Martin Pound looked up. Privately he was surprised to learn of his late friend's fears and fancies, but he gave no sign of it.
'Now, Mrs Armitage, I have to ask you formally; do you object to the wishes of your late brother as expressed in paragraph seven?'
'It's stupid,' she replied, 'burial at sea, indeed. I didn't even know it was allowed.'
'It is extremely rare, but not illegal,' replied Pound. 'I have known of one case before.'
'It'll be expensive,' said her son, 'much more than a cemetery burial. And why not cremation anyway?'
'The cost of the funeral will not affect the inheritance,' said Pound testily. 'The expenses will come out of this.' He tapped the £5000 at his elbow. 'Now, do you object?'
'Well, I don't know…'
'I have to point out to you that if you do, the inheritance is null and void.'
'What does that mean?'
'The state gets the lot,' snapped her husband.
'Precisely,' said Pound.
'No objection,' said Mrs Armitage. 'Though I think it's ridiculous.'
'Then as next of kin will you authorize me to make the arrangements?' asked Pound.
Mrs Armitage nodded abruptly.
'The sooner the better,' said her husband. 'Then we can get on with the probate and the inheritance.'
Martin Pound stood up quickly. He had had enough.
"That constitutes the final paragraph of the will. It is duly signed and witnessed twice on every page. I think therefore there is nothing more to discuss. I shall make the necessary arrangements and contact you in respect of time and place. Good day to you.'
The middle of the English Channel is no place to be on a mid-October day unless you are an enthusiast. Mr and Mrs Armitage contrived to make perfectly plain before they had cleared the harbour mole that they were definitely not.
Mr Pound sighed as he stood in the wind on the afterdeck so as not to have to join them in the cabin. It had taken him a week to make the arrangements and he had settled on a vessel out of Brixham in Devon. The three fishermen who ran the inshore trawler had taken the unusual job once they were satisfied over the price and assured they were breaking no law. Fishing the Channel provided slim pickings these days.
It had taken a block and tackle to load the halfton coffin from the rear yard of the Kentish undertakers onto an open-backed one-ton van, which the black limousine had followed throughout the long haul down to the southwest coast that morning. The Armitages had complained throughout. At Brixham the van had drawn up on the quayside and the trawler's own davits had brought the coffin aboard. It stood now athwart two beams of timber on the wide after-deck, waxed oak and polished brass gleaming under the autumn sky.
Tarquin Armitage had accompanied the party in the limousine as far as Brixham, but after one look at the sea had elected to stay within the warm confines of a hostelry in town. He was not needed for the burial at sea in any case. The retired Royal Navy chaplain whom Pound had traced through the chaplaincy department of the Admiralty had been happy enough to accept a generous stipend for his services and now sat in the small cabin also, his surplice covered by a thick overcoat.
The skipper of the trawler rolled down the deck to where Pound stood. He produced a sea chart which flapped in the breeze, and pointed with a forefinger at a spot twenty miles south of start point. He raised an eyebrow. Pound nodded.
'Deep water,' said the skipper. He nodded at the coffin. 'You knew him?'
'Very well,' said Pound.
The skipper grunted. He ran the small trawler with his brother and a cousin; like most of these fishermen, they were all related. The three were tough Devonians, with nut-brown hands and faces, the sort whose ancestors had been fishing these tricky waters since Drake was learning the difference between main and mizzen.
'Be there in an hour,' he said, and stumped back forward.
When they reached the spot, the captain held the vessel with her bow into the weather, holding station with an idling engine. The cousin took a long piece of timber, three planks bolted together with crosspieces on the underside and 3 feet wide, and laid it across the starboard rail, smooth side up. The chipped timber rail took the plank almost at the mid-section, like the fulcrum of a seesaw. One half of the planks lay towards the deck, the other jutted out over the heaving sea. As the captain's brother manned the davit motor, the cousin slipped hooks under the coffin's four brass handles.
The engine revved and the davits took the strain. The great coffin lifted off the deck. The winchman held it at a height of 3 feet and the cousin manoeuvred the oaken casket onto the plank. He pointed it headfirst towards the sea and nodded. The winchman let it down so it came to rest directly above the supporting rail. He slackened off and the coffin creaked into position, half in and half out of the trawler. While the cousin held it steady, the winchman descended, cleared away the shackles and helped lift the inboard edge of the planks to the horizontal. There was little weight on them now, for the coffin was evenly balanced. One of the men looked to Pound for guidance and he summoned the chaplain and the Armitages from their shelter.
The six people stood in silence under the lower clouds, occasionally dusted by a misty spray blown from the crest of a passing wave, steadying themselves against the heave and pitch of the deck. To be fair to him, the chaplain kept it as short as decently possible, as well he might, for his white hair and surplice flayed about him in the breeze. Norman Armitage was also bareheaded, looking sick as a parrot and chilled to the bone. What he thought of his late relative, now lying a few feet from him encased in layers of camphor, lead and oak, could only be surmised. Of Mrs Armitage nothing could be seen between fur coat, fur hat and woollen scarf save a pointed, freezing nose.
Martin Pound stared at the sky as the priest droned on. A single gull wheeled on the wind, impervious to wet, cold, and nausea, unknowing of taxes, wills and relatives, self-sufficient in its aerodynamic perfection, independent, free. The solicitor looked back at the coffin and beyond it the ocean. Not bad, he thought, if you are sentimental about such things. Personally he had never been caring about what happened to him after death, and had not known that Hanson had been so concerned. But if you did care, not a bad place to lie. He saw the oak beaded with spray that could not enter. Well, they'll never disturb you here, Timothy old friend, he thought.
.. commend this our brother Timothy John Hanson to Thy everlasting care, through Jesus Christ, Our Lord, Amen.'
With a start Pound realized it was over. The chaplain was looking at him expectantly. He nodded to the Armitages. One went round each of the fishermen holding the planks steady and placed a hand on the rear of the coffin. Pound nodded to the men. Slowly they eased their end of the planks upwards. The other end dipped to the sea. At last the coffin moved. Both Armitages gave a shove. It scraped once, then slid fast off the other end. The boat rocked. The coffin hit the side of a wave with more of a thud than a splash. And it was gone. Instantly. Pound caught the eye of the skipper in the wheelhouse above. The man raised a hand and pointed back towards the way they had come. Pound nodded again. The engine note rose. The large plank was already inboard and stowed. The Armitages and the chaplain were hurrying for cover. The wind was rising.