The old man was rolling a cigarette, stiffly, his fingers bent and with a shine on them like claws. Humphrey exchanged greetings with him, and remarked on the weather, as he had learned to. The old man was wearing a dark blue serge suit for his visit to the churchyard, and collar and tie, a mop of yellow-white hair sitting on his head like smoke. Of the front wall, under an urn and grapes decoration, was the shield of the Strange family crest, his crest. That what he’d taken to be an outbuilding was a burial vault, built of the local red sandstone, and carved into the ornate top Standing in front of what appeared to be a brick outbuilding.įrom high in the yew a wren opened in sudden, loud song, scolding him as he made his way between headstones etched with lichen, and mossed and ivy-clad stone coffin lids, the air sweet with aĪnd he saw when he reached there that that was where he wanted to be. And he found someone then, in a corner of the churchyard, an old man He looked hopefully at a few graves when he got there, before aimlessly following the path round to the rear of the church. That should have been done on his first visit. Humphrey stopped off at St Swithin’s on his way to the river, telling himself that this was something that had to be done.
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