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THIRTY-TWO
32
By the time I returned to London, my unquenchable thirst for revenge knew no limits. The first few weeks were nothing but funerals. I even managed to attend the funeral of Pierre Clavell; Madame Charlotte Julien's absence did not go unnoticed, but what the congregation didn't know was that the day after the explosion, she passed away peacefully in her sleep.
Another link in the chain, broken.
Blanche's funeral was a sad affair, with her twins, the mirror image of their mother, stood solemnly in the front row, heads bowed, while the heavy rain battered the roof of the church. The burial took place in Highgate Cemetery, with the priest barely making himself heard above the shower.
Everybody remained silent as the coffin was lowered into the ground by the pallbearers, and the twin daughters took it in turns to throw their handful of dirt onto the wooden lid. Usually, that moment echoed around the graveyard, but the rain drowned out even this poignant gest
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