“There is fever and death. Very evil,” said the priest. “It is not wholesome to be in the sun, turning the earth, before chocolate. I will go to the widow.”
He left the cemetery, holding a handkerchief across his nose. The rats in their burrow-mouths watched him. One or two of them scuttled to other burrows. They seemed to play a game of general post, with Margaret as the “he.”
“Let me have a go at that spade, Captain Margaret, sir,” said West.
“No. I must do this,” he answered. “It is dangerous at the top. Perhaps deeper down you shall give me a hand. Gather stones from the wall. I want you to keep away from me, West. This soil is full of infection. Here is some tobacco. I want you to smoke, all the time you are here.”
“No, sir,” said West, looking uncomfortable. “Not just now, thank you, sir.”
“It will keep away the infection. You do smoke?”
“Yes, sir. But it wouldn’t be right, sir, nor respectful to Mrs. Stukeley.”
“Ah,” said Margaret, feeling himself rebuked. He dug for a few minutes in silence; it was light, sandy earth, easily shovelled.
“I wish you’d let me do that, sir,” said West.
“No. Not yet, West.”