The Body at the Tower - By Y. S. Lee Page 0,48

cool, unlike the heat wave last year that led to the Great Stink, it was still midsummer.

The street on which the Wick family lived – for how much longer, now its breadwinner was dead? – looked grimy and diminished in the presence of the rather splendid hearse. To this were hitched a pair of black mares, their bridles a suitably dull black, and an oddly jaunty headdress of black feathers atop each horse’s mane. Behind the hearse waited two large carriages. The door of the house stood open, its crape bow renewed and enlarged for the important day.

The neighbours were all at their windows, of course – she could see curtains twitching all up and down the street – but none would take note of a nosy lad behaving like a nosy lad. The Wick house was already full of women, she could see that much, wearing sombre colours rather than mourning. Friends and neighbours, then, who wouldn’t attend the funeral itself but were there to help with that formidable pack of children. Mary found a spot on the corner that afforded a good view of the house and its approach, and settled in there.

She hadn’t long to wait. In half an hour or so, a small company of men made their way down the street, walking in single file at a dignified pace. Their leader was a tall, angry-looking, dark-haired man whose black suit, a good deal too small, stretched painfully across his broad back: Keenan. Reid followed in sombre grey, his fair hair slicked down with pomade which made it appear much darker. The hod-carriers Smith and Stubbs were, like Reid, not in full mourning.

At the door, Keenan hesitated before stepping inside. He had the air of a man about to enter a new place, where the only thing he could be sure of was danger. It was odd, considering what great friends he had been with Wick. Or so one assumed. Mary realized that Keenan alone, in the brickie gang, seemed affected by the loss of Wick. Reid had his own motives, of course: his obvious affection for Mrs Wick meant he was still the prime suspect in any theory of Wick’s death involving violence. But the hod-carriers seemed little moved by the man’s death – outwardly, anyway. It was possible that in private they were deeply shaken while maintaining a brave façade. But the marked contrast between Keenan’s black mourning and the other men’s Sunday suits suggested otherwise.

The door closed behind them. After another half-hour’s delay, it swung open again and the four men reappeared, this time shouldering the coffin between them. They marched smoothly, in step, as though they’d rehearsed this precise manoeuvre with care. Perhaps they had; perhaps it was the unintentional result of their labouring together every day. They transferred the coffin to the hearse with a minimum of fuss, placing it on something of a dais surrounded by bunches of greenery. Fixed to the top of the coffin was a small arrangement of white roses in the shape of a cross.

Coffin in place, the men returned to the doorway of the house but this time remained outside until the widow Wick came into view. Mourning dress made her appear paler and thinner than ever, and even from Mary’s distance it was clear that she was feeling unwell. She took a few faltering steps, then paused. The sight of the coffin, mounted on the hearse for its final journey, seemed to make an impression upon her. She stared, eyes wide, mouth working. A moment later, she sank soundlessly towards the ground.

Reid caught her before she fell, his arms flashing out to raise her before the other men had even noticed her distress. Keenan’s habitual scowl spasmed with strong emotion – anger? – then smoothed out into a carefully impassive expression. He waited while the neighbours revived Mrs Wick with fans and smelling-salts, taking her from Reid’s arms and supporting her wasted frame against their shoulders.

Then, another attempt. The girlish widow set her face, clenched tight her black-gloved fists and walked to the first carriage, where she was helped up by the hired attendant. Following respectfully, the four men climbed into the second carriage. And that was that. Within a minute, the entire procession was under way.

Following the funeral train was rather more awkward than it sounded. To begin with, the hearse and carriages moved at a glacial pace, much more slowly than other vehicles and pedestrians. There was the difficulty, too, of showing