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J. C. ARBUTHNOT, 1884–1934 R.I.P.
It was one of those Greek-temple huts in which they bury fabulous people, with an iron lattice gate locked over a heavy wood-and-bronze inner door.
“He couldn’t have come out of there, could he?”
“No, but something got on that ladder and I knew his face. And someone else knew I would recognize that face so I was invited to come see.”
“Shut up. Come on.”
We advanced along the path.
“Watch it. We don’t want to be seen playing this stupid game.”
We arrived at the wall. There was nothing there, of course.
“Like I said, if the body was ever here, we’re too late.” Roy exhaled and glanced.
“No, look. There.”
I pointed at the top of the wall.
There were the marks, two of them, of some object that had leaned against the upper rim.
“The ladder?”
“And down here.”
The grass at the base of the wall, about five feet out, a proper angle, had two half-inch ladder indentations in it.
“And here. See?”
I showed him a long depression where the grass had been crushed by something falling.
“Well, well,” murmured Roy. “Looks like Halloween’s starting over.”
Roy knelt on the grass and put his long bony fingers out to trace the print of the heavy flesh that had lain there in the cold rain only twelve hours ago.
I knelt with Roy staring down at the long indentation, and shivered.
“I—” I said, and stopped.
For a shadow moved between us.
“Morning!”
The graveyard day watchman stood over us.
I glanced at Roy, quickly. “Is this the right gravestone? It’s been years. Is—”
The next flat tombstone was covered with leaves. I scrabbled the dust away. There was a half-seen name beneath. SMYTHE. BORN 1875—DIED 1928.
“Sure! Old grandpa!” cried Roy. “Poor guy. Died of pneumonia.” Roy helped me brush away the dust. “I sure loved him. He—”
“Where’re your flowers?” said the heavy voice, above us.
Roy and I stiffened.
“Ma’s bringing ’em,” said Roy. “We came ahead, to find the stone.” Roy glanced over his shoulder. “She’s out there now.”
