A Simple Country Funeral

by Blythe Baker

  At first, I wondered if he was possibly visiting someone from his family. From this distance, I couldn’t tell for certain, but the somber expression on his face made my initial fear pass away.

  I stepped out from around the tree, and started toward him.

  I wasn’t all that far away from him when I realized that he was indeed standing in front of the beggar’s grave.

  He looked up at me briefly, and seemed only somewhat surprised to see me there.

  “Good afternoon,” he said in a low voice. All of the sourness that he’d expressed the last time I’d seen him was gone, replaced by a dejected tone.

  “Hello,” I said, standing nearby, but still giving him some space.

  “It was Helen, correct?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  He nodded. “I don’t think we’ve properly met since you moved into the village. I’m Jonathon Diggory.”

  He held out his hand, which I took and shook.

  “Helen Lightholder,” I said. “It’s a pleasure.”

  Mr. Diggory sighed rather heavily, shaking his head. “I can’t say it’s been much of a pleasure for anyone to be around me as of late…” he said, turning his gaze back to the headstone. “Not for my wife, or my oldest son…my usual customers haven’t been coming around much lately, either.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.

  He was silent for a few moments.

  “I won’t bother you…” I said softly. “I was just coming to pay my respects.”

  “That’s precisely what I came to do as well,” he said. “It’s something I have been meaning to do. I’ve been hoping it would help me to move past my son’s death.”

  I looked over at him. I was certain he knew that most people in town were aware of his son’s death. It would have been in the papers by now, and news like that traveled quickly in such a small village.

  There was a hardness in his gaze as he stared down at the stone. He wrestled with something deep down within himself. His jaw was set, his stare fierce.

  “It was the Germans,” he said, a little more of an edge to his words. “I’ve been so angry at them since the start of the war, for taking my son away from us, but after his death, I – ” His words caught in his throat.

  My heart began to race. Was Mr. Diggory about to confess to a crime? Had I wandered into the cemetery at an inopportune time?

  For the first time, I noticed the flowers in his hands. Wildflowers, perhaps even some picked from his own wife’s garden. They were laden with water, drooping, with some of the petals lying down at his feet.

  “Then this beggar appeared in town…” Mr. Diggory said with a short glance in my direction. “And he showed up at the back door of my inn, no less. To say I was troubled would be an understatement…”

  I clutched the umbrella in my hands, wondering if it might be wise for me to just turn around and walk away, leaving him to deal with his mistakes on his own…if that was what he was trying to admit to me, as if I were some sort of priest.

  “As soon as he opened his mouth, I thought he was a German spy. Disguising himself as a poor beggar, he would likely be able to soften the hearts of many. But our enemies are clever, and will use any means to undermine our soldiers, even something as dastardly as portraying themselves as the poor and infirm…” Mr. Diggory said.

  Then his expression changed, which surprised me. The hard edge softened, and his brow fell, making him appear like no more than a frightened child.

  “He came day after day, looking for something, or someone. I couldn’t be sure. The first day, I refused him. The next, I found him going through the garbage behind the inn, so I gave him some stale bread and cheese that I’d picked the mold off of…” he said, staring down at his feet.

  The rain began to fall harder, beating against our umbrellas as if they were drums.

  “I quickly realized that he understood I would give him food if he continued to come around, but it wasn’t as if I had a great deal of it to share. Between the rationing and the dip in visitors to the village who would stay at the inn, money has been a great deal tighter, and as charitable as I would typically be, I knew I couldn’t afford it,” he said. “But even still…in my heart, I knew that I didn’t want to give to this man, this man who was possibly the enemy.”

  But he wasn’t… I wanted to say. At least…I don’t believe he was the enemy you think he was. I thought back to what Irene had said. How could I be certain that he wasn’t hostile? Wasn’t dangerous?

  I wasn’t. And even though that didn’t make him the enemy, it certainly could have made him an enemy.

  Mr. Diggory sniffed, rubbing his nose. “…Come to find out the man was from Poland, so he couldn’t have been a German spy. All that time, I’d been so wrongly accusing him of working alongside those – ” He caught himself again, his face screwing up with effort. “I was having nightmares, thinking that this man knocking on my door every afternoon was the same man who shot my son’s plane down out of the sky. As irrational as that was, I could think of little else. My business has suffered, as has my marriage…”

  I wanted to reach out and lay a hand on his arm, just to reassure him, but feared that he might not appreciate the contact…not when he was so vulnerable.

  “I never wanted to be cruel toward the man,” Mr. Diggory said, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “It was just... My son, he’s gone. All that pain, all that anger, it seemed to spill right out of me. I couldn’t find it in me to be kind. All I wanted was for everyone else to feel the same pain I was feeling. If I couldn’t be happy with my life, then no one else could, either.”

  “I know exactly what you mean…” I said in a small voice I wasn’t certain he could even hear over the rain. If anyone could understand this man’s pain, it was me.

  He sniffed once again. “Then I heard the beggar had been killed,” he said, seeming to regain some of his composure. “I was shocked. I very nearly convinced myself that it was my hatred alone that had somehow ended the poor man’s life…and when I heard that he wasn’t even German, I…” he said.

  “It was a misconception that many people had,” I said. “You weren’t alone in that.”

  “Yes, but how much different could we have acted toward him if we had known there was nothing to fear?” he asked. He shook his head. “We should never outright hate anyone, just because of where they’ve come from. I had a good friend as a child who was from Germany, and I have no idea if he’s survived all these terrible atrocities that have been happening over there.”

  He shook his head.

  “No matter what side we’re all on, this war is a tragedy…and what happened to that poor beggar…no one deserved the fate he endured.”

  I couldn’t agree with him more.

  He looked at the grave, the rain continuing to drip off the edge of the umbrella.

  “I’m sorry…” he said. “For how I treated you. Perhaps if I had been more willing to try and understand you, your life wouldn’t have ended the way it did. I could have given you a room to stay in, and perhaps done what I could to help you find someone who could translate what you were saying…”

  “It does no good to dwell on regret,” I said. “What’s done is done.”

  “Yes, I know,” Mr. Diggory said. “And it is a weight that I will have to bear for the rest of my days.”

  “Do not burden yourself like that,” I said. “How could any of us have known how it was going to end?”

  He didn’t respond for a moment.

  “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “Nevertheless, I still grieve for his passing. Too many lives are being lost in the war, and now we must experience these tragedies in our own small village?” He sighed. “Sometimes I wonder what good is still left in this world…”

  He turned and started back down the path through the cemetery, his footsteps slow and methodic, his eyes glued to the ground.

  His last statement lingered in my mind as I glanced at the begg
ar’s tombstone as well.

  Sometimes I wonder what good is still left in this world…

  12

  The end of June came quickly. The rainy afternoons became more frequent, so much so that rain barrels were overflowing, and parts of the road outside town were washing out almost entirely.

  Sidney spent nearly a week away from home, trying to work with the men in the village to repair it as best they could. It was a great effort, though, and I caught a glimpse of him returning late one night, covered head to toe in mud, dragging himself from his car back into his house.

  The warmth of the summer days continued to cling to the daylight hours, though, and it was rather difficult to find relief. Windows were thrown open until the storm clouds rolled in, and Irene had started selling cups of freshly made lemonade at her tea shop, along with iced treats.

  It was very nearly July when the town’s festival finally arrived, much to the excitement of everyone around. Flags were hung, the street swept clean, and visitors from all around began to arrive, anticipating an incredibly ordinary, yet whimsical and joyous event.

  Many shop owners in town were closing up for the three days that the festival lasted, including myself, though it certainly didn’t stop many of the women in town from ordering last minute necessities for their husbands; ribbons for their hats, patches for their trousers, buttons and straps for suspenders.

  I was very nearly convinced I was responsible for half the available clothing in town by now.

  Irene and Nathanial had chosen to stay open, especially for the first day. It was a wonderful place to get out of the heat or the rain during the festivities, and enjoy a nice break from the crowds.

  I insisted on helping that day, of course, much to Irene’s dismay.

  “You really should be out enjoying the celebration,” she said for the fourth time that morning.

  “Without you?” I asked, grinning at her. “I couldn’t possibly.”

  She gave me a firm, yet incredibly pleased look as another wave of customers spilled in through the front door.

  I delivered orders of iced treats to children and their parents, as well as chilled glasses filled to the top with lemonade. Everyone had smiles on their faces as they left generous tips and departed, ready to spend the rest of their day out in the festival.

  I sank down into a chair near the door to the kitchen, hidden away from view of the customers. Picking up a pitcher of water Nathanial had set out for us, I poured some into a glass, and guzzled it down in three, long sips.

  The bell sounded over the door, signaling more customers.

  “Good afternoon, Inspector Graves,” I heard Nathanial say.

  The glass in my hand nearly slid down to the floor. I clutched it tightly in my hands at the last moment, my heart leaping into my throat.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Driscoll,” Sam Graves said in his gravely, deep voice. “Mind if I have a table in the back? I’ve got a meeting and would rather not be overheard.”

  “Certainly,” Mr. Driscoll said.

  Slowly, I got up from my seat and peered over the low wall.

  Sam was alone, but he was dressed for work like he always was. Did the man ever relax?

  I watched as Mr. Driscoll led him to the back of the shop, away from the windows where many of the other customers would prefer to sit.

  I rolled my eyes. I supposed it wasn’t all that farfetched to think that he’d be working on a festival day. I imagined that police work was never really ever finished, was it?

  Irene pushed the kitchen door open, and I reached out, grabbing onto her sleeve and pulling her close to me before she made it too far.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Sam Graves is here,” I said. “I’d rather he didn’t see me.”

  “What’s he doing here?” she asked, her brow furrowing.

  “Meeting someone, I guess,” I said.

  “You mean meeting two people?” Irene asked, pointing over the low wall.

  I peered over it, and saw that a young couple had joined Sam at the back table.

  “Why would he choose here of all places to meet them?” I asked.

  “Perhaps because it is a public place?” Irene asked.

  Nathanial appeared around the low wall, making his way to the kitchen.

  “Honey, what is Sam Graves doing here?” she asked.

  I leaned around her, eager to hear the answer.

  Nathanial glanced over his shoulder at the inspector and the couple he was seated with. “I’m not entirely sure, but I asked him if it was something dangerous. He assures me that it’s nothing like that…he just had to deliver some bad news to a family.”

  “Oh…” Irene said, her face falling. “How terrible. Why did they choose to meet here and not at the police station?”

  Nathanial shrugged. “Perhaps he thought this might be a better place to share his news, though I imagine the poor family will never want to step foot in here again after they’re done speaking.”

  I stared at the couple. The young woman’s eyes were wide with shock, as if she’d already been given the bad news. Had she come here, anticipating what was to be said?

  “The Wilsons just left as well,” Nathanial said, pushing open the door to the kitchen and striding through.

  “I’ll clean their table,” I said, getting to my feet and reaching for my serving tray.

  Irene’s gaze sharpened, but she didn’t comment on my immediate desire to help. “Very well,” she said. “But don’t dawdle.”

  She knew as well as I did that the Wilsons had been sitting at the table just beside the one where Sam Graves and this young couple were now seated.

  Curiosity once again drove me to do what would otherwise be considered rather mad. I realized with a small knot in my stomach, that if I were a cat, I would most likely have used half of my nine lives by now.

  I was careful to wind my way back to that table by checking on the other guests, keeping my back to Sam as much as I possibly could. I didn’t want him to see me, knowing that he would likely become angry if he noticed me trying to eavesdrop on his conversation.

  With a flush in my cheeks, I realized that was precisely what I was trying to do. Eavesdrop.

  I set the tray down on the now empty table, keeping my back to Sam and the couple.

  I was careful not to clatter the china as I listened.

  “…sorry that you had to come all this way,” Sam said. “And given all the trouble traveling due to the war…”

  “Yes, very trouble,” said the young man. “We – how you say – ” and he rattled off something in a different language.

  I froze, the teacup in my hand hovering just above the tray.

  That sounded a great deal like the beggar who had been killed.

  Slowly, ever so slowly continuing to clear the dirty dishes from the table, I continued to listen. The young woman had now spoken up, speaking very quickly in her native tongue. I didn’t know any Polish, but it certainly sounded a great deal like what the beggar had said when Sidney and I had met him in the street that day.

  “What is she saying?” Sam asked.

  “I’m sorry,” the man spoke, his accent thick. “She very worry. Her father – you know where he is?”

  Sam let out a long, low sigh.

  I emptied one of the full teacups back into the pot before setting it on the tray, my ears keenly focused on them.

  This poor girl…that beggar was her father?

  I couldn’t even imagine being her right now. Being in a foreign country, looking for him…only to find out the absolute worst possible outcome had occurred?

  “I’m very sorry to have to be the one to tell you both this, but he has passed away,” Sam said.

  The young man’s eyes widened. “He – ” he paused. “I do not understand. Away? Did he go somewhere?”

  Sam sighed heavily.

  I knew I was cutting it close, standing here and listening the way I was. Sooner or later, it was going to be eviden
t that was what I was doing.

  “He died,” Sam said. “He was killed.”

  The man gasped. “Gone?” he asked.

  The woman muttered something, sounding rather frantic.

  The man tried to reassure her, but his voice cracked.

  The woman burst into tears, and with a glance over my shoulder, I saw she’d buried her face in her gloved hands, sobbing almost uncontrollably.

  “How did this – why?” the man asked.

  I did not envy Sam the job he now had.

  Sam’s voice dropped, and the creak in his chair told me that he had leaned forward to speak to them more privately.

  “He wandered into Brookminster a few weeks ago,” Sam said. “As I’m sure you both know, he couldn’t speak any English. One of our townsfolk walked him to the station, and – ” his voice trailed off, and he exhaled rather heavily.

  “He came to England, looking for wife,” the young man said. “The mother of my wife. They separate when running from war in Poland.”

  That’s who he was looking for…I thought, my heart sinking.

  “Her mother came back to Poland, and we thought that Father would follow,” the man said. “But you say he – he is dead?”

  “Yes, unfortunately,” Sam said. “The autopsy revealed that he must have been starving, given the emaciated state of his body when we found him. It seems he was involved with some nefarious dealings, stealing from those living here in the village. Given the times we live in, there are many who do not take kindly to their belongings being taken without permission. All we know at this time is that he was killed by gunfire, likely when someone in town was attempting to defend themselves.”

  The young woman, the daughter of the beggar, was weeping softly. I could only imagine how she felt. It wasn’t fair, what had happened to him. Even if desperation had driven him to those minor thefts, he never should have met an end like he had.

  I turned away with the tray stacked high with melted icy treats and the remnants of sandwiches. My heart heavy, I hurried away from the couple and the loss they now had to grieve.

  Irene caught sight of my face as I stepped through the door to the kitchen. “What happened?” she asked, she and Nathanial following after.