Free The Sweet Smell of Decay by Paul Lawrence Page A

impatient irritation. From his lips came a low grumbling noise, though whether it was for my benefit or whether it was a noise he made all the time, I could not yet determine.
    Towering over me with both hands on the top of his cane, legs akimbo with a terribly severe expression on his face, he looked like he was trying to pass an Epsom stool. ‘You say you are a cousin?’ he said in a low, thick slur. ‘I think not.’
    I smiled brightly. ‘You may be right, sir. It was my father said that we were related, and the Lord Shrewsbury. I have no evidence of mine own to support it.’
    At the mention of Shrewsbury’s name his eyes widened and he began to breathe noisily through his nose. The mumbling stopped. His eyes fell and he began a long slow shuffle as he manoeuvred himself to face back towards the house. He hobbled back up the steps. I followed, not knowing whether I was to be admitted or not. A servant came up to me and stared at my brown shoes. After some consideration he offered me gloves and a hatband. I took them, though I didn’t have a hat.
    Inside it was quickly evident that the men were downstairs and the women were upstairs. The servant led me to the drawing room, from which all the furniture had been taken, except a line of red leather upholstered chairs standing around the edge. A big window, standing the full height of the room, allowed the winter light to bring a glow to the polished floor. A coffin stood in the middle of the room on a dark oak table. I went over to pay my respects, wondering if the casket was open, as was the custom – just in case the deceased should change its mind. I guessed not and indeed the box was nailed down. Nice box, though, unblemished elm, sanded, smoothed and lovingly polished. A dozen men sat around the border of the room, all wearing black broadcloth, all wearing the same design new gold ring with black enamelling, and all staring at me. I was the only one bereft of such a ring. Putting my gloves on quickly I walked over to the panelled fireplace. I pretended to admire the tapestries that hung on either side of it and accepted a cup of wine, although I didn’t really want it. None spoke. Prynne would have had a ball.
    At last a bell rang. The men stood up as one and headed for the hallway and the women descended from upstairs in smallgroups of two or three. They all flocked like black sheep too, all dressed in the same black woollen gowns. I reckon a lot of people must die in Epsom, for everyone seems to know exactly what to do and wear. London is not so formal. As I walked out the door, a servant handed me a sprig of rosemary to throw into the grave.
    Four special coaches stood waiting outside, all of them decked out in the family crest. For the chief mourners and family, I presumed. William Ormonde climbed into the front coach together with a very unhealthy-looking young man and two women, both veiled. One of the women had a very shapely behind beneath quite a tight black dress. The coaches pulled off towards the town with the rest of us following on foot.
    Outside the very small church the mourners filed in slowly. It was a tiny church and at the last moment I decided that I had no stomach for sitting so intimately with such an ugly and bitter congregation, so I made up my mind to wait outside – the gathering afterwards would be bad enough. I needed to gather my wits, so I sat on a wall and enjoyed the fresh, cold air and the hoarse cawing of crows from the treetops of Minnes’ wood. When my behind got sore I went for a walk in the cemetery in search of the grave, a freshly dug hole. It was easy to find, in a small clearing beneath a giant oak tree surrounded by sanicle and periwinkle. Sanicle keeps away the surgeon, according to the French, whilst periwinkle stops nosebleeds when chewed. Neither of much practical use now for Anne Giles. The gravestone was small and arched, finely polished and chiselled.
    Anne Ormonde
    Born January 18th 1644
Died January 18th