The notice board said Parish Church of~St. Brelade
and the place was crammed with headstones \"~Xnd tombs，
and here and there a granite cross reared up. There was a
winged angel on the far side， I noticed that， and then thun-
der rumbled on the horizon and rain swept in across the
bay.
The porter at the hotel had given me an umbrella and I
put it up and ventured in. On Sunday in Boston I d never
heard of the British Channel Islands off the coast of France
or the Island of Jersey. Now it was Thursday and here I was
having traveled halfway round the world to seek the final
answer to something that had taken three years out of my
life.
The church was very old and built of granite. I moved
toward it through the tombstones， pausing to look out over
the bay. The tide was out and there was a fine sweep of
golden sands extending to a concrete seawall and I could
see my hotel.
I heard voices and， turning， saw two men in cloth caps，
sacks over their shoulders， crouching under a cypress tree
by the far wall of the graveyard. They stood up and moved
away， laughing together as ff at some joke， and I noticed
they were carrying spades. They disappeared around the
back of the church and I crossed to the wall.
There was a freshly dug grave， covered with a tarpaulin
although the tree gave it some protection from the rain. I
don t think I~e ever felt so excited. It was as if it had been
waiting for me and I turned and moved through the head-
stones to the entrance of the church， opened the door and
went inside.
I d expected a place of darkness and gloom， but the lights
were on and it was really very beautiful， the vaulted ceiling
unusual in that it was constructed of granite， no evidence
of wooden beams there at all. I walked toward the altar and
12
stood for a moment， looking around me， aware of the quiet.
There was the click of a door opening and closing. A man
approached.
He had white hair and eyes of the palest blue. He wore a
black cassock and carried a raincoat over one arm. His
voice was dry and very old and there was a hint of Irish to
it when he spoke. \"Can I help you?\"
\"Are you the rector?\"
\"Oh， no.\" He smiled good-humoredly. ~rhey put me out
to grass a long time ago. My name is Cullen. Canon Donald
Cullen. You re an American?\"
~I~at s right.\" I shook hands. He had a surprisingly firm
grip. \"Alan Stacey.\"
\"Your first visit to Jersey?\"
\"Yes，\" I said. \"Until a few days ago I never knew the place
existed. Like most Americans， I d only heard of New Jer-
sey~\"
He smiled. We moved toward the door and he carriedon，
\"You~e chosen a bad time of the year for your first visit.
Jersey can be one of the most desirable places on earth，
but not usually during March.\"
\"I didn t have much choice，\" I said. \"You re burying
someone here today. Harry Martineau，\"
He had started to pull on his raincoat and paused in
surprise. \"rhat s right. I m performing the ceremony my-
serf， as a matter of fact. Two o clock this afternoon. Are you
a relativeT
\"Not exactly， although I sometimes feel as if I am. I m an
assistant professor of philosophy at Harvard. I ve been
working on a biography of Martineau for the past three
years.\"
\"I see.\" He opened the door and we went out into the
porch.
\"Do you know much about him?\" I asked.
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