thoughts; whilst emotion- ally she had long since accepted that her love for
her husband was as dead as the man who had been lying there in the coffin -
until mercifully the curtains had closed, and the show was over. He would
have enjoyed the hymn though, 'He Who Would Valiant Be', for he had been
valiant enough (she'd learned that from his army friends) - as well as vain
and domineering and unfaithful. Yes, she'd found herself moved by the hymn;
and the tears ought to have come.
But they hadn't.
Outside, in the clear sunshine, she whispered quickly into her mother's ear.
'Remember what I said. The kids are fine, if anybody asks. OK?'
But the grandmother made no reply. She was the very last person in the
world to let the little ones down, especially the one of them. As for Linda,
she girded up her loins in readiness for the chorus of commiseration she
would have to cope with.
And indeed several of the family and friends of her late husband, J. Ban-on,
Builder, had already emerged through the chapel doors, including Thomas
Biffen, Landlord, whose creased white shirt was so tight around the neck that
he had been forced to unfasten the top button beneath the black tie;
including the perennial opponents, Alf and Bert, who had exchanged no words
in the chapel, but whose thoughts were perhaps in tune during the service as
each of them must have mused on their imminent mortality, and the prospects
of encountering that great cribbage-player in the sky.
Including Frank Harrison.
Chief Superintendent Strange, who had been seated in the back row next to
Morse, was the last but one to leave. His thoughts had roamed irreverently
throughout the short service, and the superannuated minister's apparent
confidence in the resurrection of the dead had filled him more with horror
than with hope. He thought of his wife and of her death, and experienced
that familiar sense of the guilt that still remained to be expiated. The
hymn was all right, although he'd gone himself for
'Praise My Soul, the King of Heaven' in the Instructions For My Funeral
stapled to his last will and testament
But on the whole he dreaded church services almost as much as did the man
seated beside him; and he could think of nothing more detestable than a
funeral.
Morse himself had been sickened by the latest version (Series Something) of
the Funeral Service. Gone were those resonant cadences of the AV and the
Prayer Book: those passages about corruption putting on incorruptibility and
the rest of it, which as a youth he'd found so poignant and powerful. They'd
even had a cheerful hymn, for heaven's sake!
Where was that wonderfully sad and sentimental hymn he'd chosen for his own
farewell: '0 Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go'? Chosen, that is, before he'd
recently decided to leave his body for medical science, although that
decision itself was now in considerable doubt. In particular that little
clause in sub- section 6 of Form Dl still stuck in his craw: 'Should your
bequest be accepted . . .'
He pointedly avoided the priest who'd presided a man (in Morse's view)
excessively accoutred in ecclesiastical vestments, and wholly lacking in any
sensitivity to the English language. But he did have a quick word of
sympathy with the widow, shaking her black-gloved hand firmly before turning
to her mother.
'Mrs Stokes?' he asked quietly.
'Yes?'
Morse introduced himself.
'My sergeant called to see your daughter' ' Oh yes. '
' - when you were there looking after the children, I believe. Very kind of
you. Must be a bit wearisome . I wouldn't know, though. '
'It's a pleasure really.'
'Who's looking after them today?'
'Oh they're, er . . . you know, a friend, a neighbour. Won't be for long
anyway.'
'No.'
Morse turned away, following in Strange's steps towards the car park.
She was lying, of course Morse knew that. There was only one of the Barren
