Free Death on the Last Train by George Bellairs Page B

Timothy had been a member in his heyday and as he had neither been blackballed nor drummed out, according to their rules they were responsible for his burial in accordance with the ritual of their cult.
    From the fourth cab emerged Miss Bessie Emmott clad in black from head to foot.
    â€œWhat are this lot barging in for?” asked Mrs. Mark of her husband, indicating the secret society, the eight members of which were all dressed alike, top hats, frock coats and their badges of office in the lapels of their garments. They were like the chorus of some weird musical comedy and looked to have hired their attire from a theatrical costumier. “
And who is that woman?
”
    The brethren bore an enormous wreath between them and Bessie, not to be outdone, carried a harp made of chrysanthemums.
    There was a large crowd of onlookers beside the open grave. They made way for Mr. Mark, still in his Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes and top hat, and Mrs. Mark, sniffing into a handkerchief as though lamenting, instead of rejoicing in the departure of this black sheep of the family. The secret society followed, bearing the bier which they had taken from the municipal gravediggers. Mr. Beaglehole had to struggle to maintain his dignity and position as official chaplain against the lay minister of the brotherhood.
    To the horror of the mourners and spectators alike, Bessie Emmott boldly, some said brazenly, took up her place with the open grave dividing her from Mr. and Mrs. Mark. There looked like being a scene, but somehow, the fortunate presence of the secret society prevented it.Everything went well. The autumn sun broke through. Mr. Beaglehole and the secret society performed their respective parts amicably together, Mr. and Mrs. Mark rattled handfuls of sand and stones on the coffin and many others there, including Bessie, followed suit. So, Timothy Bellis went to his earth in an almost jovial burst of good feeling. Then the crowds melted, the relatives hurried off to the cab and their train, the brethren removed their regalia and drove off to their licensed headquarters for refreshment. There was no funeral tea, no bakemeats. Bessie Emmott strolled alone among the surrounding graves, reading their inscriptions and watching the spectators until not one remained. Then she returned to the new grave which the gravediggers had already filled in, wept bitterly over it, and unsteadily tottered on her high heels back to the taxi which was waiting for her.
    Littlejohn who had been watching everything from a seat on a convenient mound just above, rose, looked at his watch and set off to catch Dr. Cooper before surgery hours.
    The Inspector rang the bell of the door on which were screwed two plates; one of brass, old, with the name half polished away:
    DR. HENRY COOPER,
Surgeon
.
    The other, in oxydised copper with white lettering:
P. C. VAVASOUR, M.D., B.S.,
Physician and Surgeon
.
    A plain stocky girl with a mop of black hair and a fringe cut over her forehead, answered. She wore horn-rimmed glasses two sizes too large for her and a white dispenser’s coat.
    â€œIs Dr. Cooper in?”
    â€œCan’t you see that it says
Come In?
” replied the attendant, indicating another plaque on the door.
    â€œThis isn’t a professional call …”
    Littlejohn produced his card. The young woman did not flinch but her tone softened.
    â€œDr. Cooper’s having lunch. He’s been kept on a case. I’ll tell him. Come in and sit down.”
    She put him in the waiting-room with the patients.
    About twenty people sitting in rows on cane chairs as though waiting for a concert to begin. In front of them, on the wall, a bell with an indicator like those used in servants’ hall, only instead of the names of the rooms, those of the two doctors. The bell rang and a small red flag fluttered in a circle beneath “Dr. Vavasour.” This advertised the fact that the next patient could now enter the doctor’s surgery by