The Welfare of the Dead Read Free

in part, it is the sheer size of the hall, an airy chamber some sixty feet in height, and twice as long. It is, moreover, light enough for him to look at the photograph entrusted to him by Mrs. Woodrow. It shows a bright-eyed young woman of about twenty-one years, with light-coloured hair, tightly chignoned, standing in her day-dress before a forest clearing, albeit one of the painted-canvas variety. He takes a look around the hall, but cannot see any likely girl. He proceeds, therefore, to the platforms and asks advice from a guard. He is informed that the Liverpool train has already arrived. Worse, it is plainly almost empty, except for an elderly couple engaged in a heated debate about the cost of porterage.
    Langley returns to the Great Hall where, after several minutes of fruitless searching, he sees a woman, surrounded by a dozen or more bags and cases, standing by the marble statue of Stephenson that dominates the far end of the chamber. He takes another look at the photograph, and walks over to her.
    â€˜Miss Krout?’
    She smiles a brief, nervous smile. ‘Yes. I was expecting . . . I am sorry, but you are not Mr. Woodrow?’
    â€˜Ah, no. My name is Langley. Mr. Woodrow is detained elsewhere, I am afraid. But your cousin has a brougham waiting outside.’
    â€˜Does she? Oh, how good of her!’
    â€˜I fear your luggage will have to go separately. Can you wait, while I find a porter?’
    â€˜Of course,’ she replies. ‘You must excuse me, I should have arranged something myself.’
    â€˜No need,’ says Langley, looking round the hall for an attendant. ‘I confess, I thought I had missed you.’
    â€˜I do beg your pardon,’ she says earnestly.
    Langley smiles. ‘No, no. We are late – do not apologise. I imagine you are exhausted, Miss Krout. It is a long way from Liverpool.’
    â€˜Even further from Boston, sir.’
    â€˜Indeed! Well, you are safe and sound now, rest assured. I expect you are looking forward to seeing London?’
    â€˜Yes, sir. Truly, I—’
    â€˜Ah, hang on, here’s our chap. Boy – over here!’

    The ‘boy’ who takes charge of the despatch of Annabel Krout’s luggage is barely three or four years younger than Richard Langley. Nonetheless, he does not object to the description, and the business in hand is soon dealt with. In consequence, it does not take long for Langley to guide Miss Krout back outside to her cousin’s waiting carriage. A few polite words are exchanged, and he cordially takes leave of the two women.
    As for Mrs. Woodrow and her cousin, the cold night air forbids the customary ecstasy of greetings and exchange of affectionate familial bulletins, until they are both ensconced inside the brougham and wrapped in several layers of blankets. As the vehicle begins its slow ascent of Pentonville Hill, however, a litany of American relatives ‘send their love’, via the medium of Annabel Krout. In turn, Mrs. Woodrow replies with a host of family members ‘dying to meet’ Miss Krout, averitable hospital ward-full of aunts, uncles, first, second and third cousins upon the brink of metaphorical extinction, scattered throughout the kingdom. It is only as they approach the Angel at Islington, the famous public house barely visible in the enshrouding darkness, that the conversation turns to other things.
    â€˜I trust the journey was not too awful?’ says Mrs. Woodrow. ‘Now, Mr. Langley said he found you all alone? Did I hear right? I do not know how things are done in Boston, my dear, but that is rather foolhardy for a young lady. I thought you had a chaperon, a friend of your dear father’s?’
    â€˜Yes, ma’am, indeed, Mr. Johannsen and his wife; but I told them there was no need to wait on me, once we were off the train. They have rented rooms in a place called Bayswater, I think – is that far?’
    â€˜Not too far, my dear. Perhaps