We sat in silence, pretending to watch the empty pulpit and the back of the organist as he shuffled sheets of music. I noticed that the heavy heads of the funeral lilies were already drooping, a couple of petals fluttering to the floor.
I put my hands together and closed my eyes to show the man that he had caused offence, but as I did so he wriggled on his seat as if his body was struggling with his conscience.
‘I am sorry,’ he said, his tone now gentler. ‘I meant no disrespect to you. I too do not like burials but I did not come to mourn, so I have no place here with you. I have heard from you all that I needed to, so I must go now. I have come such a long way and now I must return if I am to catch the next train.’
I did not look at him nor open my eyes for I felt that he did not deserve a response, but I nodded briefly to show that I had heard him.
He seemed to wait a few moments as if he was expecting me to speak but then I heard the rustle of fabric as he gathered up his coat and then his slow footsteps echoing back up the aisle.
I stood up quickly and turned around. ‘A train to where?’ I called after him.
He stopped.
I realised how odd my question had sounded as I heard the echo of my words in this place of quiet contemplation. I wondered where my question had come from and why I had needed to ask it – maybe I still felt I could help him in some way.
He seemed to hesitate, his feet shuffling on the spot. Then he walked back down the aisle and sat with me again, although he gave me no answer.
I fancied that it was his eyes that I recognised for they were unusually pale but there was nothing else about him that I could place, and I wondered if I had known him many years ago when his face had been more youthful.
‘You say you are not here to mourn,’ I said, ‘but will you not at least pray for the soul of a fellow man?’
‘I will not pray for him,’ he repeated. ‘Not this man.’
I felt tears in my eyes for the first time that day, maybe because I was reminded of how few people had actually cared for Howard. Even I had distanced myself from him at the end, and I thought of how he must have felt that day when he stood alone among the Blood Elms.
‘That is a pity,’ I said shakily, ‘for I fear that this particular soul needs extra help.’
‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘It is how Sergeant Astley described it all to me,’ I explained quietly. ‘He said that Howard was alone when it happened, in a secluded spot that is quite sheltered from view. It is a place that held a special meaning for him – a place where he might have felt close to his daughter again. He had strayed far away from the rest of his party. The sergeant said that Howard was shot with his own pistol, but the thing is, Howard would usually carry a rifle, which is longer and more difficult to accidentally discharge in that way.’
The man nodded.
‘Sergeant Astley told me that what had happened was no more than a tragic accident, but I don’t believe it to be so.’ I wiped my eyes and cleared my throat but I felt I had to explain what had happened so that Howard was at least understood. ‘You see, Howard had suffered a lot over the years,’ I continued, ‘but he was not a man who was easy to talk to, or to know well. I think that there was a lot that he was keeping from me, from everyone, in fact.’
‘I understand,’ he said gently, but I wondered if he really did.
‘The service today did not rightly follow the book of common prayer,’ I added.
‘You mean that the circumstances of Sir Howard’s death meant that the vicar was prohibited from following it,’ he said.
I realised that this man was educated in the ways of the church, just as I was. All the government officials and suited representatives who had attended the funeral would not have even noticed the gaps in the service, and I was glad that I did not have to explain myself further.
And then I remembered who this man was: Francis Elliot-Palmer – a man who I had known of, rather than known, and a man who had been more known to Nell than me, but I recalled then that he had been a scholar of Theology. He was a man that I remembered meeting but only on one occasion – it was a vague memory but one that made me uneasy somehow.
‘Sir Howard has had a service in a church and a burial,’ Francis said fixing his pale eyes on me. ‘That at least should give you some solace.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘there is little that improves with the passing years, but I suppose that is one thing that has. I believe that Sergeant Astley and the coroner are to thank for that – recording a death by misadventure was, I believe, a kindness, for an outcome of suicide would have caused such disgrace.’
‘The church too is changing,’ he said. ‘Indeed, it is not so long ago that a suicide would not have been allowed a burial in the graveyard at all.’ Then his voice softened and he leant across the aisle and took my hand. ‘I do not believe that God would condemn any man who took his own life when he was not in his right mind, not my God anyway.’
‘Yet you will still not pray for Howard’s soul!’ I cried.
‘I will not,’ he persisted, ‘for I believe that Howard Caldwell committed far greater sins than taking his own life.’ He only whispered the words but somehow they seemed to hang about the rafters as loud as any speech from the pulpit.
I shook my head sadly but I could not question him, not in the house of God on the day of a funeral. I feared speaking ill of the dead, especially when the deceased was being buried just yards from where we sat.
I think that Francis must have felt the same because whatever he could have said at that moment did not leave his lips. He withdrew his hand from mine and his voice became lighter and more formal as if we had bumped into one another at a village fete. ‘I had hoped to see you here, Mrs Ryland,’ he said, ‘although I never expected we would have the chance to talk. I have not been in Missensham for many years, yet I remember you, and I think we may have met once – my name is Francis Elliot-Palmer.’
‘I think we have met, Francis,’ I said. ‘I do not recall when, but I have always been aware of your family and your home at Waldley Court. Your family are also well remembered in this church.’
He smiled politely and I saw the eyes of the young man again, even if the face around them had aged.
‘You knew my daughter Nell better though,’ I said. ‘The girl who went missing along with Iris Caldwell.’
He opened his mouth a little and for a moment I thought he might say more but he did not. I thought it odd that he did not mutter the empty words of condolence that I had become so accustomed to hearing.
‘I still see Nell,’ I said, ‘or at least I used to. I would see her in her chair in my front room. Sometimes I would talk to her, although she would never answer me. She is faded now, and I worry that I will never see her again.’
Francis said nothing. He did not even smile or nod his head, but I heard the shuffle of his shoes on the floor and he glanced away awkwardly.
I had been encouraged by the understanding Roy had shown when I had told him that Nell was still with me, but I had forgotten that Francis was practically a stranger – I was embarrassed that my intimate confession had flowed so freely.
‘Mrs Ryland,’ Francis said at last. ‘I—’
‘No!’ I said firmly. ‘I know that I am not mad. I do not believe in ghosts of that kind. I think the reason that I still see Nell is something to do with my own regret. You see, I was a terrible mother to her and I made a lot of mistakes that led her to behave the way that she did.’