Personal Essay Exemplar 11

“Drawing Daggers”

It was late October 1901, on the cusp of autumn and winter, and a tearful grey sky hung overhead, brooding ominously above the graveyard. A howling wind wisped between great oak trees, whipping up brown autumnal leaves in its wake as adipose raindrops speared the ground like splinters; forming oily puddles amongst the marshy grass of the cemetery. Muddy rivulets trickled like moats between the clusters of hillocks, crowned with drenched headstones. Searing down one of these mounds like a black ribbon was a pathway, filled with mourners heading for the funeral of Jack Howard: a rich and influential property-owner who had died under tragic and bizarre circumstances. Since the landlord’s wife had died years before and he had never had any children, he left no immediate family behind. The affable landlord did, though, leave a host of others to mourn the loss of their jovial and honest friend. After the event, all of the coroners’ reports insisted that the tycoon had taken his own life by stabbing himself: however, Jack Howard – in his seventieth year – was an effervescent man who had always displayed such a youthful zest for life that suicide seemed improbable to all who knew him. Further autopsies were requested to validate the cause of death, but they all revealed the same: to the astonishment and dismay of everyone, Jack Howard had taken his own life.

Arthur Smythe, previously Jack Howard’s loyal confidant and assistant, followed the morbid procession as it shuffled down the hill towards the grave. He was a slight man, in his mid-twenties, and he had been the supervisor of all the staff at Howard’s vast and ornate mansion: the maids, the cooks, the cleaners and the chauffeurs, the butlers and the gardeners were all under his instruction. Smythe, a meticulous man, made certain that every minute and intricate detail of the house was attended to. Now, though, as he trudged behind the silent crowd, hands shoved deep in his pockets, Arthur Smythe felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to find a rotund, vaguely familiar man.

“Excuse me young man, are you Arthur Smythe?” asked the fat, rosy-cheeked face.

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“Well, I am an old acquaintance of your master, and I am deeply sorry for your loss…”

“It is everyone’s loss, sir, when a man such as Mr Howard is lost to the world.”

“Yes, but he did hold you in great esteem, you know. He was constantly telling me how trustworthy and efficient you were in your position at the mansion.”

“Thank you, sir, I am pleased to hear that Mr Howard thought so.”

The two men continued to march along the path, the shower plastering Smythe’s neat blonde hair to his forehead as they walked. His thin spectacles were bombarded with tiny droplets of rain. After an awkward silence, the stout gentleman turned to Smythe, clutching his arm enthusiastically as if he had just remembered an issue of some importance.

“Oh yes, young man…I was meaning to ask you this but I forgot,” said that round, red face, “how is the settlement going?”

“Settlement, sir?”

“Yes, about Jack’s will. I heard that you were to be given his money but there was a slight legal problem that needed ironing out,” gasped the man; already out of breath after walking such a short distance.

“It was nothing at all…a minor detail, sir. That’s all. A few charities claimed to be entitled to Mr Howard’s wealth, and I felt that it was in the spirit of the man to oblige.”

“Quite right, too. But you still retain the majority?”

“Yes, sir.” replied Smythe.

“The house included?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Quite fortunate for you that he never had a true heir, then.”

“Fortunate, sir! We should surely not speak of fortune at such an inappropriate time,” chastised Smythe.

With that remark, and with the service about to commence, Arthur Smythe departed from Mr Howard’s rotund acquaintance and took his place at the graveside...

He joining the black mass huddled tightly around the coffin: like vultures encircling their prey. The wooden casket stood surrounded as if it was the centre of some pagan ritual, adorned with elaborate golden hinges and a wreath of violet flowers. An empty hearse waited behind a black marble headstone, raindrops dashing down its misty windows. Battling against the shrieking weather, the priest was unheard. His words were futile against the merciless wind.

Without the priest’s sermon, Smythe stood in contemplation, a single ice-cold tear spilling down his gaunt face. He noticed that everyone else was crying too: not just crying, though…some were even weeping. Except one.

Arthur Smythe noticed the man who did not shed a tear, recognising him as one of those who, in disbelief that their friend had killed himself, had begged for further autopsies after the death. He was old and frail, and his grey face was skeletal against the pouring rain. But his eyes, fervent and intense, were focussed directly on Smythe – those metallic, searing blue eyes seemed to pierce directly into his soul with all the burning precision of a knife. Drawing Daggers. Panicked thoughts raced through Smythe’s mind. Did he know? He couldn’t possibly. No one knew. The withered old man averted his icy gaze.

No one knew.

When the service had ended, and the coffin had been carefully lowered into the grave and then buried under dirt and turf, Smythe surveyed the grey scene. The hearse rolled silently up the black pathway, followed by the train of mourners, umbrellas hoisted high against the onslaught. Arthur Smythe was left alone with his dead master. Turning away from the flower-laden graveside, he flung a bouquet of blood-red roses under the marble tombstone.

“Sorry, Mr Howard” he whispered.