open in his hands.
His message was short. Neither of us knew the man’s name, nor anything about him apart from what I had gleaned the day I had met him.
“The book of Ezekiel says, For I have no pleasure in the death of anyone, declares the Lord God. Death is a result of the fall of man, and something not meant to be endured by men. Yet, as we live in a fallen world, with our fallen natures, we must endure the pain and suffering that loss and death brings us. However…hope is not lost. Second Corinthians says; So we are always of good courage. We know that while we are at home in the body we are away from the Lord, for we walk by faith, not by sight. Yes, we are of good courage, and we would rather be away from the body and at home with the Lord.”
Shortly after his message, we made our way out to the cemetery behind the church. The wind still raced through the trees, making the branches flutter and sway. I wished I’d brought a sweater with me, as the air was quite a bit cooler than I remembered.
We walked all the way to the back of the cemetery, to a corner of the churchyard that overlooked the valley and all its beautiful rolling hills.
I saw the casket, already settled into the dirt. It was a small area, nestled between a tree and some rose bushes.
“This was a plot that was never chosen by families in the town,” Mr. James said as we stood in front of the open grave. “No one wished to be buried alone, regardless of how beautiful this place is.”
Beautiful it certainly was. And peaceful.
“We can be hopeful for our own deaths,” Mr. James said, staring down at the polished casket. “Because our Savior walked out of his own grave, having risen three days after he had been killed by those who hated him. We can have hope for our friend, then, knowing that he has met the Lord, face to face.”
I noticed the headstone was unmarked.
Mr. James must have noticed my gaze fixed on the headstone. “It makes me sad, as well, but I didn’t want to disgrace him by putting a name upon it that was not his own. I had no idea of his age, either, and it seemed rather morose to put nothing more than the date of his death upon the stone. I thought it might be best just to leave it blank, even though I know it will create many questions from others.”
“I understand,” I said, though I thought it was sad. The only people who would know that he was here would be Mr. James and I, and soon, everyone in our little village of Brookminster would surely forget he had ever been here in the first place.
“Do you know how he died?” I asked, looking up at the vicar.
Mr. James exhaled out of his nose, his gaze somewhat distant. “No,” he said. “And to be honest, it wasn’t important for me to do my duties. All I knew was that I needed to prepare a place for him to be buried, so that’s what I did.”
“Well…thank you, Mr. James,” I said. “For being so kind.”
“It was no trouble at all,” he said. “I just worry now about his family, if he had any…they’ll never know what happened to him. And as we didn’t know his name, they’ll never be able to find him, either. I wonder if he would have been buried alongside his wife, or his parents, if he had stayed back wherever he came from…”
That was something I had not considered. It was terribly sad to think of his living family, wondering where in the world he had ended up. And not for the first time, I wondered again who, exactly, it was that he had been looking for.
“Thank you again for coming,” Mr. James said, closing his Bible and tucking it beneath his arm. “It was a very gracious thing to do.”
“It was no trouble,” I said with a smile.
I departed as a worker arrived, picked up a shovel that had been laid aside, and begun to fill in the grave. The methodic sound of the chink of the dirt in the ground followed the tumbling shoosh of soil as it slid off the shovel and into the grave. Every few scoops, I heard the dirt banging against the wooden coffin, and my stomach clenched.
That poor man was inside, never to see the light of day ever again…
At least, not on this earth.
My heart ached for him. I ached for what could have been for him. I wondered how his life could have come to such a sudden, tragic end.
Then I wondered if anyone in town might have learned more about him. Maybe even discovered his name.
That…and I couldn’t stop thinking about Nathanial’s assumption that the poor refugee had likely been murdered.
Who would have done such a thing? And to a complete stranger?
These were certainly dangerous times we were living in, but to murder someone –
“You of all people, huh?”
I nearly jumped out of my skin.
I wheeled around and found Inspector Graves, leaning up against the trunk of one of the ancient trees in the churchyard. His gaze was fixed on the distant grave, where Mr. James lingered while the worker diligently filled in the hole around the casket that was just visible in the earth.
Sam Graves’ foot was propped up on the tree behind him, and his arms were folded in front of himself.
“Oh, Inspector Graves…” I said. “I didn’t know you were here.”
He shifted his gaze to me, his blue eyes piercing beneath his dark lashes.
I swallowed hard, both unsettled and strangely entranced by his intense stare.
“First I find you outside the shop of Sandra Martin, who was attempting to kill you, and now here I find you at the graveside of a stranger, who had no family, no name…” He shifted his shoulders, leaning down toward me. “Are you going to tell me that you knew this man somehow? Or perhaps were related to him?”
“N – no,” I said, taking a hesitant step back. His gaze was quelling, making me feel like a schoolgirl caught misbehaving. “I met him while he was alive, and – ”
“And what?” he asked.
I clutched the purse in my hands, and attempted to stand a bit straighter. “Inspector Graves, I don’t know what you are implying, but I was simply attending this poor man’s funeral. As you can see, there wasn’t anyone else here. At least it wasn’t quite so lonely.”
“Hmph…�
� he said. “I was here, too.”
“Yes, you were,” I said.
A brief moment of silence passed between us, with nothing but the wind to fill the space.
“I shouldn’t have to say this…” he said, his eyes narrowing. “But it may not be the wisest idea to get too involved with anything that has to do with this man.”
My brow wrinkled. “What does that mean?”
His gaze hardened. “You now have a history of meddling where you shouldn’t, and getting yourself into trouble.”
“Are you implying I had something to do with his death?” I asked, shocked.
He shook his head. “No. You aren’t a killer. That much is obvious. But you seem to be one of those people that tragedy likes to hang around…”
My heart sank at his words. Tragedy followed me around? “That’s an unkind thing to say to someone…” I said.
He shrugged. “That doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”
“So you’re saying that someone did kill the poor refugee?” I asked.
His face suddenly went blank. “All I am saying is that you need to keep your distance. As kind as it was for you to come to the funeral, this is where your influence should stop. For your safety.”
I folded my arms, staring at him coolly. “Even though I was the one who figured out that Sandra Martin murdered my aunt?”
“That was different,” Sam said. “You had access to information that no one did…which you should have brought to me in the first place so that you never would have been in danger from her.”
My face flushed, and I looked down. He was right about that, I supposed.
“Just…be wise, all right? Don’t let your curiosity get the better of you,” he said. “You know what they say, right? What happened to the cat when it got too curious?”
Throat growing tight, I glanced over my shoulder. Mr. James was still watching the man with the shovel as he filled the grave.
“I understand,” I said, the little hairs on the back of my neck standing up. “Loud and clear.”
5
“I’m really sorry I didn’t get to go to that funeral yesterday,” Sidney said as he leaned against the counter in my kitchen, sipping the tea I had just made for him. “If I had been in town, I certainly would have.”
“It’s all right,” I said, taking a seat at the table and picking up my own cup.
He breathed in deeply, his nose poised over his cup. “There’s always something so comforting about tea, isn’t there?” he asked.
“I couldn’t agree more,” I said. “Even when it’s near boiling outside, I still can’t pass up having a few cups throughout the day.”
He let out an appreciative hum as he lowered his cup, smiling.
“Were you out doing another job?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, setting his teacup down and picking up his hammer once again. “Out at one of the farms outside the village. The farmer’s wife ran into me in town the other day, and we started talking. She said her sink had started to leak, and she and her husband couldn’t figure out how or why. So I offered to come and work on it for them.”
“That was awfully kind of you,” I said. “Was it a long way outside of town?”
“Not really, no,” he said. “Mr. Trent was kind enough to take me in his car. The one I recently acquired still needs some tuning up. Should be ready in a week or two, though.”
I thought of the pale blue number sitting in his driveway, somewhat rusty and certainly in need of care. But as with many things about Sidney, the car was just another mystery.
He picked up another trimmed board of wood, and opened up the upper cabinet door that had broken almost a week before. The hinges had suddenly come lose, and it wouldn’t screw back into the wood.
“I’m sorry I keep calling you about things breaking in this house,” I said, looking around. “When I first moved in, everything seemed to be in good condition. The more I live here, though, the more I see how dated and tired everything is.”
“It happens in these older houses,” Sidney said, holding the board up to the inside of the cabinet, and drawing a line across the wood to measure it. “For instance, in my own kitchen, I have already replaced three of the bottom cabinets, all of the shelves in the top cabinets, and have started to cut the boards I will need for a new counter. The stone one that is there now is chipped and cracked, and really has no place in a kitchen.”
“Goodness, I had no idea it was so bad,” I said.
He set down the board and tucked the pen behind his ear, something I had seen him do several times now unconsciously. “It really isn’t. I am just not all that fond of the idea of my kitchen cabinets falling apart when I least expect it.”
I glanced up at the clock beside the ice box, the pendulum beneath it swinging rhythmically like always. “Oh, good heavens,” I said, getting to my feet. “I wasn’t aware that it was so late.”
Sidney looked up, eyes falling on the clock. “Nor I. I’m sorry for distracting you.”
“No, it’s quite all right,” I said. “There are some deliveries that I must make in town. Will you be all right if I leave you here alone for a bit to finish up?”
“That’s perfectly fine,” he said. “If you leave me a key, then I should be able to get it all done for you in no time.”
“That I can do,” I said. “I’ll leave it right here on the table. When you’re done, feel free to set it on the soil in that green flowerpot near the door.”
“Will do,” he said, picking up his teacup once again, smiling at me over the rim.
“Thank you, Sidney,” I said with a wave as I hurried down the stairs to the shop.
I found the orders, already filled earlier that day when the shop had been open, and picked them up before hurrying toward the door. I had three orders to deliver, one rather urgent.
My first stop was to Mrs. Georgianna. She was my most pressing delivery, so I stopped there first.
“Oh, thank goodness,” she said when she answered the door and saw me with the package. She grinned at me and paid me well, taking the box with bright eyes and a girlish giggle for someone in her seventies. “I was hoping these would be ready tonight. My husband and I are heading to a military dinner, and I was hoping to fix up the buttons on his uniform before we went.”
“Well, I’m happy to be of service,” I said.
“Have you considered taking up what Mrs. Martin was doing at her shop?” Mrs. Georgianna asked. “You know, selling clothing as well as what you already do?”
“I have,” I said. “I just wasn’t sure if someone else in her family might end up picking up her shop just like I did with my aunt’s.”
Mrs. Georgianna shook her head. “I would be amazed if anyone did, dear. I would think on it, if I were you. There are many people in this village who would be happy to have that sort of service available once again, regardless of the rations on clothing and the like. Not to mention it would surely give you a greater and perhaps even steadier source of income…”
It was certainly something to consider, I realized as I wandered over toward Irene’s tea shop. She had ordered some lace to refinish some of her tablecloths. Would it be wise to do exactly as Mrs. Martin had feared in the beginning, and take over her business completely?
“I think it’s a fine idea,” Irene said when I broached the subject with her a short time later. “Mrs. Martin certainly was a bitter woman and was protective of her store, but that was rooted in greed and jealousy. I know there would be many in town who would support your decision, and I would certainly be among that number.”
I nodded, my thoughts chasing themselves around in my mind, all of the positives and negatives that could come out of it.
“I have one more delivery to make,” I said, glancing down at the note I’d written for myself. “It’s for Mr. Newton, but I don’t have any idea where I might find him. He came by the shop a few days ago, but I forgot to get his address.”
“That’s not a problem,” Ire
ne said, untying her apron and hanging it on the hook beside the door in the kitchen. “He’s the cook down at The Honey and Rose.”
“The inn?” I asked. “I’ve never been there.”
“Well, why don’t I go with you?” she asked, smiling at me. “I’m sure Michael will be happy to tag along as well. Henry Newton is one of his closest friends.”
“That sounds wonderful,” I said.
“I’ll just fetch him from upstairs,” she said. “He’ll be glad for a break from his schoolwork, I’m sure of it.”
Grateful he was. A few minutes later, I laughed as we watched him skip down the road ahead of us, cheering excitedly as he ran.
Irene just smiled and shook her head. “It’s so easy to make them happy when they’re that young,” she said. “You’ll see one day, I’m sure.”
I smiled. “I would certainly like to.”
Irene gave me a rather sly look. “And how are things going with that Sidney Mason?” she asked.
I gaped at her, astonished. “Oh, Irene, you know very well that – ”
“He’s a handsome young man, and you are a very pretty young woman?” she asked, a twinkle in her grey eyes. “Oh, come now, I am only teasing. But even still…”
Glad that we had arrived at the inn, I was able to quickly move the subject of conversation away from Sidney.
The Honey and Rose was a pretty building on the corner of High Street and Magnolia Avenue, which sat right in the heart of town. It was at the bottom of one of the low hills, but had a wonderful view of the river that snaked around the town itself. A bridge crossed over, giving access to the rest of Brookminster.
The building itself was made of the same warm, honey-toned stones as the other houses. It was two stories tall, with every wall plastered with windows and slightly rickety, old shutters. A worn, wooden sign hung above the lead-pane windowed door, swinging in the gentle afternoon breeze.
Michael was already there, pulling the door open and hurrying inside.
“Michael, wait,” Irene called. She shook her head when he disappeared without even a glance in her direction. “Honestly, I swear sometimes that he has lost the ability to hear my voice.”
