her, but despite her thin frame, Miss Silver’s lifeless body was too heavy for her to move without help. Trying hard not to panic, Clara raced downstairs and burst into the street, peering blindly into a veil of snow. There were only a few people braving the inclement weather and most of them hurried past despite Clara’s pleas for help. Snowflakes were settling in her hair and soaking through the thin material of her plain grey cotton gown. Her feet were already wet from her walk to work that morning, but she was oblivious to any discomfort and growing desperate when she saw a familiar figure striding towards her.
‘Luke,’ she cried. ‘Luke, come here quickly.’
He quickened his pace and hustled her into the shop. ‘What the hell are you doing? You’ll catch your death of cold, running about in weather like this without a coat.’
‘Come upstairs. It’s Miss Silver – I think she’s dead.’
He snatched a woollen shawl from its stand and wrapped it around Clara’s shoulders, despite her protest that it was new stock and would be ruined. ‘Never mind that, you’ll be joining her if you’re not careful. Where is she?’
Teeth chattering, Clara led him through to the parlour and up the narrow staircase. She pointed to the inert body. ‘I tried to lift her but I couldn’t manage on my own.’
‘Wait there.’ Luke entered the room and leaned over to place his hand in front of Miss Silver’s blue lips. He straightened up, shaking his head. ‘She’s a goner, I’m afraid.’ He lifted her with ease and laid her limp body on the bed.
Clara stood in the doorway, hardly able to believe her eyes. ‘She’d been ill with her usual chest complaint, but she gets that every winter. I had no idea that it was so serious.’
‘Has she any relations who ought to be told?’ Luke drew the coverlet over the dead woman’s body.
‘She had no one. I’ve worked for her for five years and in that time she never mentioned any relatives. She spent all her waking hours in the shop and the only time she went out was to visit the warehouses that supplied her merchandise. Poor Miss Silver.’
He crossed the floor, stepping carefully over the blood-stained rug and placed his arm around Clara’s shoulders. ‘You’ve had a shock and you need something to keep out the cold. A glass of rum punch at the White Hart would be just the thing.’
She managed a watery smile. ‘I’d prefer a cup of tea.’
‘Have you eaten today?’ His steel-grey eyes scanned her face and his lips hardened. ‘Did you have supper last night?’
‘Please, Luke, not now. I have to do something for Miss Silver. I can’t just go out and leave the poor soul here.’
‘She’s not going anywhere and she’s past feeling lonely. It’s you I’m worried about, Clara. Be sensible, come with me and let me look after you first, then we’ll go and find someone to take care of the body, and register the death. At least I know how to do that.’ He tweaked her cheek, smiling. ‘In my line of business it happens all too often.’
‘Don’t joke about things like that, especially now. I should have come upstairs first thing and made sure she was all right, but I didn’t want to disturb her. I could have sent for the doctor …’
He gave her a gentle shake. ‘The poor woman was suffering from consumption. You don’t have to be a doctor to see that’s what caused her death. Nothing you could have done would have saved her. Now come with me and we’ll get you warm and dry first. Then we can attend to the departed.’
The undertaker came downstairs, walking slowly as if in a funeral procession. ‘There will be costs, of course, Miss Carter. Has the deceased any family that you know of?’
Clara shook her head. ‘No, sir.’ She had shut the shop out of respect for Miss Silver, and at Luke’s insistence she had drunk a cup of strong, sweet coffee laced with brandy. Her stomach had rebelled at the thought of food, but the alcohol had made her feel drowsy and detached from the proceedings, as if she were in a bad dream and might wake any minute to find that everything had gone back to normal.
Mr Touchstone pursed his lips. ‘Have you any idea as to her financial status? Did Miss Silver leave a will? Otherwise I’m afraid it will have to be a pauper’s burial.’
‘I really don’t know,’ Clara said dazedly. ‘It’s not the sort of thing she would have talked about.’
He glanced at the small escritoire where Miss Silver used to sit and do her paperwork. ‘Might I suggest that you take a look and see if she has left any instructions? The poor lady must have known that her condition was serious and unlikely to improve.’
‘It seems so heartless talking about money and what she was worth when she’s lying upstairs, cold and lifeless.’ Close to tears, Clara turned her head away.
Luke had been standing by the fire, having refused to leave until Clara was ready to go home. ‘I’ll take a look, Touchstone. I’m a friend of Miss Carter’s and I didn’t know Miss Silver, so I can approach the matter in a more practical manner.’
‘It would be beneficial if we could sort something out, sir.’ Mr Touchstone picked up his top hat and made a move towards the shop door. ‘I’ll arrange to collect the deceased. Let me know how you want me to proceed.’ He nodded to Clara. ‘I’ll be back shortly with the hearse.’ He let himself out into the street, closing the door behind him.
Clara turned to Luke, who was going through the papers in Miss Silver’s desk. ‘That’s private. I don’t think you ought to be doing that.’
He turned to her with a satisfied grin. ‘I don’t need to look any further. I’ve found her will. It’s lucky that the old girl was so good at keeping things neat and tidy.’ He handed the document to Clara. ‘You’d best have a look at it and see if she had enough put by for a decent burial.’
A pale wintry sun had struggled through the mass of pot-bellied clouds that threatened yet more snow, and the north wind whipped at Clara’s black veil as she stood beside Jane at the graveside in Brookwood Cemetery. They were the only mourners present and had travelled on the Necropolis railway from Waterloo Bridge station to give Miss Silver a proper send-off. The oak coffin with shiny brass handles had been lowered into the frozen heart of the hard earth, and the vicar had intoned the words of the interment. He acknowledged Clara with a nod and strode off with unseemly haste to the relative warmth of the chapel.
The whiteness of the fallen snow was in stark contrast to the dark green of the fir trees and the bare branches of the elms that surrounded the cemetery, and Clara shivered in spite of the thick woollen cloak she had purchased especially for the occasion. The musty smell of the second-hand shop still clung to the folds, but that was the least of her worries.
Jane squeezed her sister’s hand. ‘She’s not suffering any more, Clara.’
‘I know, but I miss her all the same. She was kind to me in her own way.’
‘She must have been fond of you or she wouldn’t have left you everything she had.’
‘I know and I still find it hard to believe.’
