Grope held the paper at arm’s length, tucked in his chin and focused down the line of his nose as if taking aim along a harpoon. He read slowly and aloud:
In Memoriam. July 1st
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;
There’ll be that dark parade
Of tassels and of coaches soon—
It’s easy as a sign...
“Well,” said Kebble, “does that mean anything to you?”
“No. Except that it’s not proper poetry and it doesn’t seem right for an ‘In Memoriam’.”
“You only think that because it’s not one of yours. Walter.”
There was some justice in Kebble’s taunt. Mr Grope naturally resented trespass upon those local fields of poesy he had made his own. One was the souvenir trade. The other was the ‘Mems’ section of the Chalmsbury Chronicle’s small advertisement pages.
Each week there appeared some three columns of rhymed manifestos commemorative of deaths in previous years. A regular reader of these would soon have detected that most of them consisted of permutations of a limited number of standard couplets. Thus, in a single issue the lament: ‘Oh, Father dear, you’re missed by all; e’en though your picture’s on the wall’ might appear five or six times. But whereas in one case it would be followed by ‘We never heard you say goodbye; but you had gone, and God knows why,’ another panegyric would proceed with ‘You’d had enough, you needed rest; so never mind, you were one of the best.’
The reason for identical sentiments being expressed in relation to so many totally unconnected passings was that Mr Grope had been commissioned by the newspaper to produce a once-and-for-all selection of about thirty couplets to cover every contingency. These were numbered and set out in black-bordered leaflets that incorporated an order form (‘mark lines required here’) and were posted, like wireless licence reminders, to every household shown by the advertising manager’s records to have suffered a death twelve, twenty-four, or thirty-six months previously. A four-year lack of response won subsequent immunity from canvass.
Most of the bereaved, in fact, were eagerly responsive. Mr Grope’s epitaphs were widely admired and a certain social distinction attached to the public proclamation of grief. Indeed, an element of competition had crept into the business. To commission a shorter ‘In Memoriam’ than a rival relative meant loss of face. The fear that Sister Edie and Family would spread themselves to ten lines prompted Brother Fred and All at Number Seven to order twelve. Then, quietly appraised of this state of affairs by the advertising manager, Daughter Marjorie and Little Norman would top the family score with fourteen.
Grope read again the message that compared so miserably with his own round, explicit verse.
“ ‘Drink divine’,” he repeated. “Sounds more like a brewer’s advertisement. You aren’t going to print it, are you?”
“Naturally. It’s paid for.”
“Who brought it in?”
“Nobody. It came this morning by post. No name or address, but there was a postal order. We don’t usually take them unless they’re signed, but this seems harmless enough. I just wanted to know if you knew the quotation. We don’t want to risk any double meanings.”
Grope tried hard to discover some undertone that would disqualify the blackleg rhymster but failed. He said again that he thought the piece inappropriate. Then something stirred in his memory. “And I think I know why,” he added quickly. “I believe it’s out of some song or other. That’s where I’ve heard it.”
“A hymn, perhaps,” suggested Kebble. He knew that the advertising manager would relinquish a pre-paid ‘mem’ as willingly as a leopard parting with a newly killed kid.
Grope shook his head. “A song,” he affirmed. “A ballad or something. Nothing religious.”
“Never mind; it doesn’t look as if it can do any harm.” Kebble slipped the sheet back into its tray.
Grope looked up at the ceiling. “It’ll come back to me,” he said. “I nearly had it just then.” He inflated his large grey cheeks and blew out air with a low, tuneless soughing noise. Kebble thought of graveyards.
A sniff announced the presence of Leaper. He came round the counter and strolled to his desk. The editor regarded him over his glasses. “What are you looking knowing about?” he asked.
Leaper turned. “Sir?”
Kebble fancied for a moment that he had seen Leaper smile. He sat upright with a look of alarm. The impression faded, however, and he relaxed. “All right, boy; have you something to write up?”
“A few pars.”
“Get on with them, then.”
Leaper sat before his typewriter, wound in a piece of copy paper and after five minutes’ reflection began to jab the keys. Grope looked up at the clock and said: “Ah, well.” He hated the noise of typing, Leaper’s above alclass="underline" it sounded like sporadic small arms fire.
About half an hour after Grope’s departure, Leaper collected his copy and silently presented it to Kebble. As the editor read it through, an expression compounded of incredulity and horror overspread his face. “And what,” he hoarsely demanded at last, “is this supposed to be?”
“I thought it would be a good kick off for a sort of gossip feature,” explained Leaper, unabashed. “Like Tom Trenchant.” Mr Trenchant was the Daily Sun’s premier boudoir scourer. “Inside stuff,” Leaper added.
“You’ll have me inside if you persist in putting this kind of thing on paper. Take it away and burn it.”
Leaper stared. “Do you mean you’re spiking it, sir?”
Sighing, Kebble spread the sheets before him and motioned Leaper to his side. “You see, Leonard,” he said patiently, “on a local paper like ours we have to live with the people we write about. It does make a difference. Did you know that there are at least three shops here in Chalmsbury where you can still buy a horsewhip?”
“I’ve been careful about names.”
“Yes, I see you have. But I’m not sure that”—Kebble moved a finger quickly down the typescript—“yes, ‘socialite wife of police chief’—I’m not sure that identification is entirely ruled out there, old chap.”
“You could cut out ‘socialite’,” suggested Leaper.
Kebble shuddered. “I should have done that in any case. It isn’t the important point, though.” He pushed his fingers through his hair. “Let me put it this way. Chief Inspector Larch is a nice helpful fellow but a little on the dour side. I can’t imagine that he’d thank us for telling the town that his wife—how did you put it?—‘is to be seen at swank caravan parties, latest craze of the Chalmsbury Top Set’. What’s that, anyway? Sounds like teeth.”
“People are jolly glad to get into the Tom Trenchant column. And he doesn’t tone anything down.” Leaper paused and added: “Like I have.” He sensed that his employer lacked the Daily Sun’s admirable determination not to be gagged.
Kebble looked at him sharply. “Now what are you driving at?”