The cemetery, which was half burial-ground, half parkland, was in Stoke Newington, itself half in London and half out of it, and was the preferred resting-place of many nonconformists. On a bright morning in October, less than a week after Mr Lye’s death and with weather to match the day when he died, Helen and Tom Ansell stood waiting near the ornamental gates of Abney Park. A few representatives of Scott, Lye & Mackenzie were there too, talking in subdued tones or brushing flecks from their outfits or inspecting the pavement or the sky. There was a cluster of Stoke Newington locals, too, with nothing better to do, drawn by the prospect of a funeral or perhaps just a turn in the sunshine. The air was clearer and fresher here than in the heart of the city. Helen was the only woman present in the official party, although others were due to arrive in the funeral carriages, including her mother, Mrs Scott. Helen looked especially fetching dressed in black, Tom thought. Her delicate complexion glowed through the veil she wore.
