Free Death be Not Proud by C F Dunn Page A

the shops began to shut. Christmas lights hung in abeyance across the street, waiting like a widow to shed the garb of mourning and be clothed once more in light. I had a lead on the name and the place; now all I could do was follow its thread, and hope that where it led, I wanted to follow.

CHAPTER
4
The Box
    Man is no starr, but a quick coal
    Of mortall fire.
    G EORGE H ERBERT (1593–1633)
    I needed to concentrate fully if I hoped to make any inroads on the negligible information I had tracked down. As I entered the broad hallway, the signature tune of the early evening news blasted from the television in the sitting room, the house otherwise quiet and at peace with itself. I started for the stairs, then changed my mind, doubling back to make my presence known to my parents and to forestall any questions.
    They looked up as I came in, my mother’s hands still twitching the wool around the fine knitting needles as she smiled at me, working all the time, the air around her strangely bright as if she were back-lit like an exhibit in a gallery. I made a mental note to have my eyes checked. Our fat tabby cat waddled over to greet me, head-butting my leg in the eternal quest for food and attention. I had barely seen him since coming home; I bent down to stroke him.
    â€œHello, Tiberius – how’s things?” I scratched behind his ear just the way he liked. “Hi, Mum, Dad.”
    Click, clickity-click , Mum’s needles went without pausing.
    â€œHello, darling, how did that go?”
    â€œYep, Beth’s fine, so are the children, and Rob said to say ‘Hello’. Oh, and I forgot the croissants – sorry, Dad. I’ve left the money in the hall.”
    I didn’t wait for an answer, and I heard him grunt behind my back; I imagined a dark cloud with incipient rain hanging over him. Mum’s voice followed me into the dining room through the door.
    â€œHave you eaten? Your father’s made a wonderful casserole for this evening.”
    â€œI’ve had coffee, thanks, and I’m going to grab something to eat now, so don’t worry about supper for me – I’ve too much work to do.”
    â€œYou don’t drink coffee, darling, and there’s tea in the pot,” Mum called after me.
    I raided the stone-lined pantry set into the thickness of the wall, the temperature only a degree or two above the cold night air outside. A slab of Lincolnshire pork pie, an orange, and a handful of grapes balanced on a tea plate would have to do for now, as neither hand would support any more weight. I grabbed a half-mug of tea and collected my bag on the way back through the hall. Tiberius followed, trotting upstairs beside me.
    Â 
    The old tailor’s box had once held a man’s dress shirt, back when gentlemen still expected to wear stiff wing collars and to never venture forth without gloves and a hat. Now the shabby box I retrieved from the top of the cupboard squeezed in beside the fireplace contained the tatty remains of the papers my grandfather had specifically left to me in his will.
    I sat cross-legged on my bed and removed the lid, the tired cardboard smelling faintly of his cigar smoke and mothballs.Tiberius jumped up beside me, his long tail flicking in my face; I tickled his ears and he settled in a heap, half hanging off my lap, and began to purr. In lifting off the translucent layer of tissue paper that protected the contents, my heart suddenly scuttled unevenly. I breathed slowly, easing out the anxious niggle, and it settled once again to its regular beat. Here, in this old box, had lain the portion of Ebenezer Howard’s unfinished transcriptions of the journal, along with the other papers Grandpa had picked up in the auction, and his notebook containing his research. I remembered him writing in the fat, foolscap book, its red cloth spine and marbled covers stained with ink. I had an image of him sitting at his desk in his bedroom by the window in