Aftermath by Peter Turnbull

young man, still in his twenties, so Webster guessed. He seemed to be very well nourished, was expensively dressed in a blue suit and shirt and tie, and had what Webster thought was an inappropriately jocular attitude. He could only hope that the man adopted a more sombre manner when dealing with the distraught relatives of the deceased. The office in which both men sat was lined with light-coloured, highly polished pine wood panelling and a deep pile carpet of dark red. Canverrie’s desk was large, both long and wide, and he sat in a reclinable, executive-style chair. The window of his office looked out across a neatly cut lawn to a nearby brick built building which appeared to Webster to also be part of the premises of Canverrie & Son of York. ‘The deceased will be interred at Heslington Cemetery on Fordham Road after a brief Anglican service in the cemetery chapel. That is the new cemetery, not the old Victorian one.’
    â€˜Yes, I know the one you mean.’
    â€˜And it has some interest to the police?’
    â€˜Yes, it does, but we are more interested in observing who might be attending, rather than paying our respects to the deceased.’
    â€˜The old boy wasn’t a felon, surely?’ A note of alarm crept into Canverrie’s voice.
    â€˜No,’ Webster held up his hand and gave a brief and slight shake of his head, ‘he appeared to have been a good man who led a blameless life, so you can bury him with all due dignity and reverence.’
    â€˜Good,’ Canverrie seemed relieved, ‘we would do anyway, but it’s all an act . . . it’s all for show.’
    â€˜It is?’
    â€˜Yes, it is all for show. It was my grandfather who started the company; my father is in fact the actual “son” of the name. The undertaking business is a display of ceremony, all very serious, but that is just the image.’
    â€˜Oh really?’ Webster scowled.
    â€˜Yes, really . . . it all starts with my introducing myself to the grieving next-of-kin and saying, “Hello, my name’s Sydney and I’ll be looking after you today . . .”, with me all dressed up in my grey pinstripe and tails with a top hat, looking every inch the Victorian gentleman or bank manager. Then I walk in front of the hearse for the first few feet of the journey to the chapel, as all the relatives and friend’s cars join the convoy, and then I get into the hearse, beside the driver, and we pick up speed. So, we drop the box in the ground or hide it away behind the velvet curtains, depending on whether it’s a burial or a cremation. Then we drop the rellies off at a pub where some grub has been laid on and that’s our job done, then we do the next job.’
    â€˜That’s interesting.’
    â€˜You think so? Damned superficial and sometimes excruciatingly embarrassing in the case of poorly attended funerals . . . one coffin and just two mourners . . . a full church or chapel and a well-attended funeral is less stressful, but I am here, for better or worse.’
    â€˜Not a happy man, I think?’
    â€˜I am here because I am expected to carry on the family business. I’d rather be a yacht broker on the Mediterranean coast, Spain or Greece, pulling down ten to fifteen per cent on every sale, and the same percentage of any charter fee I can negotiate. So no, I am not happy in my job but I would have been disinherited if I didn’t agree to sit behind this desk, cast into ye wilderness without a penny, no seed money for my yacht and powerboat brokerage.’
    â€˜I understand you are, sir, a pressed man.’
    â€˜Yes. I plan to sell the business but that will only be when I inherit it, and that won’t be for a likely time.’
    â€˜How was it you were chosen to undertake Nicholas Housecarl’s funeral?’
    â€˜The police called us . . . you lot. It was just our turn on the duty rota