The coffin was carefully laid down on two trestles and while that was happening I examined the rest of the crowd, a little surprised by how few people had turned out. There couldn’t have been more than a couple of dozen in the room. Bruno Wang and Raymond Clunes were both in the front row, some distance apart. Andrea, in a cheap, black leather jacket, was over to the side. Detective Inspector ‘Jack’ Meadows had turned up too. I saw him stifling a yawn, sitting uncomfortably on a chair that was slightly too small for him.
I suppose Damian Cowper had the star role in this production and he seemed to know it. He had dressed for the part in a beautifully tailored suit, grey shirt and black silk tie. Grace Lovell was next to him, in a black dress, but there was a space around them as if this was the VIP area of the chapel and the other mourners could notice them but, please, don’t come too close. I’m not exaggerating: there were only two people sitting in the row behind him. Later I would discover that one of them had been sent by Damian’s London agent and the other was his personal trainer, a very muscular black man who seemed to be acting as his bodyguard.
Otherwise, the congregation was made up of friends and colleagues of Diana Cowper, none of them under fifty. Looking around, it struck me that although there were a great many emotions on display in the chapel – boredom, curiosity, seriousness – nobody seemed particularly sad. The only person who showed any sense of loss was a tall man with straggly hair, sitting a few chairs away from me. As the vicar stood up and approached the coffin, he took out a white handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes.
The vicar was a woman, short, fleshy, with a downturned smile. I know this is a sad occasion, she seemed to be saying, but I’m very glad you’re here. I could see that she was going to be modern rather than traditional in her approach. She waited until the music ended then stepped forward, rubbed her hands together and began her address.
‘Hello, everybody. I’m so very glad to welcome you here to this very beautiful chapel, built in 1839 and inspired by St Peter’s in Rome. I think it’s a very special, very beautiful place to come together today to pay our respects to a lovely, lovely lady. Death is always difficult for those of us who are left behind. And as we say goodbye to Diana Cowper, who was snatched so very suddenly and violently from the path of life, it’s particularly hard to see any reason for it and it’s very difficult to come to terms with what has happened.’
I was already wishing she’d stop saying ‘very’ all the time. I wondered if Diana Cowper would have enjoyed being described as ‘a lovely, lovely lady’. It made her sound like a special guest on a television game show.
‘Diana was someone who always tried to help. She did a fantastic amount of work for charity. She was on the board of the Globe Theatre and of course she was the mother of a very famous son. Damian has flown all the way from America to be here today and although we understand the sadness you must be feeling, Damian, we’re very, very glad to see you.’
I turned round and noticed Robert Cornwallis, the undertaker, standing next to the door. He was whispering quietly to Irene Laws, both of them dressed formally for the funeral. She nodded and he slipped outside. I thought briefly of Steven Spielberg and Peter Jackson, who were probably still at the Soho Hotel. Maybe they’d popped down together for an early lunch at Refuel. And I should have been with them! I felt a surge of rage at having been dragged here.
‘Diana Cowper was someone who was aware of her own mortality.’ The vicar was still talking. ‘She had arranged every aspect of today’s service, including the music you have just heard. She wanted to keep it short, so that’s enough from me! We are going to begin with Psalm 34. I hope that when Diana chose this, she understood that death is not always something to be feared. The righteous person may have many troubles, but the Lord delivers him from them all. Death can be a comfort too.’
The vicar read the psalm. Then Grace Lovell stood up, walked forward and recited ‘Ariel’ by Sylvia Plath.
I was impressed that she had learned it off by heart – and she certainly put her heart into it. Damian watched her with a strange coolness in his handsome eyes. Next to me, Hawthorne yawned.
Finally, it was Damian’s turn. He got up and walked slowly forward, then turned so that he was standing with his back to his mother’s coffin. His words were brief and unemotional.
‘I was just twenty-one when my dad died and now I’ve lost my mother too. It’s harder to come to terms with what happened to her because Dad was ill but Mum was attacked in her own home and I was away in America when it happened. I’ll always be sorry that I never got a chance to say goodbye but I know she was proud of what I was doing and I think she’d have enjoyed my new show, which starts shooting next week. It’s called Homeland and it should be on Showtime later this year. Mum always supported me being an actor. She encouraged me and she had total belief that I’d become a star. She came to every one of my productions when I was at Stratford – Ariel in The Tempest, Henry V, and Mephistopheles in Doctor Faustus, which was her favourite. She always said I was her little devil.’ This got a few murmurs of sympathetic laughter from the mourners. ‘I think I’ll always look for her in the audience when I’m onstage and I’m always going to see the empty seat. I hope they can resell the ticket …’ They were less sure about that last remark. Was it actually a joke?
I had been recording everything he said on my iPhone but I stopped listening at this point. Damian Cowper’s funeral address had confirmed my feelings about him. He talked for a few more minutes and then the sound system came back on with ‘Eleanor Rigby’, the doors were opened and we all trooped out into the cemetery. The man with the straggly hair was right in front of us. He dabbed at his eyes a second time.
We traipsed off to the western side of the cemetery, behind the colonnades. A grave had been dug in a long stretch of unkempt grass next to a low wall. There was a railway line on the other side. I couldn’t see it but as we walked forward I heard a train go past. We came to a gravestone with the inscription Lawrence Cowper, 3 April 1950 – 22 October 1999. After a long illness, borne with fortitude. I remembered that he had lived and presumably died in Kent, and wondered how he had come to be buried here. The sun was shining but a couple of plane trees provided shade. It was a pleasant, warm afternoon. Damian Cowper, Grace Lovell and the vicar had stayed behind to accompany the body on its last journey and as we waited for them Detective Inspector Meadows lumbered over to us. He was wearing a suit that could have come out of a charity shop – or should have been on the way to one.
‘So how’s it going, Hawthorne?’ he asked.
‘Not too bad, Jack.’
‘You getting anywhere with this?’ Meadows sniffed. ‘You don’t want to solve it too soon, I’d have thought. Not if you’re being paid by the day.’
‘I’ll wait for you to come up with an answer,’ Hawthorne said. ‘That way, I’ll make a fortune.’
‘Actually, I may have to disappoint you there. Looks like we’re closing in …’
‘Really?’ I asked. If Meadows actually solved the case before Hawthorne, it would be catastrophic for the book.
‘Yes. You’ll read about it in the newspapers soon enough so I might as well tell you now. There have been three burglaries in the area around Britannia Road recently with an identical MO. The intruder dressed up as a dispatch rider, delivering a package. A motorbike helmet covered his face. He targeted single women living on their own.’