weather, Chief Inspector. Itâs getting worse and I didnât think to bring a brolly today.â
Was she angling for a lift? âIâm going back to St. Paulâs churchyard, if thatâs any help. I could give you a ride.â
âIf youâre sure you donât mind ...â
âNot at all, Daphne. Actually I wanted a word with you,â he said, scooping her in an outstretched arm and shepherding her out under his umbrella.
âHow is Jonathon?â she asked as soon as they drove off.
âHe seems O.K. Remarkably calm, though not what would call happy.â
âNever has been, that one. Always sour. I remember him as a kid. Always sour â always walking around with a face like a smacked bum.â
The wrought iron lych-gates were under heavy guard. Two bulky uniformed policeman, grateful to be out of the drizzle, were determined no-one would get through without authority while ignoring the fact that almost anyone could simply step over the two foot high stone wall forming the remainder of the cemeteryâs perimeter. A few disgruntled mourners were clustered under a couple of black umbrellas close-by, discussing tactics, looking, thought Bliss, as if they were deciding whether or not to rush the gates and bury their dead anyway.
âD.I. Bliss,â he said, heading for the gap between the two uniformed men. They stood their ground and an arm closed the gap.
âSorry, Sir. You canât ... this cemeteryâs closed today. Who did you say?â
âDetective Inspector Bliss.â
âIâm sorry ...â
âOh, get out of the way you idiot,â snarled Daphne pulling off her plastic rain hood, pushing her way between them and opening the gate. âThis is your new chief inspector.â
âIs that you, Daphne?â said one.
âWell, I ainât one of the Spice Girls, if thatâs what you were hoping?â
He turned to Bliss, âSorry, Sir.â
âItâs alright; you were only doing your job â and Iâm the D.I., irrespective of any promotion Daphne may bestow on me.â
âYes, Sir.â
With the gate swinging shut behind him, Bliss paused to look along the ancient ranks of lichen covered gravestones lolling about like disorganised soldiers waiting for a drill sergeant to shout, âTen ... tion!â An aura of sadness hung about him as he spent a moment imagining all the suffering that had preceded the erection of each stone, and the pain in his expression caught Daphneâs eye.
âWhat is it, Chief Inspector? Are you alright?â
âGhosts, Daphne. Well, one particular ghost anyway.â
âI thought you hadnât been here before.â
âI havenât.â
âHow dâye know about the ghost then?â
âWhose ghost â what ghost?â
âThe Colonel â Colonel Dauntsey.â
âI thought he was a major.â
âNo. Iâm not talking about him. Not Rupert Dauntsey â the Major. Heâs the one youâre looking for now. I mean his father â the old Colonel. His graveâs over there, look â that posh job with the fancy statue on the roof.â
A white marble blockhouse stood out against the back wall and appeared almost floodlit in the murk. âThe mausoleum?â he enquired.
âYes, that one, Chief Inspector â anyway his ghost is supposed ...â
Bliss wasnât listening as she steered him toward the mausoleum; he was reading the names off gravestones, half expecting to see âMandy Richardsâ â knowing he wouldnât. Knowing Mandy inhabited a cemetery a world away. Not for her the tranquillity of a country churchyard with overhanging beeches and chatter of birdsong. Even the vicarâs words at her funeral, âIn the midst of life we are in death,â had been lost to the roar of a 747 struggling to escape the gravitational pull of Heathrow Airport.
They had
Roderick Gordon, Brian Williams