Read Online A Tall Dark Stranger by Joan Smith - Free Book Online

belonging to his grandfather or an uncle. Does Mrs. Murray have a large family?”
    “I don’t know. In the three years I’ve known her, I’ve seldom heard her mention her family, except that she has a sister married to a solicitor in Norwich. Oh, and I remember she once mentioned a brother in London, but his name is Henry. I’ve never seen him.”
    “You could mention the name Harold Fanshawe to her.”
    “I’ve already mentioned Mr. Stoddart. She was at Oakbay when Lollie and I returned from the water meadow. She didn’t recognize Mr. Stoddart, either by name or description. In fact, I mentioned Mrs. Murray to Stoddart as well and he’d never heard of her, to judge by his lack of interest.”
    As we were leaving the meadow, we saw a small funeral cortege filing into the graveyard and stopped to look at it. There had been only the one death in the parish recently.
    The paucity of mourners bespoke the death of a stranger or a person of no importance. There were only the clergyman, the beadle, the sexton, and the innkeeper’s son. The last one, I expect, was there because Stoddart had been staying at the Boar’s Head. They all looked more impatient to get on with their own lives than sorrowful at the death.
    “That must be Mr. Stoddart they’re burying,” I said. “They didn’t waste any time in doing it.” I felt a pang for Stoddart, cut down in his prime.
    Renshaw removed his hat. I bowed my head, and we waited until the little procession had passed, then stood at the lychgate a moment. Although there were no official mourners, it wasn’t a parish burial. Stoddart had a proper coffin and was taken to a burial plot that had already been dug. An unknown corpse without funds would have been buried with less ceremony in paupers’ field.
    “I wonder who arranged the funeral,” Renshaw said.
    Isaiah Smogg, the gravedigger’s son, stood beside us. I didn’t notice him until he spoke. He was a brash, redheaded, freckle-faced lad of twelve or thirteen who didn’t hesitate to eavesdrop and even join in a private conversation. If he had been wearing shoes, no doubt he would have joined the mourners.
    Isaiah is fleet of finger and foot. It is a common spectacle in Chilton Abbas to see him careering down the street clutching some purloined item under his ragged shirt, with one or other of the merchants shouting after him. He will end up in Newgate if he isn’t shot first.
    “Mr. Maitland done it,” he said, and spat between his teeth. “Paid for the service and lot and box and all since Stoddart was done in on his land. A fine gent, Mr. Maitland. He tipped Pa a quid.”
    “That’s Mr. Maitland all over,” I said, beaming in approval. In fact, I was astonished at his having even thought of such a thing. It might equally be said that Stoddart had met his end on Oakbay property, but it had never entered our heads to arrange his burial.
    “Is Maitland always in such a rush to perform his charitable works?” Renshaw asked me in a quizzing way.
    “Pa said it might be best to wait,” Isaiah said, “in case Stoddart’s folks showed up. But Maitland, he said, ‘Not likely, is it? The sooner the man’s buried, the sooner forgotten,’ and gave Pa a quid.”
    “Quite right,” I said, and took a step onward.
    Isaiah turned his bold eyes on Renshaw and said bluntly, “You’re the gent staying with Mr. Sommers. I seen your sporting rig in town—with her in it,” he added, tossing his tousled head at me. “A dandy rattler and prads, mister.”
    “Thank you. I don’t believe I caught your name.”
    “Everybody knows me. I’m Isaiah, ain’t I? I’m named after the Bible. I’m a profit.”
    Renshaw held his face perfectly sober and said, “I’m happy to meet you, Isaiah.”
    “You didn’t say who you are.”
    “I’m Robert Renshaw.”
    “You’re brown as an Injun. How’d ye get so brown? Are you a sojer from Wellington’s army?”
    “No, I’ve been in India.”
    Isaiah turned his eyes to me