“It’s a trick fromThey Do It with Mirrors. Miss Marple pretends to be bird-watching, but really she’s spying on suspicious activity.”
Nova groaned. “Please tell me you haven’t been bird-watching near Mountfort Close?”
The older woman ignored her as she looked into the box Nova was holding, studying its contents with a critical eye. “I hope you didn’t pay much for that horrible painting.”
“Phyllis, you can’t keep stalking their house; if Cynthia sees you there again, she’ll probably call the police. Besides, it’s not as if Michael’s just going to turn up with the stolen money in his hand.”
“What’s that?” Phyllis asked, jabbing a finger at the newspaper-wrapped teapot.
“It’s just something I got for…Oi, what are you doing?”
Phyllis had pulled the parcel out of the box and was ripping off the newspaper around it.
“Be careful, that’s fragile!” Nova said, as Phyllis threw the teapot back into the box, her eyes fixed on the newspaper sheet in her hand. “What on earth’s the matter with you?”
The woman didn’t answer, her eyes scanning the page she was holding. Then a smile spread across her face. “That’s it!”
“What’s it?”
She looked up at Nova, her eyes shining. “Agatha Christie was a genius!”
“Whatareyou talking about?” Nova said, but the woman just gave her an infuriating grin and sauntered off, the newspaper clutched in her hand.
Chapter Twelve
Phyllis
Phyllis had never confessed this to anyone, but she hated Hercule Poirot. She’d read all the novels, of course; she’d read every book Agatha ever wrote and wouldn’t hear a word said against them. But secretly, she found the Belgian detective deeply irritating. That silly little mustache, the annoying way of talking, not to mention his constant self-aggrandizement. Unlike Miss Marple, who knew that the key to being a good detective was to be inconspicuous, Poirot liked to put himself at the center of everything, preening and posturing like a peacock. Phyllis had therefore been somewhat disappointed when she’d seen the notice for Eve Watkins’s funeral in the newspaper and realized that the answer to catching the murderer and thief Michael Watkins lay not, as she’d hoped, in a Miss Marple novel, but in a Poirot one instead.
And so it was that on Tuesday morning, Phyllis found herself standing outside the gates of St Piran’s church, wearing a black coat, sunglasses and a head scarf to disguise her blue-rinsed hair. She’d had to leave Craddock at home, much to his annoyance, but he was far too conspicuous. Now though, as she stared up at the tall, imposing face of the church, Phyllis wished she had her companion with her.
When her mother was alive, Phyllis had come to St Piran’s twice a week. There had been other churches nearer to their home, but Eliza Hudson had been a devoutly Christian woman and had preferred the monotone, joyless sermons of Reverend Platt to the more modern, upbeat style at their local church. And so, every Wednesday and Sunday, come rain or shine, Phyllis and her mother had silently trudged three miles along the rocky clifftop path from their home to the church, which stood on a small, exposed headland between St. Tredock and Port Gowan. The last time Phyllis had been here was the day of her mother’s funeral, eleven years ago. She hadn’t realized at the time that it would be her last visit. But the following Sunday, Phyllis had found herself sitting at the kitchen table at ten o’clock, drinking a cup of tea, without the slightest inclination to leave the house. She had not entered this—or any—church since.
An icy gust of wind blew in off the sea and Phyllis pulled her coat around her. Perhaps this was a bad idea? Just because this was how Poirot solved the mystery inAfter the Funeraldidn’t mean she’d have the same luck today. Besides, Craddock didn’t like being left alone and—
Phyllis stopped and took a deep breath, asking herself the same question she always asked when something was unclear. What would Miss Marple do? Adjusting her head scarf, she set off up the front path toward the church.
As soon as she stepped inside, Phyllis’s senses were assaulted. That distinctive smell, a mixture of sea salt, wood polish and piety so strong that it used to stick to her Sunday coat. The damp chill in the air; somehow the church always felt five degrees cooler than outside. The almost deafening silence of the vaulted space. It was all so familiar that for a moment Phyllis expected to see her mother sitting rigid-backed in one of the front pews, her head bowed in prayer.
But your iniquities have separated you from your God;
And your sins have hidden His face from you,
So that He will not hear.
“Hello! I’m afraid you’re a little early.”
Phyllis jolted at a posh voice. A tall, silver-haired man was smiling down at her.
“Come on in, it’s freezing out there. Would you like an order of service?”
Phyllis took one and hurried toward the back of the nave. She slipped into one of the rear pews, removed her sunglasses, and studied the order of service while she waited for the mourners to arrive.Eve Louise Watkins, it said on the front, along with the dates1933–2024. So, the old bird was ninety-one? Not a bad innings, although rather irritating to be murdered; by that age, you’d be expecting pneumonia or a urine infection to see you off.
Under the writing was a photo, an old black-and-white image of Eve in her thirties or forties. She was a striking woman, although not in a good way, with a square chin, pointed nose and thick black eyebrows. The idiom “the kind of face only a mother could love” popped into Phyllis’s head and she snorted softly. That expression had never meant anything to her, given her own mother hadn’t been able to stand the sight of Phyllis’s face.
Behind her, she heard the church door creak open, and she put the order of service down and turned to pay attention to the people coming in. As was to be expected for the funeral of a ninety-one-year-old, the majority of the mourners were elderly, too, and a slow procession of wheelchairs, walking sticks and Zimmer frames made their way into the church. Phyllis kept her eyes trained on each new face as they arrived, paying particular attention to the male mourners.
InAfter the Funeral, Agatha Christie had the murderer attend a funeral in disguise, pretending to be a relative of the deceased. While Phyllis had not particularly enjoyed the book when she first read it—Poirot was at his most insufferable when he made his big reveal—she was now grateful for the story. Because even though Michael had murdered Eve, stolen money and was now on the run from the police, surely he might still attend his own mother’s funeral?
