Chapter Sixteen

The funeral, scheduled for two o’clock Friday afternoon, was delayed due to the large crowd filing into All Souls. The pews were already packed when the policemen arrived—not so much a tribute to the deceased as curiosity about her lurid death, Peter Hemming thought. He and Detective Sergeant Jarral were forced to stand in the back, next to Chief Constable McCrary, looking uncomfortable in a stiff dark-blue suit, his sparse hair combed back severely, his abundant mustache gleaming with wax. He gave a curt nod and glared at the backs of the attendees’ heads, as if he could glean the murderer’s identity by the way they parted their hair.

The altar was festooned with an abundance of gardenias, the air thick with their heavy scent, and Hemming felt his nasal passages swelling. He fished a damp handkerchief from his pocket as the minister began his invocation. It was a formal, old-fashioned Protestant service, sprinkled with standard funeral hymns such as “Abide With Me,” “All Things Bright and Beautiful,” and “Jerusalem.”

It was not an open coffin. Hemming remembered attending the service of an elderly Catholic aunt as a boy. Though warned by his mother to expect an open casket, nothing could have prepared him for the ghastly waxen apparition he saw when he peered over the side of the box. Having heard people murmur things like “so lifelike,” he was struck by how utterly unlifelike she looked. She looked dead, like a thing, and he wondered why anyone would want to be preserved as an object when the force that had illuminated them in life was clearly gone.

He was glad to see there would be no teary-eyed remembrances or invitations to share touching anecdotes about the recently departed, the kind of emotional free-for-all Americans were so fond of. Hemming had seen too many people succumb to the temptation of a captive audience and had sat through flowery speeches—often fueled by alcohol—that devolved into rambling, self-indulgent monologues.

After the hymns, Reverent Motley stood to deliver the eulogy. His bald head reflected the afternoon sun streaming through the stained-glass windows, giving the appearance of a halo. He cleared his throat officiously, regarding the crowd through wire-rimmed spectacles.

“We come here today to honor our beloved sister Sylvia, who was so rudely torn from our midst. She was a loving wife, faithful friend, and loyal supporter of All Souls.” He paused, and Hemming thought he heard someone snicker. Undeterred, the reverend soldiered on.

“Her untimely death serves not only as a reminder of how precious life is, but also a warning that while God may forgive the sinner, He does not condone the sin.” Surprised, Hemming looked at Constable McCrary, who looked equally nonplussed.

“Therefore,” Reverend Motley continued, “I urge any of you with knowledge about Sylvia’s death to come forward as soon as possible before something else dreadful happens.” This was met by a general murmur from the assembly, and Hemming heard someone weeping. Craning his neck, he saw the sound was coming from Carolyn Hardacker. Seated next to her husband, head bowed, she was sobbing quietly, a handkerchief pressed to her eyes.

The rest of the eulogy went on to praise Sylvia’s qualities and accomplishments, but Hemming was only partially listening. He was wondering what, if anything, the reverend knew, and why Carolyn Hardacker seemed so cut up about Sylvia’s death.

The eulogy was followed by a rendition of Schubert’s “Ave Maria,” sung by a sturdy-looking soprano in a powder-blue gown. As her tremulous tremolo filled the church, Hemming fished around in his pocket for his handkerchief. The gardenias were making his eyes water, and he hoped to forestall a sneezing fit.

Sergeant Jarral appeared to share Hemming’s views on funerals. He shifted his weight impatiently as the wavering warbler geared up for a second verse. When it was over, he brushed a bit of lint from his lapel and yawned.

The one concession to modern custom was a bulletin board filled with pictures from Sylvia’s life. After silently observing the line of people filing past the display, the two policemen stepped up to look at the pictures.

Judging by the photos, Sylvia was quite the animal lover—hardly a unique trait in an English village—but Hemming had seen no sign of pets at the house she shared with her husband. Yet the board was littered with pictures of Sylvia on horseback, hugging a grinning spaniel, and, as a young child, clutching an enormous white pet rabbit.

Jarral seemed to be reading the detective’s mind. “Odd, isn’t it, sir?” he said, studying a photo of Sylvia astride a handsome chestnut, resplendent in creamy jodhpurs and shiny black riding boots. “I didn’t see any sign of pets at her house.”

“Yes,” Hemming agreed. “Not so much as a wisp of cat hair.”

“I wonder what changed in her life?” Jarral mused, looking at a photo of a young Sylvia on a couch holding a large orange tabby. “Allergies, perhaps?”

“Ah, gentlemen—I’m so glad you could make it!” a cheery female voice behind them said.

Hemming turned to see a tall, angular woman with vermillion lips and matching fingernails. She was a clash of reds, from her dyed hair to her bright cherry-colored frock and floral scarf, attire more appropriate for a cocktail party than a funeral. Her age was impossible to guess, but he would have put money on the fact that the skin stretched tightly over her cheekbones was the work of a surgeon’s scalpel. She was such an odd apparition he couldn’t help staring, which apparently she took as a sign of interest. She lowered her head and gave a sly smile from beneath mascara-smeared lashes.

“No one told me what attractive emissaries the York Constabulary sent us. I heard you were in town, but I must say, the reports did you no justice.”

Taken aback by such blatant flirtation, Hemming glanced at Sergeant Jarral, who stood there slack-jawed, apparently also thrown off by the onslaught of feminine charm.

“Hetty Miller,” she said, extending a slim hand. “Please, call me Hetty.”

Looking at the crimson talons, Hemming hesitated before shaking her hand. Her grip was surprisingly firm, the fingers thin but strong.

“Detective Inspector Hemming,” he said. “And this is Detective Sergeant Jarral.”

“Delighted,” she said, swiveling her slim hips to face the sergeant. “I spent some time in Pakistan myself—charming place. The men are so handsome. Is your family from the Kashmir or Punjab branch of the Rajput tribe?”

The sergeant’s lifted eyebrows registered his surprise. “We’re, uh, Punjabi.”

“I thought so! The men are better-looking there. Will you be attending the reception?”

“Yes,” Hemming replied.

“Good. And to save you the trouble of asking: no, I didn’t particularly care for Sylvia, but I didn’t kill her. I wish I knew who did, but I’m afraid I can’t help you there. Any other questions, I will of course be only too glad to answer. Toodle-oo—see you at the reception!”

And with that, she turned on her spiky high heel and strutted away in a trail of lily-scented perfume, joining the mourners filing into the narrow hallway leading to the reception room behind the sanctuary. Her perfume made him sneeze, but Hemming had to admire how she had managed to control the entire encounter. Normally he would consider it suspicious behavior, to say the least, but Hetty Miller seemed so genuinely wacky that he had to wonder what motivated her.

“Punjabi, eh?” Hemming said. “How the blazes did she know that?”

“Either she’s done her homework or has spent time in Pakistan. The Jarrals are a Rajput tribe from those two areas of Pakistan: the Kashmir, which is just north of India, and the Punjab, to the west.”

“She could have learned that easily enough on the Internet.”

“But why do all that research just to trot it out for us?”

“Good question.”

He turned to see Chief Constable McCrary coming toward them, looking uncomfortable, trapped in his wool suit. Even his prodigious mustache seemed to droop. “I hope you’re planning t’attend the reception,” he said. “We’ll not find a more concentrated gathering of potential suspects. And the food will be brilliant.”

“Lead on,” said Hemming.

“I’m famished,” Jarral added.

The aroma of roast lamb and potatoes floated through the hall as they turned the corner leading to the spacious reception hall. Hemming’s stomach contracted with hunger pangs—it had been a long time since breakfast, and they had worked straight through lunch.

*   *   *

Erin Coleridge stood in the back of the church watching the line of mourners waiting to get into the reception room. Cursing herself for arriving so late—she’d missed the first few minutes of the service—she was determined to make up for it by doing a little spur-of-the-moment sleuthing.

She hadn’t yet seen Jerome Pemberthy, so she decided to prowl the nooks and crannies of the church in search of him. Walking through the sanctuary, she ducked into a side hall leading to the vestry. In the cloakroom she saw Reverend Motley changing out of his clerical robes. Taking a deep breath, she put on an impersonal but friendly smile.

“Beg pardon,” she said, “but have you seen Jerome?”

Startled, the reverend turned, and his expression changed from annoyance to delight when he saw her. “Why, hello there,” he said, his watery blue eyes shining.

“Hello,” she replied coolly. “Do you have any idea where Jerome is?”

“I believe the grieving widower stepped out for a breath of air,” he said in a lugubrious voice.

“Cheers,” she said, and fled before he could say anything further.

The side door was just down the corridor and led to the small garden to the east of the church. Pushing it open, she saw Jerome leaning against a pin oak, phone to his ear. She didn’t need to hear his words—his body language said it all. From the tilt of his head to the smile on his face, it was clear Jerome Pemberthy was talking to an intimate, probably a lover. Quietly she slipped back into the building and, without a word to the reverend, hurried back through the sanctuary to the reception.

The buffet table was crowded, so she lingered at the entrance, scouting the room. Her eye was caught by Jonathan Alder and Carolyn Hardacker, huddled together in the back of the room. He was listening intently to something Carolyn was telling him, and Erin burned to know what they were saying. She took her phone from her clutch purse and pretended to be engaged in looking at it. Hugging the wall, she sidled toward them, all the while gazing at her phone. When she was a few feet away, she stood on the other side of a ficus tree and listened to their conversation.

Carolyn was saying, “It’s a small sum—to me, at any rate.”

“Does Owen approve?”

“I do have my own money, you know.”

“I’ll do my best to earn it.”

“I’m tired of living selfishly.”

Jonathan smiled. “Perhaps in practice, but surely not in principle, as Mr. Darcy would say.”

“Listen to us!” Carolyn said, tears springing to her eyes. “Consoling ourselves by quoting Jane Austen, as though that could save us. But I fear I am lost.”

“Nonsense!” he said, taking her hand. “Stop such foolish talk.”

“We are all fools in love,” she said sadly. “There I go again—I’m afraid Prudence is rubbing off on me.”

“The important thing is that there was—is—love,” he said earnestly. “Surely that counts for something.”

“You won’t tell anyone?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“There has been enough death already.”

Listening to them from her perch on the other side of the fig tree, Erin had to agree.