collar rim, cuffs, he looked bulging with minute tendrils spreading beyond his confines. 'A close relative, was it?'
'Yes,' I said sadly, pointing to Tinker. 'It's my, er, uncle, Mr Dill. He wants a rural burial.
Is that allowed?'
Everything's allowed these days, so they can only say yes.
'Yes!' he cried, all keen. 'Do sit down.' His housekeeper made us tea. She looked askance at Tinker.
'Uncle doesn't speak much,' I told Reverend Watkinson, giving Tinker the bent eye.
'He's always seemed eccentric. He is a poet,' I invented, the only occupation Tinker could respectably have with his rubbishy appearance. 'Lives in Bercolta.'
'Very good.' The cleric rubbed his hands. 'No possibility of an early demise, I trust?'
'No,' I said. The vicar had the grace to look disappointed. 'But you can't plan too soon, can you? Uncle wants to be buried in a woodland glade.' I waited. Reverend Watkinson wasn't surprised, just nodded and sipped his tea. 'He'd heard of one such interment locally, you see.'
'Well, it's becoming quite a fashion. I deplore it. There seems to be a definite trend away from the church funeral nowadays. Several organizations exist to promote burials in forests, beside rivers and coastal estuaries, on farms. The Natural Death Centre in London issues an information pack, I do believe.' His eyes twinkled at Tinker. 'A poet such as yourself, Mr Dill, will perhaps want to consult Green Undertakings of Watchet in Somerset, since that village is such a famous poetic landmark!' He huffled with amusement. I smiled along. Maybe I should have given Tinker a different trade.
Somerset's poetic landmarks?
The vicar stared reflectively at the ceiling. 'There are wildlife trusts, as in Harrogate, that can find you a woodland. And artists who manufacture biodegradable coffins, societies that will plant certain trees the deceased admired. There's even a superstore in Walthamstow. And a West Country females-only funeral business called Martha's Funerals.'
'Didn't you officiate at one locally?' I prompted. This solemn old rector was a super salesman.
'Yes. A Mr Arthur Goldhorn. Buried in woodland, poor chap. Lord of the Manor, Saffron Fields. He and his wife went into a scandalous antiques business, in Chelsea. Lost everything to a foreign gentleman, most uncooperative.' He sighed, wagged his head.
'Refused to allow the burial on the manor. Only four attended. I thought it degrading.
No hymns, except one sung by a callow youth. I feel that Mr Goldhorn deserved a church funeral.'
'Was it legal?'
'Of course! Our own GP certified death. No undertakers.' Reverend Watkinson polished his spectacles. 'You see, in church funerals there is propriety, Lovejoy. Casual services go against the grain.'
We left assuring him of our future custom, he assuring us of his willingness to do his stuff when the time came. Trout and Lydia emerged from the outfitter's. Tinker helped them into the motor with the boxes.
'You look dynamite, Trout,' I said. 'Smart.'
'Here,' Tinker said as Lydia rocketed us off at a giddy ten mph. 'Know what? Lovejoy's just fixed to have me buried in some forest.'
Lydia's eyes got me in the rear-view mirror.
'Just a joke,' I said. 'Look. Who knows a bloke called Dieter Gluck?'
'Me,' Trout said unexpectedly, with venom. 'He got my pal Failsafe done for loitering outside that shop Gluck pinched in Chelsea.'
Well, that was hardly evil. I knew Failsafe, a meek bloke who functions as a racing tipster (Saturdays) and antiques thief (Sundays). He has bad feet, pays chiropodists a fortune, gets no better. His trick is to suss out places to rob.
'Anything really bad?'
'Isn't that enough?' Trout's gravelly bass boomed indignantly. 'You should have seen Failsafe's feet when he come out! Like two plates of warts.'
I said queasily, 'I mean something truly rotten.'
'No,' Trout said.
Tinker and Lydia also said no. Then Trout did it again.
'Except he kills people.'
We clung on in silence while Lydia regained control of the motor. I eventually managed,
'Erm, kills, Trout?'
'As in dead.' Trout was preening his jacket. 'Miss Lydia, would a salmon scarf go with this?'
We eventually reached town in safety, saying nothing further except some colours don't go with blue and suchlike. I suggested we catch the train to London, where I had an old friend to find, meaning Colette.
In the station buffet I finally remembered to ask Tinker how come he'd happened along those narrow Suffolk lanes and found us.
'I phoned Lydia. Her answer-phone said you'd gone to Carting's Farm.'
Thank you yet again, Lydia. Now the entire world knew my secret movements. I watched her bring three teas on a tray, Tinker's drink a pint of ale. Before the train came in, he'd conned Lydia into buying him two more jars by spectacular fits of coughing.
'Ta, Miss Lydia,' he said soulfully wiping spittle. 'It keeps my tubes clear.'
