A Misguided Mistake

Chapter Twelve

There were few sadder things, John supposed, than a sparsely attended funeral. The church was almost empty, only four pews half-occupied. One by himself, the other by Margaret, her father and Mr Bell. A third, just behind them, by their servant - who, by his estimation, was deeper in grief than Mrs Hale's own family. A fourth, at the very back of the church, by Nicholas Higgins and his daughter.

A sorry crowd indeed.

In this case, such a thing was no reflection of the deceased. Mrs Hale had been a good woman, one he had held a great respect for. She had not suited the northern climate, and John wondered if the unhappy state she had spent her final months in had contributed to her death. It was speculation only, for he could not claim to be any great friend to the woman. He knew only what he had seen, and what Margaret had told him. Perhaps she had always been a sickly sort of woman - or perhaps her husband's choice had condemned her to an early grave.

Margaret did not look over at him, her eyes fixed firmly on the coffin in front of her. She looked exhausted, her pale skin almost grey in pallor, eyes ringed red. He knew her grief all too well; losing a parent was a terrible thing, and she was still young in so many ways. She looked so small in the pew, sitting between Mr Bell and her father. He longed to sit beside her, to hold her hand in his and comfort her through this. He could do nothing to take this pain from her; and he knew that to try and do so would only cause her more discomfort.

It was no surprise to him that she had insisted she attend the funeral. His own mother and sister had not asked to come, upholding the usual expectation that women would stay away.

After the short, sombre service, the mourners left the church. It was a cold, unpleasant sort of November morning, the air thick with damp and the heavy scent of smoke. There was rain in the air, though it did not have the courtesy to fall properly. The mist of it clung to his coat, his ears numb with cold beneath his hat. A miserable day for a miserable occasion.

Margaret and her father stood, flanked by Mr Bell, saying goodbye to the few who had come out on this grey day. Margaret held onto her father's arm tightly, and John was under the impression that without the support of his daughter, Mr Hale would fall to the floor. He inhaled deeply, and took a step closer to them, wishing to offer his condolences. Before he could walk, he felt a tap to his shoulder, and heard a voice in his ear.

"Mr Thornton."

He turned to see a policeman he recognised from his magistrate sessions. What cause did the man have here? John nodded, his jaw tight as the man returned the greeting.

"Mason isn't it?" John asked, his eyes darting towards Margaret. She did not see him, occupied with her father. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr Thornton. But with you being the local magistrate - would you come with me to the morgue?"

Some time later, John stood in the terrible place, the stench of death surrounding him. He stared down at the stiff face of the man he had seen just two days prior. He had seen death more times than he cared to count; he had never before felt the icy chill that washed over him now upon seeing the face of this dead man. A man he had assumed would be a stranger - but he was not.

"We know nothing about him. I reckon he's not from 'round here; folk know their own, and nobody has recognised him thus far. The doctors believe he had an internal complaint that contributed to his death, exacerbated by the drink and the cold."

"I know this man." John said, for the truth would come out soon enough. "One of my servants was engaged to him. You are right, he is not from here. He is from the south. Leonards, his name is."