“Oh, that gentleman,” she said. “Yes, he did die here, poor young man. The doctor—yes, his name was Pitt, sir—he couldn’t save him. Drink, that was the cause, I’m afeard.”
The Squire groaned—wishing all drink was at the bottom of the Thames. “And he was buried in Finchley Cemetery, ma’am, we hear?”
“Finchley? Well, now yes, I believe it was Finchley, sir,” replied Mrs. Mapping, considering—and I could see the woman was speaking the truth according to her recollection. “The burial fees are low at Finchley, sir.”
“Then he did die here, ma’am—Mr. Francis Radcliffe?”
“Sure enough he did, sir. And a sad thing it was, one young like him. But whether his name was Radcliffe, or not, I couldn’t take upon myself to say. I don’t remember to have heard his name.”
“Couldn’t you have read it on the coffin-plate?” asked the Squire, explosively. “One might have thought if you heard it in no other way, you’d see it there.”
“Well, sir, I was ill myself at the time, and in a good deal of trouble beside, and didn’t get upstairs much out of my kitchen below. Like enough it was Radcliffe: I can’t remember.”
“His brother brought him—and lodged here with him—did he not?”
“Like enough, sir,” she repeated. “There was two or three of ’em out and in often, I remember. Mr. Pitt, and others. I was that ill, myself, that some days I never got out of bed at all. I know it was a fine shock to me when my sister came down and said the young man was dead. She was seeing to things a bit for me during my illness. His rantings had been pitiful.”
“Could I see your sister, ma’am?” asked the Squire.