A thin wind sliced in from the sea, bending the rough grass around the graveyard and rustling through the leaves of the twin yews beside the square-towered church. A handful of mourners stood beside the newly dug grave as Smith helped lower the small coffin into the earth.
“The Kentish coast is a strange place to bury a waif from London,” Bess said, holding her black comforter in place.
“He’ll be among friends.” Smith stepped back from the grave. “Look at his neighbour.”
Bess read the words on the simple cross to Peter’s right. “Abel Watson. That’s your real name.”
“It is. John Smith lies in that grave. I took his identity and gave him mine in return.”
“Abel Watson lying beside Peter Brown,” Bess said, “and neither name will be true.”
“Only the Lord knows our true names,” Smith said
