Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Port Starr’s cemetery was situated just on the outskirts of town and within view of the rearing beauty of McKerron Castle. Mason and Darwin picked me up after I dashed back to the annexe for a quick change of clothes.
I was brushing my hair when Mason’s deep voice rang out through the door. ‘Taxi for Ms Summers.’
‘I’ll be right there.’
I straightened my glittery T-shirt, snatched up my bag and locked my door, then hurried down the cobbles in my Converse trainers.
Mason was leaning against his car looking more like he’d stepped from the cover of a historical romance than a historian. Darwin’s head was sticking out of the back window, his long pink tongue flapping.
Mason straightened up when he saw me. ‘You look very pretty.’
‘Oh. Thank you.’ My hand shot up and scooped some hair behind my ear. ‘You look very dashing.’
For a moment I could have sworn he was blushing. ‘I do my best.’ He gestured at my hair. ‘You don’t often have your hair loose. It suits you.’
I examined my pink-and-white trainers. Now it was my turn to feel awkward.
‘Right,’ he exclaimed, clapping his hands together, ‘let’s go and take a look at this grave. Have you eaten yet?’
I shook my head. ‘I managed to grab a banana and a peppermint tea before I closed up shop, but nothing else.’
‘That’s not enough for a growing girl. Okay. We’ll get something after we’ve been to the cemetery.’
Soon, Mason was pulling into the cemetery car park, which had a moss-covered stone wall snaking all the way around it and several overhanging ash trees, with their clouds of frothy branches.
‘We won’t be long, Darwin,’ promised Mason, winding down the other rear window. ‘Stay there, that’s a good boy.’
Darwin didn’t look impressed at not being allowed to accompany us. He slumped down on his blanket along the back seat.
Mason pulled up a plan of the cemetery on his mobile.
I leaned in a little, fascinated, to take a closer look. Mason stared down at me. When I glanced up at him, he flicked his eyes away to focus again on the map.
‘Is that where Gideon Kelly is buried?’ I asked.
He tapped one finger at the coloured map, which featured three smaller photographs beside it; one was of an aerial view of the entire cemetery, and another was a grainy picture of Gideon Kelly’s headstone.
This evening, the early summer sun trickled through the branches, bathing the cemetery in an almost heavenly light, and there was the fizzing song of blackbirds.
Mason strode off on his long legs up the nearby gravelled path, full of purpose. ‘It’s this way.’
We weaved past the folds of grass, on which numerous headstones crouched. The ghosts of former Port Starr residents, their names and often tender ages, became a blur amongst the ripples of headstones and the scent of cut grass.
Mason stopped for a moment and took in his surroundings. ‘Have you noticed something about this section of the graveyard?’
I shook my head. ‘No. What?’
He pointed. ‘I think this area was reserved for the more affluent members of Port Starr society.’ He folded his arms. His pale-blue shirtsleeves were rolled up, his muscles rippling under the cotton. ‘The further we go into this section, the more extravagant the headstones.’
He was right.
‘It was the Victorians who really started the customs and practices associated with death.’ Mason studied the view in front of him: the needle-thin tombstones and ornate sculpted designs that punched upwards out of the lush grass.
‘They really went in for elaborate headstones. The more lavish and decorated, the better.’
‘I take it that was a social thing?’ I asked as I admired a carving of a vase of lilies depicted on a gravestone to my right.
Mason nodded his dark head. ‘It was. At one time, gravestones were only erected by the so-called middle and upper classes.’ He glanced around.
‘In the eighteenth century, there was a short-lived craze for covering graves with iron cages.’ He indicated over his shoulder.
‘That’s an example of one there. It was known as a mortsafe. ’
I adjusted the strap of my pink shoulder bag. ‘Was that to protect the headstones from theft?’
‘And also, the grave itself, from body snatchers.’
I shuddered. ‘Good grief.’
We walked on, our trainers crunching the shell-pink gravel under our feet.
‘It was around the seventeen eighties that there was a shift towards commemorating the soul of the person who had passed on and also being more considerate to the loved ones who were left behind.’ Mason shot me a glance, his lips moving in a short flicker of a smile.
‘Sorry if I’m going on a bit or boring you, Poppy.
Not exactly my best chat-up lines, are they? ’
He seemed to realise what he had said and all at once straightened his shoulders.
‘If you look over there, you’ll see a weeping willow tree featured on one or two of the slate and marble stones.
That was the most popular gravestone image for people in the nineteenth century up to around eighteen sixty. ’
‘You’re not boring me,’ I reassured him quickly. ‘I’m really interested.’
Mason flicked me a look. ‘That’s good. I’m glad.’
There was an electrified silence.
I flicked one hand, just for something to do. ‘So, what was the meaning of the willow tree? Was it sorrow and sadness, I guess?’
Mason thrust one hand into his pocket, while the other still clutched his phone. ‘Exactly.’
Celtic-style crosses and pensive winged angels seemed to watch us with interest as we passed by. Other stones were shaped like church doors.
He referred to his map on his phone again and took a sharp right on the path. The sun was now sliding lazily down the trees. ‘Gideon Kelly’s grave should be up here. Going by all the stonework we’ve seen so far, this looks like it could be it…’
Mason’s voice disappeared into the light evening breeze.
‘What is it?’ I called, moving away from a pretty headstone studded with marble lilies. I drew up beside him and blinked with surprise. ‘Oh. Is that it?’
There was the usual array of ornate headstones circling us, sporting everything from scalloped flowers to overlapping stone hearts. But stationed further away was this much plainer stone.
It sat apart from the others, surveying the bowing trees. There was no elaborate inscription. All it said on the pale-grey stone was:
Gideon Kelly
1762–1830
We swapped puzzled glances.
‘Sixty-eight was a good age to live to in that era,’ said Mason, taking a step closer towards the grave.
‘But why has he got such a plain stone compared to the others?’ I wondered, studying the other gravestones. ‘And why is he buried over here?’
The setting sun was sparking off the top of the simple sandstone of Gideon Kelly’s final resting place.
Mason crouched down and traced a hand over the brief lettering. ‘I wonder if he ended up being a pauper.’ He indicated the other headstones. ‘Whoever this guy was, the locals at the time obviously didn’t want him laid to rest close to their nearest and dearest.’
A pang of sympathy hit me. ‘His grave looks so sad.’ I rubbed my upper arms. A keener breeze was blowing now.
‘To be fair, we don’t know anything about him or what he did to deserve being buried apart from the other townsfolk – well, not yet, anyway,’ he pointed out.
I pressed my lips together in thought. ‘Well, it couldn’t have been that awful surely, otherwise it would have been common knowledge?’
Mason raised one dark eyebrow at me. ‘I know what you mean. He was employed as a teacher by one of the most prestigious families in the area.’ He afforded me a crooked smile that made my heart zing.
‘Careful. You’re starting to make some sense.
’ He shoved his mobile into his back pocket.
‘But where he’s buried, the simple design and the granite the stone is carved from, all indicate that he wasn’t exactly one of Port Starr’s high-fliers. ’
He jabbed a finger at the back of Gideon Kelly’s stone. ‘Look, Poppy.’
We crouched down beside one another on the grass. Branches of a nearby bush were growing over the rear of the gravestone, but there appeared to have been a carving lower down the stone, which had been chipped and obliterated.
‘What is that?’ I asked him.
Mason shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’ve no idea.’
My eyes bored into the scored granite, but no matter how hard I stared, I couldn’t make it out.
I ran my fingers over the strange carving – or, at least, whatever had been there originally.
Whatever it was now resembled a pitted hole rather than a sculpted piece of artwork.
‘I think someone might have done this deliberately,’ I said to Mason beside me.
‘Look at the way the granite has been damaged.’
Mason rose and took a couple of steps back to examine the headstone. ‘Might it be weather damage? Or perhaps just due to general wear and tear?’
I got to my feet and went over and stood next to him. ‘Only if the weather has started using a chisel.’
‘A chisel?’
‘Or something like it.’
Mason hauled a hand through his wavy hair. ‘Seriously?’
‘Yes. Someone has had a really good go at obliterating that carving.’
He gazed into the middle distance for a few moments, before turning back to me. ‘It might be an idea for us to have another look at Georgina Lapley’s diary. We need to check if there’s any reference to this Gideon Kelly in there.’
‘So, you think there could be some connection?’
A flicker of optimism crossed his face. ‘You know, up until now, I disagreed with you about all this. I was sure this Gideon Kelly lead was just a deliberate ploy by some idiot to put us off.’
‘And now?’
A trace of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. ‘Don’t push your luck, Rapunzel.’