Who Speaks for the Damned (Sebastian St. Cyr #15) - C. S. Harris Page 0,49

lucrative side business building coffins and organizing funerals for the poor. In the middle were the undertakers, which is what Sebastian decided he needed.

The discreet establishment of Joseph Summers, undertaker, lay on a narrow street not far from the Swan. A short, well-fed man with full cheeks and a balding head, Mr. Summers looked like the kind of fellow whose countenance was meant to be wreathed in cheerful smiles. It was not. Instead, he affected a sorrowful demeanor that somehow managed to be both ingratiating and faintly condescending at the same time—that is, condescending toward anyone who might show the least tendency toward anything other than mindless extravagance. When Sebastian introduced himself and explained what he wanted, Mr. Summers bowed so low, his nose almost hit his knees.

“We would be delighted to make all the necessary arrangements, my lord.” The undertaker’s plump white hands fluttered through the air. “Absolutely delighted. And where will interment take place, my lord?”

There was a pause. Mr. Summers blinked at him inquiringly, and it occurred to Sebastian that he should have given more forethought to the necessary particulars. “Probably St. Pancras, but I don’t know for certain yet.”

“I see.” Mr. Summers’s unctuous expression slipped only slightly. “Well, at any rate, the first step will be to convey the deceased from the Swan to your lordship’s residence. We have two wonderfully capable women who will then come to wash—”

Sebastian thought about Joseph Summers delivering a bloody, decaying corpse to Brook Street and said hastily, “You can’t bathe and prepare the body here?”

The undertaker’s blobby nose twitched. “These things are generally done in the home of the deceased.”

“This deceased doesn’t have a home here. He’s a visitor.”

“Well. I suppose it is possible, although highly irregular.” The undertaker paused significantly, a faint gleam showing in his eyes before he could hide it. “And far more costly.”

“I understand.”

Mr. Summers reached for his notebook and pencil. “Now, for the funeral procession itself, you’ll be wanting two mutes, obviously. And at least six pages in addition to the bearers and—”

“There won’t be a funeral procession or church service,” said Sebastian. “I simply need you to pick up the body, have it washed and wrapped, and then deliver it directly to the churchyard.”

Mr. Summers stared at him. “No funeral procession or church service?”

“No.”

The undertaker swallowed. “You will be wanting a coffin, yes? I mean, I know St. Pancras has a coffin they rent out, but surely—”

“Oh, I want a coffin.”

“Excellent. And let me hasten to assure your lordship that our coffins are made of the finest wide-planked, knot-free elm before being covered in black velvet and lined with padded silk—”

“Black superfine will do,” said Sebastian. “And given that the man is dead, I don’t think he needs padding.”

“No padding? Black superfine?” repeated the undertaker in scandalized accents.

“Black superfine.” Sebastian rose to his feet. “I’ll let you know when I’ve spoken to the vicar of St. Pancras.”

Mr. Summers rose with him and made a last-ditch effort to increase his revenue. “If you prefer, we would be more than happy to convey the deceased to his home parish for burial—wherever that may be.”

“I don’t think that would be practical in this case,” said Sebastian, and beat a hasty retreat.

* * *

The ancient church of St. Pancras lay on the banks of the River Fleet, not far from the leafy gardens of the late Irvine Pennington. Most of the crumbling stone building dated from the thirteenth and fifteenth centuries, but the church itself was older—far older, stretching back through the ages to the seventh century if not beyond. As the only place in London that generally accepted Catholic burials, St. Pancras was popular with French refugees. Sebastian decided it was probably a good place to bury a man who kept a set of Buddhist prayer beads.

He had a frank conversation with the church’s white-haired, sad-eyed vicar. And then Sebastian went for a walk amongst the vast, sprawling churchyard’s moss-covered tombstones and centuries-old yews.

He was not wandering aimlessly.

He visited, briefly, the recent grave of an aged friend named William Franklin. Then, turning toward the section of the churchyard that served as the final resting place for the hundreds and hundreds of refugees from the French Revolution who hadn’t lived long enough to return home, he found the grave of Chantal de LaRivière.

The Countess’s headstone was a simple one of white marble, inscribed with nothing more than her name and the dates 1774–1796. With the passage of years, the grave had sunken and was now overgrown with