These attentions infuriated Rendell, but he was forced to conceal the fact, for he was determined that Mrs. Munnings should not attend the funeral. As that lady anticipated that function with ghoulish cravings, diplomacy was essential. And friendly relations are conducive to successful diplomacy.
“About the funeral, Mrs. Munnings.”
“Lor, Mr. Rendell! You’ve taken the very words out of my mouth.”
“You could help me quite a lot, if you would.”
“Anything to oblige
“It’s like this. I’ve put an announcement in the papers, of course. Among other things, it says: “Flowers to 4, Waldegrave Road,’ and——”
“Flowers! There won’t be no flowers! Why, the pore feller hadn’t a relative and——”
“We don’t
“Well, I’ve said it before and I say it again—anything to oblige
But her tone lacked conviction, for disappointment paralysed her. Rendell’s request created civil war in Mrs. Munnings. Determination to please him conflicted with her desire to attend the funeral. But her greed was greater than her morbidity and so it triumphed. It was, in fact, so much greater that she accepted Rendell’s flimsy fiction, concerning the possible arrival of relatives, in a wholly uncritical spirit.
That night Rendell went to Marsden’s room and briefly reported his success. He ended by saying:
“So there will only be the two of us at the funeral to-morrow. We leave here at twelve.”
“But—I’m not coming!”
“You’re not!”
“No. Funerals depress me.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes, frightfully. But, I say,” Marsden went on quickly, “did you actually put an announcement in the papers, mentioning flowers, and all that?”
“Yes, of course. Wrayburn’s known hosts of people in his day. Surely to God someone will turn up—or send a wreath—or do something!”
“I doubt it,” Marsden replied judicially, “people are pretty callous nowadays. Personally, I’m not sending a wreath, but then—of course—we didn’t hit it off. That’s the fact—and there’s no point in being sentimental.”
“None whatever.”
Rendell left it at that, and went down to his own room.
So, at twelve the next day, a hearse—with one wreath on the coffin—and a car, with one occupant, left Chelsea.
It was a blank anonymous day, grey with frost, but Rendell scarcely noticed it. He was in that state in which nothing seems so fantastic as facts. He was attending the funeral of a man called Denis Wrayburn. He was paying for it. He was the solitary mourner. A few weeks ago he had not known of Wrayburn’s existence. He had met him because of Ivor Trent—a man he did not know, and had not seen. Those were the facts, but they seemed like fictions. Rendell felt he was watching himself.
Then, incontinently, he remembered a remark of Rosalie’s concerning Wrayburn. He had asked her what she made of him and, after a silence, she had said:
“Have you ever seen a photograph of a polar landscape?”
“Yes—why?”
“I saw one once—and it reminded me of Wrayburn.”
That was pretty good, in its way. Terror—isolation—beauty. Yes, he knew what she meant. . . .
It would take some time to get to the Crematorium. It was odd how he had instinctively decided on cremation. They had asked him about an urn and a plaque. He had not replied—and the man had said:
“Some people decide to have the ashes scattered in the garden.”
And, again, he had known instinctively that this was appropriate. Then nothing would bear witness to Wrayburn’s sojourn on earth. Somehow that seemed right to Rendell. . . .
He looked out of the window. A man had taken his hat off and now stood staring at the hearse with apathetic interest. He had a round red face, with fish-like eyes, and a heavy corpulent body. Nevertheless Rendell felt grateful to him. He had become Wrayburn’s mourner for ten seconds.
At last the car drew up at the Crematorium, Rendell went to the chapel, confident he would find someone who had known Wrayburn. But it was empty.
A few minutes later the brief service began. Rendell occupied the pew for the chief mourners, but he heard and saw nothing. He was alone. That fact dominated him. No one else had come, or sent a flower.
At a given point in the service, the coffin slowly moved from its resting place and disappeared through a narrow aperture. Rendell watched it vanish, feeling that a fantastic dream had reached its climax.
The service ended—and the parson shook hands with him. Then an official appeared and asked.
“Would you care to see the garden, sir?”
“Thank you. Yes, I should.”
They walked in silence till they reached a long colonnade, facing a garden.
“It doesn’t look its best to-day, sir, I’m afraid, but it’s a beautiful garden.”
“I am glad to have seen it. Thank you so much.”
And now? Well, now, of course, he would drive back to Chelsea. It was over. There was nothing more to be done here.
He went to the car and said to the driver: