As they walked away from the bridge and past the old castle, Benjamin’s voice rose, alone and mournful, as he crossed the bridge in their place, singing, “One for sorrow, two for joy. Three for a girl, four for a boy. Five for silver, six for gold. Seven for a secret never to be told.”
Epilogue
Edwina had avoided the foreshore for three days, the longest she’d gone without setting foot in the mud since her father moved the family to the city. Instead of picking up half-buried treasures uncovered by the tide, she had devoted her days to arranging her sister’s funeral.
There’d been a discussion among Chief Inspector Singh and various representatives of the Constabulary who’d suggested there ought not be a public funeral for Mary. Mention of her involvement in the murders had been kept out of the official City Police report, a feat that ironically required altering the memories of all the mortal witnesses present at the residential block of flats where the Brick Lane Slasher was apprehended. As a consequence, there’d been no official mention of her related death either. Yet she had passed through the veil, which caused a number of others involved in the decision-making to argue it would be more burdensome to try to cover up her death. Besides, she was obviously a member of a localized community in which she had daily interactions with customers and hospital staff who would notice her absence, not to mention a sister who wished to publicly mourn.
And so, with approval in place, Edwina saw to the details once her sister had been delivered to the shop in the coffin she’d paid for with the family’s long-saved funerary funds.
With no way to contact her missing parents, the final viewing of the body by family was left to Edwina and Ian. And Mrs. Dower, who’d kindly offered to wash and dress Mary’s body for burial. Edwina expected a small coalition of mourners within the hour, including Sir Elvanfoot before he caught his train north. Ian was going, too, but she chose to dwell on only one source of grief at a time and so put that out of her mind. The rest of the mourners were thought to consist of various neighbors who’d been prodded to attend by Mrs. Dower, who had suggested to Edwina it might be wise to set out cakes and tea and a spot of sherry in the shop for “them what’s kind enough to pay their respects to the odd bird, and no disrespect intended.”
Edwina worried it was a plain-looking sort of coffin. Wooden, but with a coat of black paint and gilded handles. The coffin sat in the middle of the shop atop the kitchen table that had been brought down from the living quarters. The display cases and counters had already been moved aside and covered with sheets, as were any visible clocks or mirrors, so that the small space felt appropriately shrine-like. Small cakes and tarts were set on trays as prescribed.
A photographer was due any moment to capture Mary’s final likeness. If Edwina ever did hear from her mother or father again, she’d like to have one last photo to show them of their daughters together, and so she planned to have Mary propped up with their heads resting together as they’d always been before the world turned upside down. Mrs. Dower had agreed that the midnight-blue dress from the hope chest was the appropriate somber attire for a memento mori photo.
And now it was time for Edwina to see for herself.
“Ready?” Ian undid the latches on the coffin lid, preparing to open it so Edwina could have a private moment to say goodbye before the others arrived.
Edwina nervously fussed with the crisp black crepe that had been attached to the bodice of her mourning dress before bravely nodding.
Ian pried the top of the coffin open on its hinge. Edwina stood beside him to gaze upon Mary’s face a final time and say goodbye. But even before the coffin was fully open, they both knew something was wrong. The distinct smell of river mud seeped out of the confined space. In a single effort, Ian pushed the lid all the way back.
At first, they couldn’t make sense of what they were seeing. Mary was attired as she should be, but her dress was soaked with muddy water, and strands of algae clung to her arms and neck. Her hair, which Mrs. Dower swore had been combed into a beautiful pompadour, was drenched and smelled of fish slime. And there, in Mary’s cupped white hands, which had been folded neatly over her middle, rested a blue orb with a vein of gold visible beneath a sheen of newly dried mud.
“Blimey, I never,” said Mrs. Dower, clutching her chest as she peered inside the coffin. “What’s happened to her? She were in a right proper state only this morning, she were. Saw to it myself.”
Edwina shivered from a dose of superstition. The orb appeared to have been inexplicably fished from the river.