The vicar arrived first. He held a bible in his right hand and an umbrella in his left. Behind him, six uniformed police officers bore the polished oak coffin. It was a simple and neat design. Sarcophagus shaped with brass fittings. The family followed the bearer party. Mathers’s husband, holding the hands of his two children. Brothers and sisters. Nephews and nieces. Uncles and aunts. Supporting each other the way families do during this part of the service.
The final part.
And there, right at the back, was someone Poehadn’texpected to see. Alastor Locke. The tall man was openly weeping. His back was bent. He seemed to have aged twenty years in the weeks since Poe had seen him in Yorkshire. He caught Poe’s eye and nodded. Poe returned it but kept his face neutral.
The vicar came to a halt. As soon as the bearer party had lowered the coffin on to the putlogs, the wooden posts that spanned the grave, he began the committal service.
‘I am the resurrection . . .’
Poe concentrated on the words. He wanted them to mean something.
Chapter 72
‘So, now you know,’ Locke said.
‘Commander Mathers was your daughter?’ Poe asked.
‘In-law.’
‘I’m sorry for your loss. Truly. I liked her. She was a good cop. A clever cop. But more than that, she was a good person.’ ‘Thank you, Poe. She was.’
They stood in silence, waiting for the funeral party to disperse. Locke shared a glance with Mathers’s husband, his son. It looked as though he was about to walk over but Locke shook his head and stopped him.
‘Your daughters need you more than you need your father, Tom,’ he said. ‘I’ll be along presently, but first I need to talk to Sergeant Poe.’
Poe untangled himself from Bradshaw’s grip.
‘Give me a few minutes, Tilly,’ he said. Bradshaw nodded and joined Flynn on the path. ‘Walk with me,’ Locke said.
‘Did you know Charles Dickens’s parents are buried here?’ Locke said.
‘I did actually.’
‘The popstar George Michael is here somewhere too.’
‘I’m more into punk, Alastor,’ Poe said.
‘Yes, yes you are.’
The rain had stopped. The ground steamed. Water dripped from the trees. Birds chirped. As they walked the leafy, sinuous pathways, stopping to examine the occasional vine-covered headstone, Locke gave him a potted history of the Victorian cemetery. He told Poe it was the final resting place for over170,000 souls. That the great and the good, the rogues and the ne’er-do-wells, all shared the same 37-acre hillside that enjoyed sweeping views of the capital.
‘I want to show you something,’ Locke said. ‘Arguably Highgate’s most famous resident.’
He led them down a winding trail, the light dappled by the trees. His long strides meant Poe had to jog to keep up. Locke noticed and slowed enough for Poe to take in his surroundings. Poe thought it was a stunning graveyard. Tranquil, a slice of overgrown Gothic beauty, a secluded funerary landscape in the middle of one of the biggest urban jungles in the world. Old graves and contemporary graves. Elaborate tombs and sweeping mausoleums. Catacombs and vaults. There was even an Egyptian Avenue, built after the nineteenth-century boom in Egyptology. The steeply wooded hill was a place where architects’ imaginations had run amok. He thought he might come back next time he was in London. Spend a day or two exploring the city of the dead. He’d take Bradshaw. She’d love telling him about all the scientists who were buried there. Poe knew you could buy maps – and if he’d been there on his own, he’d have needed one – but Locke seemed to know where he was going.
After a twenty-minute walk through the West Cemetery, Locke led them into the flatter, more manicured East Cemetery. They soon arrived at their destination.
‘Here it is,’ he said. ‘Highgate’s star attraction – the tomb of Karl Marx.’
Poe was impressed. He’d known Marx was interred at Highgate, of course, but he hadn’t realised how big his tomb was. The Grade 1 listed monument was twelve-foot-tall; a pedestal topped with a Space Hopper-sized bronze bust of Marx’s head and shoulders. Poe thought Marx looked a lot like Brian Blessed. He imagined they shared the same booming voice. Inscribedin gold letters in the granite were the words,WORKERS OF ALL LANDS UNITE, one of his best-known lines.
Locke stared at the tomb for a moment then shook his head. ‘Did you know Alexander Litvinenko is buried at Highgate as well?’
‘The Russian spy? The one Putin had poisoned?’
Locke nodded.
Poe said, ‘I didn’t.’
