A Simple Country Funeral Page 9

  “Of course,” he said. “And I’ll be rejoicing when our enemies have to answer for their crimes.” His face darkened as he stared at some distant spot on the ground. “Did I tell you that one of those blasted German refugees sneaked onto my property, and was stealing from me?”

  My heart skipped as I stared at him. His eyes were wide, and had taken on a wild appearance. The knuckles on his fingers were the color of bone.

  Sidney sat back on his heels, glancing up at Mr. Cooke. He opened his mouth to answer, but Mr. Cooke continued on.

  “And he wasn’t just stealing food. Oh, no. When I found him, he was in the garage, going through my tools. He’d filled a sack with there’s no telling what, but he was also holding a scythe that I was in the process of mending,” he said. “It was the dead of night, and all it would have taken was him to have any sort of knowledge of locksmithing, and he would have easily been able to get into the house.”

  I sat stock still beside the tractor seat, two of the screws of the plate Sidney had asked me to unscrew resting on my palm, the screwdriver poised over the third. I didn’t even need to ask about the beggar. Mr. Cooke was so upset about it still that he willingly brought it up, even knowing that the man was dead.

  “I heard noises from the garage. I grabbed my rifle, thinking it might be a raccoon or some other creature that was looking for food…” Mr. Cooke said, a growl in his voice. “Imagine my surprise when I found a ragged man on the other side of the door, likely with the intention of breaking down my door and coming in to harm my family?”

  “Mr. Cooke, if I may be so bold…” Sidney said, getting to his feet. I noticed his fingers were covered in engine grease when he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began to clean his hands. “We don’t know that the beggar you met was a dangerous person. What’s more, he wasn’t even German. He was Polish.”

  Mr. Cooke’s body went rigid.

  “I realized after our conversation this morning that I should have told you that earlier,” Sidney said. “I understand it is easy to make that mistake, as many in town have as well. But he was no German.”

  “Well…” Mr. Cooke said, his voice even more of a growl. “Regardless, he still broke into my garage, and was stealing from me.”

  “Do not mistake me, sir,” Sidney said. “I believe wholeheartedly that what he did was entirely wrong. No matter what his lot in life, there was no rhyme or reason for him to do what he did.”

  “That’s right,” Mr. Cooke said with a nod. “That’s precisely what I thought.”

  He shifted his weight, his gaze narrowing as he looked down at Sidney.

  “How did you know he wasn’t German?” he asked.

  Sidney met his gaze with ease. “I have friends in Poland. I recognized some of the words he used.”

  “I see…” Mr. Cooke said.

  He glanced down at the tractor, and the broken part in Sidney’s hand.

  “The sun’s going to set soon,” Mr. Cooke said. “I think it would be best if the two of you were on your way.”

  Sidney glanced at me for a brief moment. “It won’t take me long to get this fixed up, sir, if you just wanted me to – ”

  “I don’t,” Mr. Cooke said. “Now that I see the problem, I can fix it myself.”

  The tension between us was tangible, so thick that it was like a dark cloud that had settled over us, swollen with rain and thunder, just waiting to unleash itself upon us.

  “Very well,” Sidney said, laying the part that needed to be fixed upon the seat of the tractor, and picking up his tools from the ground. He looked at me and nodded toward the car. “If you need anything else, Mr. Cooke. You know where I am.”

  Mr. Cooke let out a noncommittal grunt, not bothering to lift his eyes from the ground.

  We headed back down the dirt lane toward the main road a few minutes later, bumping along through the holes and ditches of the drive.

  “That was quite a surprise,” I said in a small voice.

  “Indeed it was,” Sidney said. His face was hard, and his gaze distant. “Something was strange.”

  “It was almost as if he felt guilty for believing the beggar to be something he was not,” I said.

  “I thought the same,” Sidney said.

  “I just can’t believe that even though the beggar is gone, there is still such a great deal of turmoil surrounding his appearance in the village. Why? Why was it such a troubling occurrence for so many who live in Brookminster?” I asked.

  Even as the words left my mouth, I knew the answer.

  “…Because of the war,” I said before Sidney could. “Because of the unrest.”

  “I know,” he said. “It’s all very unsettling. I’m sorry it’s troubling you so much.”

  I sat in silence until we returned to the edge of town.

  “Helen…” Sidney said. “I think that I have to agree with Irene, and Sam Graves… I think it would be wise if you were to leave any more investigating about the beggar to the police.”

  I wasn’t entirely surprised to hear him say that. It was something I had begun thinking since hearing Mr. Cooke’s story about finding the beggar in the garage.

  “I’m just worried that you might end up getting hurt. Whoever it was that took the life of that beggar… I’m afraid that if you continue to go down this road, you might – ”

  “Get hurt,” I said, looking up at him, trying to force a smile. “I know. Just like last time.”

  He gave me a knowing, tight half-smile.

  “Yes,” he said. “Just like last time.”

  10

  I knew that I had agreed to keep my distance. I knew that Sidney, and Irene, and Sam Graves had all warned me to stay away from these dangerous situations. After hearing the farmer’s angry reaction about the beggar, I wanted nothing more than to distance myself from it as well.

  And yet…I found I could think of little else.

  Perhaps my determination to have all of my questions answered was a fault, a rather debilitating weakness in my life. I could certainly see how others might think that. I, however, knew that it was something about me that I had wrestled with all my life, and ultimately, the answers I sought were for good reason. I knew they would absolutely drive me mad if left unresolved.

  And that was why I found myself at the scene of the crime once again, in the dead of night, with nothing but a flashlight clasped tightly in my hand to keep me company.

  I was quite literally losing my mind, I was well aware of it. What was it about this poor beggar that was keeping me from sleeping? Why was I so focused on his death, just like I had been with my aunt’s? And Roger’s?

  Thinking of Roger made my face flush as I crept around the corner of the butcher’s house. Would there ever be a time in my life where I didn’t think of him like that?

  The shed where the beggar’s body had been found stood where it always did, shrouded in shadow, without a soul in sight. The caution tape had been removed, and if someone was unaware of the tragedy that had occurred, it would have been nothing more than a simple, rather rickety garden shed.

  The dewy grass muffled the sounds of my footsteps as I tiptoed across the lawn, keeping my ears perked in case anyone else was out this late. The air was cool, and the wind bit through the knit sweater I wore.

  My breath caught in my throat as a rustle in the grass behind me made me freeze. My heart hammered as I glanced over my shoulder.

  No one was standing there, and as I looked up and down the path, I didn’t see any other people, either.

  I swallowed hard, and nearly ended up swallowing my tongue as another rustle made me blanch.

  A tuft of grass along the path behind the houses trembled, and a moment later, an orange tabby cat launched itself from inside, taking off into the night.

  I sagged against the wall of the shed, my hand clutching my heart that threatened to beat right out of my chest. It was just a cat…I thought.

  I scolded myself, telling myself to turn around and make my way
back home. But the small, curious voice in the back of my mind responded with a simple statement; But I’m already so close. What could looking in for just a moment hurt?

  I walked around to the front of the shed, shining the flashlight up at the handle. There was no lock, and when I rested my hand on the cold, metal knob, I realized it would give easily.

  I half expected the inside to smell rancid, and the blood to still be coating the floorboards…but it wasn’t. There was nothing more than a musty, unused smell hanging in the air, and the floor had been scrubbed clean somehow. There was no evidence that a dead body had been there just a number of days ago.

  I shone the narrow beam of light around the shed, looking for anything that seemed out of place. I wondered what had happened to all the items that the beggar had stolen, the goods that he had taken from the farmer. I was curious about what he would have wanted for himself, though it was likely all now at the police station, kept away as evidence, never to be seen again.

  I used the tip of my shoe to move aside an old, worn tarp, yet found nothing more than some rusted garden tools and a pair of buckets. The shelves along the back wall were relatively bare as well, holding nothing more than a few terracotta pots, faded from years of use, and a pair of thick, leather gloves.

  I sighed. There was nothing here. No further clues. Nothing to indicate that the beggar had ever been here.

  Yet, even as I stood there, a chill ran down my spine. A cold, uncomfortable prickle rose up on the back of my neck.

  Even if there was no evidence of a death, it did not change the fact that a body had been lying in here, transforming it from nothing more than an innocent place for garden tools, to a final resting place for a human being.

  It was a bone chilling thought.

  Had he been killed here in the shed? Was he killed somewhere else and then dragged away, deposited here to throw the police off the trail?

  My head throbbed as I worked through all these new questions. It was almost as if every time I thought I was taking a step forward, I was in fact taking four steps backward.

  I should just give up…I thought. This is likely a sign that I am delving into something too deep that really does not concern me…

  I frowned. But this did concern me…at least to an extent.

  I couldn’t be completely sure why, but I realized in that moment, standing in that dark, dreary shed, that I felt guilty about his death…responsible even.

  That was why I was pursuing this case as much as I was. That was why I had gone to the funeral, and sought answers from the farmer.

  I felt responsible for the Polish man’s death…because I had been unable to help him in life.

  What could I have done differently? I asked myself as I stepped back out into the night, slowly pulling the door of the shed behind me. It wasn’t as if I knew Polish, or would have been able to speak it. He was a vagabond, wandering around, seemingly harassing many of the people in Brookminster.

  But what if Sidney and I had been able to help him that day? Should I have taken him in, and helped him search for whatever it was that he was looking for? Would Sidney have been able to help and protect the man from the scrutiny of the local people?

  Maybe he wouldn’t have been starving. Maybe he wouldn’t have seen the need to break into the farmer’s garage. Maybe he wouldn’t have harassed the innkeeper, provoking him to anger?

  These were all questions I’d never get the answer to. All I had was regret in knowing that maybe, just maybe, I could have done more, and simply did not.

  As I made my way back toward home, I found my thoughts drifting toward how terrible the world was in general as of late. Was it always this way, and I had simply remained ignorant of it?

  It must have been, at least in a way. There were always terrible people, and always difficulties. War seemed to exacerbate these issues, making them far more prominent than they normally were. Drastic life changes, like death and birth, were a great deal more frequent during the war. We heard about little else but the sheer numbers of those who had lost their lives.

  I thought of Roger, and all he sacrificed. I thought of the young men at the hospital, and how their lives would never be the same after entering the war.

  These dreary thoughts followed me home. They clung to my mind all night long. They lingered the next morning when I went to visit Irene, knowing that I needed help getting out of my own mind.

  “I think you need to make the choice to put all this behind you,” Irene said as she set down a steaming cup of tea in front of me, concern written all over her pretty, round face. “I care for you, which is why I feel the need to tell you that you have invested far too much of yourself into these matters, and I’m worried for you.”

  I silently picked up the sugar and lowered a few cubes into my cup, swirling the amber liquid around with my spoon. She was right…I just did not want to admit it.

  Irene sighed heavily, taking a seat across from me. “I can understand why you feel the way you do. Whenever we go through something difficult, there are always ways that we wish we could improve our actions. With the beggar, though, there is nothing you could have done differently, dear.”

  “But what if I had?” I asked. “What if I had done more to help?”

  “What if he was not as kind and as wholesome as you are determined to believe he was?” Irene asked, becoming cross. “What if he was a wicked man who wanted nothing more than money that he could use to spend on drink?”

  I licked my lips, unable to answer.

  “Think about it,” she said. “He was harassing the innkeeper. He stole from the farmer. He wandered around this town, supposedly looking for someone…and what proof do we have aside from what Sidney has told us?”

  “Why would the beggar lie to us, though?” I asked.

  “Because he was hungry?” Irene asked, shrugging her shoulders. “I don’t like to think about people in such stark terms either, but his actions speak loudly for him.”

  “You didn’t see the look on his face when I met him,” I said in a low voice. “He meant what he said. He really was looking for someone – ”

  “But you don’t know who that is,” Irene said. She sighed, wiping down the table with the cloth in her hand out of habit, absentminded. “I’m sorry, Helen…I just don’t think that you need to worry yourself silly over this man like you are. With your aunt, I could completely understand that you were concerned, especially given the fact that you are living in her home. But with this beggar…you have no connection to him, aside from your own compassion and heartache. What happened was tragic, of course. But I think that it would really be best if you put this behind you, make peace with it, and move on.”

  I swallowed hard, hearing the words and agreeing with them deep in my heart, even if they stung. “I know,” I said. “I think you’re right.”

  She laid a hand on my shoulder, squeezing it affectionately. “I don’t mean to upset you. I hope you know that.”

  “I do,” I said. “And thank you.”

  I watched her walk toward the front door, getting ready to open the tea house for the day. There were already some customers milling around outside, waiting for their hot, morning tea.

  It suddenly felt as if everyone else was against me. I knew that Irene meant well, and that she knew me well enough now to know my heart was in the right place.

  But she was right.

  This was where I would step down.

  I had no choice. There was nothing else to go on. This mystery, just like the mystery surrounding Roger’s death, would likely never be resolved.

  That was aggravating…but it was the truth.

  And I could do nothing but accept it.

  11

  As reluctant as I was to put the whole situation behind me, I found a weight had been lifted from my shoulders, nonetheless. Perhaps the feeling that I had been partially responsible for the beggar’s death had been what was keeping me tied to the case, and after Irene helped me to see that it w
asn’t my fault, I was able to look at the whole thing a bit more clearly.

  I realized that one of the ways that I would hopefully be able to get past the whole thing was if I were to go and pay my final respects to the beggar. If I could form my own fears into words, even knowing that he would never hear them, or ever have been able to understand them, then maybe I’d be able to finally disconnect myself from him.

  The air was sticky as I closed my shop the following afternoon. The clouds overhead were low in the sky, dark and moving rapidly toward the horizon. It would surely rain within the next hour or so.

  I grabbed my umbrella and started down through the town.

  The streets were almost entirely empty, likely due to the impending rain. I hadn’t heard the dull rumble of a vehicle since that morning, and many windows were already aglow from the lights being turned on indoors.

  The rains were beginning to patter down softly on the ground just as I ascended the rolling hill toward the church. I opened the umbrella just as I stepped through the open gates into the cemetery.

  I always found churchyards so utterly quiet. Everything seemed so unnaturally still. It was as if the dead were simply waiting to be awakened again, as if the presence of the living would somehow stir them to life once more.

  I wrapped my arm around myself, trying not to let the shivers overtake me.

  The beggar’s grave, I knew, was in the farthest corner, away from any other plots. He was buried all alone, never to be laid beside his family like he should have been.

  As I made my way around the large tree that Sam Graves had been leaning against the last time I’d been here, I saw another person standing near the grave.

  I ducked behind the tree, carefully peering around it.

  It was Mr. Diggory, the innkeeper.

  He didn’t seem all that troubled by the rain that was beginning to fall more rapidly. He stood as still as the headstone he was staring at beneath his own umbrella, the rain rolling off and onto the ground below.