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