Once, Trelawney would have said it was his job. But this was Joan and Sunken Madley and Amanda’s home and his honorary one, so instead, he spoke from the heart,
‘My pleasure.’
‘There now. Will we see you back at the dance class on Saturdays now? We’re still at the Snout and Trough. Vanessa is still teaching us. Be nice to see you,’ Joan enquired hopefully. Vanessa, sister of proprietor Sandra, was a successful personal trainer who had taken a shine to Trelawney.
‘Not this Saturday. I have rather a lot on, but the following weekend, yes, I shall do my very best to see you all again.’
It turned out to be a great deal sooner.
The next day, the black-bordered invitations arrived. Hogarth advised Thomas to turn up, and Amanda too. Not that she would have far to travel.
Damian Gibbs had been prepared to go to war over this one. The Loftleighs, inevitably, had insisted Samantha’s remains be committed to the family mausoleum in the grounds of Spireworth House. Damian had stated that his daughter would, instead, be committed to the churchyard at Upper Muttring, where his parents had been laid to rest and in which village he had been happy as a boy.
To everyone’s surprise, Damian got his way. Although, some weeks later, he was seen to have made a concession to the Loftleighs.
Out of respect for Gibbs, all in Sunken Madley who had, or could get, time off turned up at the small church. Being so close, naturally, many of the Upper Muttring inhabitants were friends and acquaintances of the villagers. Consequently, in spite of best endeavours to maintain a suitably grave demeanour, the occasion showed lamentable tendencies to become something of a merry party.
Out in the mild churchyard sunshine, Moffat was standing with his sister, a Muttring resident. Miss de Havillande and Miss Armstrong-Witworth had graced the event. They were chatting to Jane, the rector of Sunken Madley’s St Ursula-without-Barnet. Beside that edifice, the little ecclesiastic precincts of St Miriam Umbal, in which they now stood, would have been dwarfed. With Churchill wandering peacefully among the headstones, Cynthia beckoned Amanda and Trelawney. They strolled over and exchanged greetings.
From afar, Miss de Havillande was regarding Veronica Loftleigh-Gibbs with a certain amount of satisfaction.
‘She’s had to put that showy house of hers on the market,’ she informed her small audience. ‘Oh yes, now that the child is no longer in the picture, she’s had her last groat out of Gibbs, and I say good luck to him. Gratifying to see someone getting a taste of their just desserts. That woman and her father played no small part in bringing young Samantha to her sticky end.’
‘Of course,’ added Miss Armstrong-Witworth pacifically, ‘Everyone is responsible for their own actions.’
‘True, Gwendolen,’ agreed Cynthia. ‘Nevertheless, whatever her faults, Samantha Gibbs was under my roof and Pamela’s best friend: that made her one of my people. And it’s my belief that if Veronica and Lofty hadn’t got their hooks into her, that child would still be alive today.’
‘Really, Cynthia,’ moderated Jane, ‘given the sad occasion, perhaps we should be a little charitable towards Mrs Loftleigh-Gibbs.’
Miss de Havillande chuckled softly. ‘That’s what we rely upon you for, dear Rector. However, you mean me, of course. And perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I should be more charitable towards the bereaved mother … But not today.’
In accordance with Hogarth’s instructions, Amanda and Trelawney made sure Gibbs and Veronica registered their presence. Hands shaken, condolences expressed, and thanks received, Trelawney led Amanda away.
‘You know,’ she remarked. ‘I’d like to come back here when it’s quiet. To pay my respects.’
‘Yes, I know what you mean,’ he agreed.
‘And there’s another thing. I must admit that I was hoping the murderer was Veronica. The Loftleighs have, I gather, done so many dreadful things and got away with them, it would have been nice to pin something on one of them that they couldn’t wangle their way out of. It almost feels like … unfinished business.’
‘Hm, if only justice were always that even-handed, Miss Cadabra. Although, in my experience, what my grandmother always says is generally the rule: what goes around comes around.’
Once they were a safe distance from any of the other attendees, Trelawney spoke more urgently. ‘Right. That’s done. I need to talk to you. I wish I could give you some recovery time, but I’m afraid I can’t let the grass grow.’
Amanda looked at him questioningly with a measure of concern. Some ten minutes later, furnished with tea and toast, Trelawney got down to business.
‘The Cardiubarn case.’
‘How grand that sounds,’ responded Amanda. ‘Yes, the vexed question of how your ghastly family knew the means, time and place to bump off my ghastly family.’
‘Rather more entertainingly put,’ he agreed. ‘But we have a new lead.’
Trelawney told her about his confidential informant — without revealing it was his own Gran Flossie — who had, some 30 years ago, seen Hedrok Flamgoyne sitting in his car with a woman in black.
‘His hands and lips moved as he looked straight at your informant? Yes, it does sound very like he did put a forgetting spell on them,’ Amanda confirmed.
‘But does the description mean anything to you?’
‘Fair hair, black coat, in her thirties? Well … no.’
‘Anyone your grandparents might have mentioned or shown you a photo of over the years?’
‘It’s too vague, and you know I’m not that good with faces, at the best of times. Look, why don’t you tell me exactly what your source said, word for word, if you can?’
‘Certainly.’ The inspector got out his police notebook, flicked through to the relevant page and began reading aloud:
‘CI: Then a woman came from the other end of Slipper Way. I remembered her. She had this hair like there was sunshine in it and a black raincoat on and a hat that couldn’t hide all that hair.’
Me: ‘Did you know her?’
CI: ‘Not personally, but being an artist, I’d
