reached The Colonelâs resting place and Bliss stood back to admire the statue soaring above the sarcophagus â a white marble winged chariot drawn by a team of flying stallions.
âVery mythical,â said Daphne, following his eye-line.
âThatâs strange. Jonathon mentioned something about Homerâs Iliad. I wonder if thereâs some connection?â
âWhat did he say?â
âIt didnât make any sense to me â something about letting fate choose. I donât remember to be honest.â
âProbably the bit about Hector and Achilles ... â she started, then cried in surprise, âOh look! His name was Wellington ... Wellington Rupert Dauntsey.â
âDidnât you know?â
âNo. He wasnât the sort of man who needed a name. He was just The Colonel. I suppose his family called him something, but I assumed Rupert â Major Dauntsey â called his father âSirâ or âColonelâ like everyone else.â
ââSir,ââ repeated Bliss. âYou think he called his Dad âSir?ââ
âNot a Dad, Chief Inspector. People like that donât have Dads. Dads are warm friendly creatures who cuddle their children, take them on picnics, play silly games and make funny noises ... People like the Dauntseys have fathers who totally ignore them for eight years, then pack them off to a boarding school saying, âThank God for that â children can be such an inconvenience donât you know.ââ
The ornately carved wooden door to the family tomb was locked, and the huge galvanised padlock demanded his attention. âI wonder who holds the keys,â he muttered, examining it carefully, noting that it did not look as though it had been opened recently.
âThe family probably â The Major I expect,â said Daphne, peering over his shoulder. âThe Vicar will know.â
âI must ask him,â said Bliss with tepid intention, thinking it unlikely that Jonathon would have put his fatherâs body in such an obvious, albeit appropriate, location. âIâd better get over there,â he continued with a nod toward the knot of policemen still clustered around the open grave.
Daphneâs eyes lit up. âCould I come and have a peek?â
âThereâs nothing to see really, just an empty grave. The Majorâs body wasnât in it, just the duvet.â
âI always reckoned heâd have trouble getting past St. Peter, but I thought heâd manage to get as far as the grave,â she whispered, as if fearful of being overheard.
âWhy do you say that?â
âWhat?â
âThat heâd have trouble getting past St. Peter.â
âI donât talk ill of the dead, Chief Inspector,â she said stalking off huffily. âIâm surprised youâd even ask me.â
He caught up to her and tried flattery. âI just thought as how youâre so much part of the police here ...â
âNot me, Iâm not. All I do is clean up after the filthy beggars â you should see those toilets â piss all over the floor â young girls today wouldnât do it. Most of them would throw up at the thought.â
Bliss let her cool down for a few seconds then tried again. âSo, without speaking ill, what can you tell me about him â the Major?â
Daphneâs face blanked to an expression of deep thought as she put together a picture of the missing man, then she screwed up her nose. âHe was nothing much to look at, certainly no oil painting, but then neither was his father, the old colonel. It was the chin mainly, or lack of it. I think his Adamâs apple stuck out further than his chin. He wasnât a big man either, although his rank added a foot or so to his height. Itâs a good job for Jonathon he took after his mother.â
âWhen did you last see him â the
Gillian Doyle, Susan Leslie Liepitz