Dublin, Thursday 7 January 1892 - The Funeral
The sleet was coating the ground in a soaking cold grey slush that mirrored the sullen grey of the sky. Marie stood silently as the last couple of scoundrels muttered some half-hearted attempts at consolation and shuffled of to find a pub; somewhere to drown whatever conscience remained.
Marie looked down at the coffin in the grave and thought to herself "Well, Edward Patrick Fitzhume, you bastard, you've finally managed to destroy us both haven't you!"
Twenty years old and newly widowed, the debts left by her drunkard husband would mean that the bailiffs would take the house within the week. The coffin was just another debt which she could not afford. Mr McElduff the funeral director had agreed, for a few pennies, to let the few who turned up to the funeral see a proper burial. Later he would take the coffin back, after the congregation had gone home, to leave Edward in a pauper's grave.
