Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 9, No. 2, February 1964

She Loved Funerals by Hilda Cushing

A funeral, despite its gravity, may contain some elements of pleasure. The security and complacency that accompany elaborate ceremonies is a sentiment often anticipated, and sometimes even precipitated.

It was the night the board met and the night Mr. Blakestone took dinner with them. Always when this happened Mrs. Hawley, the matron, nervously larded her remarks with “dears” and other such nonsense when she addressed the ladies. And usually Miss Amy Merriwether ate through the meal in disdainful silence, but tonight she had to know the answer before she went to bed and Mr. Blakestone’s presence might help.

If Mrs. Hawley refused to let her go to Fannie’s funeral she didn’t know how she could stand it. Fannie’s would probably be the last. Amy had outlived all her old friends.

As she waited for Mrs. Hawley’s answer she looked around at the other eleven ladies who made up the Prescott Home for Elderly Women. Not one over seventy-five — not one a native of the town of Prescott. Carpet-baggers every one! They were looking at their plates as though the discussion embarrassed them. She knew they could not understand why she wanted to go to Fannie’s funeral. They all avoided even the mention of death as though by ignoring it they could eliminate it.

They were like frightened sheep. Even a short excursion into the shopping center of the town had to be planned with the utmost caution. They always went in threes or fours and clung to each other as though they were forever on the brink of a yawning precipice or attempting the Matterhorn during a whirling, blinding blizzard!

Amy stirred in her chair as Mrs. Hawley spoke dubiously, “Don’t you think it might be just a teeny-weeny bit too much for you, dear Miss Merriwether? You were so fond of her and all? You did collapse when it happened, you know. And there are all those steps again at the church.”

She was going to refuse. Too much for her to go to Fannie’s funeral? How ridiculous! But she couldn’t admit now that she had only pretended to faint after she called Mrs. Brown, Fannie’s housekeeper. And she knew she could never explain how she felt about funerals.

It wasn’t only that it was Fannie who would lie in that casket before the church altar. It was everything else, too — the solemnity, the music, the sonorous tones of white-haired Dr. Barbour, the measured steps and the obsequious concern of the morticians. It was everything — the whole atmosphere! She loved funerals.

The ladies still looked at their plates but Mr. Blakestone paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. The wedge of lemon meringue pie poised perilously. It was his favorite desert and the only time pie was served at the evening meal.

Mrs. Hawley often intimated that she thought him too young but the ladies liked him. They all knew the ritual of his having meeting night dinner with them was in order to get their complaints first hand. Although he was only in his forties even Mrs. Hawley had to admit, if grudgingly, that he took his position as chairman seriously.

He looked now at Amy with deep admiration. “She looks strong enough to me to take a trip around the world. When I reach that age I hope I’ll be half as lively.” He shook his head in wonder and placed the lemon meringue neatly in his mouth.

Even though Mrs. Hawley was obviously going to soften, she had to offer one more objection. “Well,” she said slowly. “That’s just it. We’re going to be ninety next week and we don’t want to spend our birthday in bed, now do we?”

Before Amy could answer this nonsense Martha Roman interrupted in her bold way, “Pardon me, Mrs. Hawley, but if I went with her wouldn’t it be all right? It’s at my church and I’m quite used to the steps.”

Mrs. Hawley smiled. “That would be very nice. Miss Merriwether, wouldn’t that be nice, dear, to have Mrs. Roman go with you? She will be such nice company, and knows the ritual.”

If that was the only way she could get to Fannie’s funeral, all right, but that sly Martha Roman needn’t think she could weasel into a friendship with her afterwards. She was much too pushy. What did anyone know about her anyway except that she was the youngest member of the home and had been here only a month!

Mrs. Hawley in her way was just as objectionable. Mustn’t spend “our” ninetieth birthday in bed — indeed! Why ninety was hardly old at all by Merriwether lights. Mama lived to be ninety-eight and papa passed the century mark by a good year and a half. With all these new medicines she wouldn’t be at all surprised if she did better than either of them.

But, of course, there were drawbacks, coming from a long-lived family. Caring for her parents in the manner to which they were accustomed had exhausted the Merriwether money. There had just been the house left and that sold for barely enough to pay Amy’s way into the home. At that time it was considered the place for the retirement of Prescott’s gentlewomen after they reached the age of sixty-five.

But with the growth of the town the home had declined. Amy felt the members were becoming more common with each passing year. Only her undisputed seniority made her life there bearable. Of course, there had been Fannie who still lived in the old mansion on the other side of town. But the little trips by taxi to visit Fannie had palled lately. Her friend was getting disgustingly old and feeble. It was depressing and irritating. She wasn’t sorry she was dead. She was five years younger than Amy and it served her right letting herself go like that. Besides now there would be the funeral.

The next afternoon, typically April, was sunny and cool. One of the nice young assistants came gallantly down the dozen and a half or so church steps to help her and Mrs. Roman to the top. She could have done it easily without either of them but the attention pleased her. Then, inside the door, Mr. Dillworth himself took her from the young man murmering, “Close friend,” and escorted them personally down the aisle to place them in a pew directly behind those reserved for the relatives.

No one could even approach Mr. Dillworth when it came to funerals, she thought comfortably as she settled herself. There were never any gauche incidents such as at Mabelle Worthington’s last year when that new mortician brought some latecomers down the aisle after the family was seated. Or several years ago when Mr. Johnson, her father’s lawyer, was buried from the church near the corner. That time crude Mr. Jacklin, thank goodness, he didn’t last long! had forgotten to save seats for the bearers. Because of the crowd they had to stand at the rear of the church and it wasn’t until the newspaper came out the next day that Amy or anyone else was sure who they were.

Mrs. Roman disturbed her reverie. “Too far down front,” she hissed.

Amy looked at her with distaste. “Respect — almost family,” she answered shortly in a less audible tone.

“Like to see people come in,” insisted Mrs. Roman, “Although there certainly aren’t many here.”

That was true. Fannie had outlived most of her friends, too. But the number of mourners wouldn’t bother Amy. She herself wanted a church funeral. To make sure of it she had voiced her wish at dinner when Mr. Blakestone was there. As long as he remained chairman she knew she needn’t worry. She deplored the new fashion of using funeral homes. The several she had been to, the funerals of children, nieces and nephews of departed friends, had not seemed the same. It didn’t matter to her if only Mr. Blakestone and Mrs. Hawley or if no one attended. She still wanted a church funeral.

She remembered back to her grandfather’s death when she was twelve. It was before the time of calling hours, as such, and her mother led her into the front parlor where he lay cold and remote in a dark casket. She was badly frightened. However, later during the funeral at the church fear left her and from that time on she thoroughly enjoyed every one she attended.

“Wake up!” Mrs. Roman dug her in the ribs. “Here comes the family!”

“Not asleep!” was her furious whisper as she opened her eyes to behold Jonathan, Fannie’s grandchild and a handful of distant relatives who were all that remained to mourn her death and divide the estate.

Jonathan, who worked in the family bank, gave her a wink before he sat down. Luckily Mrs. Roman didn’t seem to notice. Her hand was clutching Amy’s arm as she said in her penetrating whisper. “It’s that nice Reverend Dix.”

A young curly haired curate stood before the pulpit. Mrs. Roman was still whispering, “Doctor Barbour is planning to retire. Mr. Dix preaches even the Sunday sermons now.”

Know it all, thought Amy fuming. Then gradually her disappointment turned to interest. The assistant had a flair for the dramatic and, although Amy was surprised at herself, she enjoyed the change from the old ministers heavy singsong delivery. He was saying some very nice things about Fannie. He must have visited her during these past few years while she was growing so feeble. She had never mentioned him but her memory wasn’t too good lately. She had been vague about so many things.

It was only three days ago that the housekeeper had served the tea in Fannie’s second floor sitting room. They had been discussing the many changes in the town.

“I don’t enjoy going downtown these days,” Amy had said. “I never meet anyone I know anymore.”

“Not even in the bank?” Fannie’s voice was almost a quaver.

“Not even in the bank.” Fannie should know better, thought Amy as she said bluntly, “There’s no reason for me to go to the bank. There’s no more money. You know that, Fannie!”

“No more money?” Her friend became agitated. “No more money in the bank? Has it failed? Why didn’t Jonathan tell me? What shall I do—”

Amy had had enough. She rose. “The bank is all right,” she said distinctly, “and I’m going back to the home. Don’t bother Mrs. Brown. I don’t want the elevator. I’d rather take the stairs.”

Fannie had walked out with her, leaning heavily on her cane. As she paused at the top of the stairs Fannie said anxiously, “Do you think you ought to try the stairs, Amy. They’re so steep. I never use them any more.”

Amy’s patience snapped. “You should. You have no business giving up like this: If you don’t use your legs pretty soon you won’t have any!” And with an irritated gesture she swung her handbag to indicate her disgust.

To her horror the bag slipped out of her hand and hit the cane, knocking it from Fannie’s grasp. The woman’s weight must have been full upon it for without a sound she pitched down the stairs to land in a heap on the floor below. It was then, after calling Mrs. Brown, that Amy decided to faint. After she apparently came to she was asked very few questions. There was no doubt it was an accident and that Amy’s only involvement was that she had the misfortune to witness it.

Well it happened and there certainly was nothing she could do about it now. That young minister was Conducting a beautiful service. Granted he didn’t make Fannie the utterly noble character Dr. Barbour would have, he still painted a picture that was suitable and attractive.

It was too bad, Amy thought, for people to outlive their old friends. She, Amy, had outlived not only her own generation but many in the next one. She was sure Mrs. Hawley would refuse to let her attend just any funeral.

Of course, there were the members of the home. But they were all still young and, despite their craven attitudes, in excellent health. Besides, she wouldn’t be at all surprised if they all wound up in funeral parlors. That was the trend today unless one left explicit instructions with someone trustworthy.

Come to think of it, the next time Mr. Blakestone came to dinner she had better tell him how much she admired the Reverend Mr. Dix. And perhaps she should start going to church again on Sunday mornings. Not that it would be the same but in that way she might get to know him. He might even call on her and she could tell him how much she enjoyed today.

She frowned. No, she couldn’t do that. This was Mrs. Roman’s church, too. It would mean her company again and she was having plenty of her today. She did wish she would stop jabbing her in the side and making sibilant comments.

She was doing it now and in her loud whisper. “I do like a good church funeral, don’t you? I have it in my will that I want mine right here when my time comes.”

Well, that was one thing in her favor, thought Amy grimly. She turned to give her a thoughtful look but then she shook her head. She would never live to go to her funeral. Martha Roman was too young and much too healthy. She gave her attention again to the pulpit. But her thoughts were only half with the handsome curate.

When the service was over Mr. Dillworth left them until the last, along with the family. This time young Jonathan held out his arm for her to take and, squeezing hers close to his side, bundled her up the aisle as though she were his best girl. “How about a date tonight?” he murmured as he unhanded her near the big church door. She started to rebuke him but somehow it was difficult to be cross with Jonathan. Besides, she knew he had been fond of Fannie and, despite his brashness, had been her favorite.

She was about to say something suitable to the occasion when she felt Mrs. Roman’s knuckles in her back. “Are you going to the cemetery?” The woman’s voice was eager.

Amy shook her head irritably. She never went to the cemetery. The few times she had in the past had shaken her from the comfortable feeling she had when she left the church. There was usually a long wait and if it was chilly like today the feeling dissipated even more quickly.

Mrs. Roman was obviously disappointed, “It doesn’t seem complete, somehow, without going to the cemetery,” she said petulantly.

“You do as you please,” said Amy curtly, knowing that the woman had been urged by Mrs. Hawley to stay close.

At that moment Mr. Dillworth, who was standing near the open doors, caught her eye. He came to her and clasped her hand in both of his. “My dear Miss Merriwether,” he said with grave courtesy. “As soon as the cars going to the cemetery have left I’ll be happy to send you both home in my own car.”

Dear Mr. Dillworth. How well he knew her and how kind he was. Now they would not have to wait for a capricious taxi. She moved through the doors to the top step and watched the cluster of family mourners as they entered the two limousines that waited on the street before the church. The sight of the sleek black vehicles filled her with discontent. She couldn’t bear to think that this was the last time she might attend such a lovely service.

She felt Mrs. Roman at her left side. The woman still muttered querulously. Suddenly Amy thought of Fannie. Not Fannie as she lay in the casket before the altar but Fannie as she tumbled down the front stairs of her musty old house. A pure and simple accident. And here was an equally steep flight of stairs. Could she bring it off again, this time with intent, and still have it appear an accident?

She stood absolutely still, scarcely breathing. The few people who stood about were looking curiously at the limousines as they jockeyed for position behind the hearse. There was no one behind them at the church doors. She drew closer to Mrs. Roman who turned an aggrieved eye upon her.

“Let’s go down to the street to wait,” suggested Amy softly as she tried to maneuver herself slightly behind the younger woman.

“Yes,” agreed Mrs. Roman, “Let me help you.”

And before Amy could flex her knee she felt the insistent pressure on her left shoulder blade and felt herself falling down the steps — and then Amy felt nothing more — ever.