Recovery and the Return of Ethan Hart Read Online Free PDF Page A

son. One night he lured her to the barn with promises; and indeed wrote to her father announcing they were married—married and very happy. But Maria’s mother kept having dreams about the barn… Finally she persuaded her husband to go out and excavate. And then, of course, Maria’s body came to light. Are you bearing up manfully?”
    â€œGee, I don’t know, it’s tough.”
    â€œWell, anyway, Corder was discovered near London, in a place called Brentford, where—thanks to an advertisement—he had found himself a rich wife. And guess what: they were running a seminary for young ladies! But in August 1828 he was hanged at Bury St Edmunds, in front of a crowd of ten thousand. The hangman sold the gallows rope at a guinea an inch and a book about the trial was bound in Corder’s skin, which the prison doctor had farsightedly removed for that very purpose. What do you have to say to that, Lootenant?”
    â€œEnterprising. Though I guess it was a fairly limited edition.”
    â€œJust one copy; still on display in Bury Museum. Like to go and see it?”
    â€œAny chance we’d be allowed to fondle it?”
    â€œOh, don’t!”
    We begin to retrace our steps. But something impels me to stop again and look back at the cottage. “Actually we make light of it, we turn it into melodrama, we pull out all the stops. But this is a real person we’re talking about: silly perhaps but probably kindhearted and hopeful and trusting. Poor soul. At the end she must have felt terrified. We ought to say a prayer for her when we’re in church.”
    â€œWouldn’t some interpret that as being a little late?” He smiles at me, then adds: “The idiots!”
    â€œThat’s right. What idiots.”
    â€œAfter all,” he says, “how much do any of us really know about the complexities of time?”
    I regard him suspiciously. But his expression appears guileless.
    â€œAnd in any case,” he continues, “supposing that time is just linear. God himself is outside time—presumably, then, he’d have had knowledge, even on the night she died, of the prayer you’ll say this morning for Maria Marten. And so, if you believe in prayer, you must also believe it may have eased the pain for her, it may have helped her die less fearfully.”
    He pauses.
    â€œI’m saying all this as though you weren’t already perfectly aware of it. Forgive me.”
    â€œNo, it’s good to hear it put in words.”
    So we make our intercessions for the murdered girl; and I throw in one for William Corder also, on the principle of judge not, lest ye be judged…
    The service, which began at eleven, is only sparsely attended. The church is Norman, primitive and simple. In the nave arcades, the arches are of brick; the clerestory also. Since the Normans are not supposed to have used brick, as we are later informed by the vicar, these are thought to be the earliest bricks made in England since Roman times; earlier than Coggeshall. The vicar is clearly proud of his church; he’s a gaunt old man with snowy white hair, a shuffling gait, a soft voice, and some difficulty in hearing. His sermon is gentle, not very inspiring. But at least the hymns are mostly ones I like and played in a comfortable key.
    At the end of the service he’s of course standing by the door and as there are so few for him to say goodbye to, Matt and I talk to him about the church and the weather and the redecoration of the church hall (we have been invited to it for a cup of coffee and a biscuit but have made excuses; I already know that neither Camp Coffee nor Bev is what Matt most appreciates about England—and, anyhow, by now the Cock will probably be open). But the vicar has just asked where Matt’s home is. And when at last the old man hears the answer he suddenly exclaims that some twenty-five years ago he himself spent time in New Haven, with a