into the back of the coach; no doubt it was Thornley who had made the request for such a directive did not originate with Matilda or me. The shovel reminded me of the gruesomeness of the task at hand and I tried to shake the implication away, but it lingered. If Matilda harbored any concerns, she made no indication, appearing perfectly calm, devoting her time to writing, with the occasional glance out the window. There was little to view at this hour; most people were safely tucked away with their families behind closed doors. The coach rocked on thick springs and swayed from side to side like a boat. I found the motion to be rather comforting, although sleep escaped me. The anxiety burned deep within me, and it was all I could do to keep from jumping out of the coach and running alongside to burn off some of this energy.
As we passed the road to Artane Lodge, then Marino Crescent—the dignified Georgian row of houses—and number 15, where I was born, an overwhelming nostalgia washed over me. Although we still lived relatively close by, I rarely returned, for this place only generated memories of my illness, years in bed wondering if I would live to see the following day. Matilda, on the other hand, looked out with a fondness I simply did not share. Was this wrong of me? Perhaps. This was, after all, just a place. Did places harbor memories? I often thought they did, recollections both good and bad somehow absorbed by the walls. I couldn’t help but wonder who lived there now. Did another little boy dwell in my little attic room and look out the very window I had looked out of so many times? Maybe he watched us now as we rolled past the park into the white mist.
In the distance, I spied the steeple of St. John the Baptist Church, and I felt the muscles in my body tense, knowing we were close.
Matilda must have sensed something, too; she placed her pad aside and again took to the window. “He was buried amongst the suicide graves just outside the main cemetery,” she said. “I never told you this, but I visited his grave as a child, shortly after Ellen left us. I don’t know why, but I was drawn towards it. I suppose after reading the articles, I wanted to see for myself.”
“Is the grave marked?”
She nodded. “A crude stone bearing his name.”
The driver maneuvered the coach into the lane off Castle Avenue, which took us to the outskirts of the cemetery. The stone wall topped by black iron seemed endless, foreboding, not a place we should find ourselves at this godforsaken hour, and although I had not detected another living soul in some time, the fear of getting caught was palpable.
We came to a stop amongst a group of poplar trees, just out of view from the road. The driver tapped twice on the roof.
“Are you sure we should do this?” I asked.
Matilda was already halfway out of the coach, the driver’s large gloved hand reaching to help her down the step.
As I exited, the driver handed me the shovel and glanced nervously up and down Kincora Lane. “I cannot leave the coach here, so I am going to circle the block. Should I come across anyone, I will do my level best to distract them. When you are ready to leave this place, meet me back here.” He glanced at the shovel. “I would offer to help, but I think if I leave the coach here it will just draw unwanted attention.”
“I understand.”
“Bram! Let’s go!” Matilda said in a loud whisper. She pulled herself halfway up the wall and peered over the other side, the cloth of her petticoat waving beneath her.
“She is a feisty one,” the driver said.
“That she is.” I glanced down the empty road. “Head back to Clontarf Road and drive around for thirty minutes. That should give us enough time. We’ll listen for the coach coming back up Castle Avenue. You’re less likely to attract attention if you stick to the market district and the harbor; these areas are fairly lively, even at night.”
“Yes, sir.” The driver tipped his hat and