“We shall have to shift her down here now,” he began. “I was sure we should, the coffin’s too big to get round that awkward crook in these stairs when it’s loaded. In fact, ’tis impossible. Better have her down now afore we put her in, or there’ll be an accident on the day as sure as judgment.” The man, then noticing Cronshaw, said: “Good-morning, sir, you’ll excuse me.”
The ironmonger stared at him with horror, and then put his notebook away.
“Yes, yes, then,” mumbled Pettigrove. “I’ll come up in a few minutes.”
The man went out and Cronshaw jumped up and said: “You’ll pardon me, Mr. Pettigrove, I had no idea that you had had a bereavement too.”
“My wife,” said Pettigrove dully, “two nights ago.”
“Two nights ago! I am very sorry, most sorry,” stammered the other, picking up his umbrella and hat. “I’ll go away. What a sad coincidence!”
“There’s no call to do that; what’s got to be done must be done.”
“I’ll not detain you long then, just a few details: I am most sorry, very sorry, it’s extraordinary.”
He took out his notebook again—it had red edges and a fat elastic band—and after conferring with Pettigrove for some time the stranger went off to see the vicar, saying, as he shook hands: “I shall of course see you again when it is all over. How bewildering it is, and what a shock it is; from one day to another, and then nothing; and the day after to-morrow they’ll be buried beside one another. I am very sorry, most sorry. I shall of course come and see you again when it is all over.”
After he had gone Pettigrove walked about the room murmuring: “She was a lady, a handsome lady,” and then, still murmuring, he stumbled up the stairs to the undertakers. His wife lay on the bed in a white gown. He enveloped her stiff thin body in a blanket and carried it downstairs to the parlour; the others, with much difficulty, carried down the coffin and when they had fixed it upon some trestles they unwrapped Carrie from the blankets and laid her in it.