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opened the front door called back to a scowling Mrs. Stick that he would not be in to lunch, He was soon out on the main road driving fast to Beaslake.
    The crematorium was an ugly red brick building with vague suggestions of ecclesiasticism about it. The ground near it was taken up with a large car park, and there were many shrubs of the least interesting varieties. Here, if anywhere, Carolus thought, there should be cypresses, the funeral trees that the Romans dedicated to Pluto because once they are cut they never grow again. Yews would take too long to grow, perhaps, for one could not imagine this public library sort of building becoming an ancient monument that would one day inspire some twenty-fifth-century Gray to compose an “Elegy written in a Country Crematorium.”
    Leaving his car in the car park, he walked across to the entrance where a cheerful man in black was picking his teeth.
    â€œMorning,” the man said. “You for the Grossiter lot? It’s not till eleven, so you’ve got nearly an hour to wait.”
    â€œI know,” said Carolus. “How long will it take?”
    â€œWell, they’ve ordered the big show, organ, parson,
the lot,
so it will be half an hour at least. We do a shorter one cheaper, but these Mr. Neasts wanted no expense spared.”
    Two men, the first arrivals, entered by a side door.
    â€œAre they attending the cremation?” asked Carolus.
    â€œNo. Two of the cooks,” said his bright interlocutor. “They’ve got a big day on today. We’ve got half a dozen in all, but two of them’s being done together. Yes, an ‘usband and wife. Killed in a motor smash. So that’ll take half the time. We shall have to get your lot out pretty smart though because we’ve got another at twelve and the Reverend Gillow hates being late for his lunch. I’ve known him cut out a piece of the service if it’s getting past half past twelve, though not the part about dust to dust and ashes to ashes because they always notice that. Yes, I will have a cigarette. You’d think I was a non-smoker working here, wouldn’t you? But I like a pipe. My wife pulls my leg about it. ‘I don’t know how you can’, she says, ‘when you’ve been at that place all day.’ You get used to it, though.”
    â€œWhat happens to the ashes?” asked Carolus.
    The man understood that he did not mean those of his pipe.
    â€œThey can have them if they want them. We’re very strict about that. Some don’t bother, though. They reckon that once anyone’s gone they’re gone and a lot of ashes won’t make any difference, any more than what you rake out of the stove in the morning. Others are just the opposite. They buy special pots for them and keep them on the mantelpiece. I shouldn’t care for that myself, would you? Not to think your old man or whoever it was in the room all the time sealed up in an urn. But the bestare those that want to scatter ’em somewhere and go to a lot of trouble to do it. That’s generally in the will. Sometimes they hire a boat and take ’em out to sea or climb up some hill or other when there’s a high wind. Seems a bit silly to me but there you are. If it’s left in the will they’ve got to do it, haven’t they?”
    â€œWhat arrangements have been made for the ashes this morning?”
    â€œThey’ve got to be kept. The nephew was most particular about that. Hullo. This looks like the first of them. I must go and slip my gown on. Oh, yes, I always do that. Looks more serious, doesn’t it? It doesn’t do to be cheerful round here. Would you like to go inside? You can sit down then.”
    â€œYes,” said Carolus. “Somewhere at the back if you don’t mind.”
    â€œCome on, then. This way. You can sit here where you won’t be noticed, if you like. Oh, thank you, sir. You can see all right from here? That’s