Kiss of Death by Stephen Tester

Author:Stephen Tester
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Murder Mystery, Queer Literature, Historical Fiction, New Zealand Fiction, Historical New Zealand, Feminist Literature, Legal Fiction, Spanish Influenza
Publisher: Heritage Press
Published: 2024-03-11T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

I

f one requires a funeral in flu-ridden Wellington, then one must take a number and get in line. Henry Willoughby’s send-off is one of many at our local church on Monday morning, and it’s sandwiched between that of a neighbourhood gardener and a greengrocer’s wife. I didn’t want to go, but Sarah insisted that the four of us make an appearance. Apparently, Henry fled his family when they tried to hide him away like a hermit in the Canterbury high country. He came to know Sarah while living off a disability pension and volunteering at the Wellington War Relief Association. She’s adamant that for decency’s sake someone needs to pay their respects. As tragic as it is, we’re the best he’s got.

Our welcoming committee at the church is a stack of sixteen plywood coffins draped in black cheesecloth, dripping wet in the driving rain. The volunteer pallbearers inform us that plywood is the new mahogany; many of the dead are simply wrapped in old sacking.

Inside, the church is as busy as Lambton Station with services taking place one after another. Margot, Devi, Sarah, and I shuffle closer to the front row after each brief service, and our vacated seats are snapped up by fresh mourners waiting to farewell dead of their own. I inhale the aroma of beeswax and dust, and pray it doesn’t come to this with Bonnie. At least the funeral will be over and done with well before I’m due at the Health Department. The vicar mumbles through the opening prayer from memory, then refers us to the prayer books for the collect and gives the briefest of Bible readings.

Perhaps I’m being hypocritical—after all, I haven’t set foot inside St Peter’s in years, and I hardly knew Henry—but I feel robbed by the brevity. The vicar glances at his watch, nods to the organist, and launches into a sung version of the Lord’s Prayer. He glances at the sheet of paper in front of him and commends the soul of Henry St John Willoughby to God for the second time this morning—the first time being in the previous service, when he got confused. The volunteer parish pallbearers hurry forward while the organist drones a dreadful dirge.

Henry’s coffin is placed back in the stack to be loaded into one of the post office lorries. The pallbearers examine the luggage tags, extract another coffin from the stack, and manhandle it to the altar.

It’s ridiculous that I have a tear in my eye when our acquaintance lasted only an evening. In fact I’m crying for Bonnie, suffering all alone in hospital with death’s grip closing about her.

At least Sarah and Devi’s friendship seems to have survived intact, but Devi is very subdued. I have the distinct impression there won’t be any more soirees any time soon.

Umbrellas are useless in the Wellington wind. We don our raincoats and file onto the street, where we come face to face with Harry Carver. The driving rain is cascading off his cheesecutter hat and his face is filled with anxiety.

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