After the service the sparse congregation milled in the vicinity of the stone porch of All Saints, waiting for the emergence of the coffin, marking the start of Neville Hilton’s last journey on this earth: the short drive to Maple Park Crematorium. Like the rest of the countryside that summer, the graveyard was bleached and dusty after nearly four weeks of blazing sunshine and little rain; the various stilettos and designer trainers of the Lodestone group sparked little puffs of sandy dust.
Whilst Derek gravitated to the couple of fellow Rotarians, jackets over their arms, Liz, Pat and Thelma retired to a discreet distance under the shade of one of the gently rustling trees by the honeyed stone wall.
‘So,’ said Pat bluntly, removing her black hat (roots be damned). ‘What wasthatall about?’
‘I’m wondering,’ said Liz, ‘why the funeral was here and not in the church at Hollinby?’ She made a grab for her bag, and a balsam tissue. Standing in this graveyard was doing nothing for her hay fever.
‘Thereisno longer a church at Hollinby,’ said Thelma. ‘It was deconsecrated a couple of years ago.’
Pat shook her head impatiently. ‘I don’t mean where the funeral was but who was at it,’ she said. ‘Or rather whowasn’tat it. There was hardly anyone there!’
‘Most of the Rotary lot were away on holiday,’ said Liz. ‘At least that’s what they told Derek.’
‘There’s the group from Lodestone,’ pointed out Thelma. The three looked over to the huddled group. Chris Canne had his back to them.
‘That’s something else,’ said Pat. ‘Is it me or is Chris Canne avoiding us?’
‘He certainly looked surprised to see us,’ said Liz, blowing her nose.
‘I did say “hello”,’ agreed Thelma. ‘But he didn’t seem willing to talk. Though of course he could just be embarrassed about the last time we met.’
There was a brief pause as they all remembered the scandal involving a certain member of the Lodestone Trust personnel they’d been involved in uncovering.
‘I wonder,’ said Liz, ‘if there was maybe some issue with Neville at work?’
‘Some murky goings-on?’ mused Pat. ‘Neville?’
‘He’d only been there ten minutes,’ said Thelma. ‘According to Chris Canne.’
‘And all those lilies,’ continued Liz. ‘Don’t you think they were a bit OTT? There’s so many lovely flowers at this time of year – and a lot cheaper. Remember all those daffodils at Laura Barton’s funeral?’
‘Nev would have been on a fair old whack if those Lodestone suits are anything to go by,’ observed Pat. ‘And apparently the fuddle’s at Ainderby Golf Club. No expense spared according to Jax.’ At the mention of their former colleague there was a significant exchange of glances.
‘I suppose what I’m wondering,’ said Thelma, ‘is why we’re here.’
‘Because Jax “asked” us,’ said Pat. The inverted commas round the word ‘asked’ were audible.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Liz frowning.
‘Jax was very insistent I came,’ said Thelma.
‘And me,’ said Pat. She looked at her friend. ‘You think maybe she wanted us here for a particular reason?’
Thelma nodded. ‘The thought did cross my mind.’
Liz remembered that dark undertone in Jax’s voice. She had a sudden nasty feeling she might be committing herself to something she’d much rather not.
‘Butwhatreason?’ she said worriedly. She could feel another sneeze coming on.
Thelma nodded to where a blonde ponytail could be seen making a purposeful passage through the graves towards them.
‘I think we might be about to find out,’ she said.
‘I’m completely gutted,’ said Jax emphatically. On her unspoken but unmistakable bidding, they had relocated to a more discreet distance from the other mourners, next to a pile of pungent, crawling grass clippings and the last resting place of Fred Webster. Beyond the yew trees, a combine was making dusty progress across a baking beige field.
‘I tell you’ – she looked at her three ex-colleagues – ‘I’ve been in absolute bits since it happened. But it’s Chelse. She’s the one I feel sorry for.’
‘Chelse?’ asked Liz politely.
