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deux on the narrow country road with a double-decker bus bound for Calleford. ‘Not good for business.’
    â€˜And there’s no one in at the rectory to step across to the church with a message,’ said Sloan, explaining to himself as much as Crosby why they had to rush out in this unseemly way to Almstone. ‘By the way, Crosby, in the unlikely event of there being a car following us to the church, it belongs to the son of the deceased.’
    â€˜There was one to start with, sir,’ admitted Crosby, ‘but it’s not there any more.’
    â€˜I didn’t think … Look out, man!’ Sloan’s shutting of his eyes was quite involuntary as a milk float pulled out of a side turning ahead of them.
    â€˜There are some drivers who shouldn’t be allowed on the road, sir, aren’t there?’ Crosby was saying equably when he opened them again.
    â€˜There are,’ gritted Sloan, ‘and I am not at all sure, Crosby, that you aren’t one of them.’ His friend Inspector Harpe of Traffic Division was even more sure on this point. He routinely resisted all of the constable’s earnest efforts to transfer from the Criminal Investigation Department to Traffic Division.
    â€˜So what’s the hurry then, sir?’ asked Crosby. ‘I mean, Tod’s not going to run off with the coffin, is he?’
    â€˜The hurry, Crosby, is to get to Almstone churchyard before the deceased is interred.’
    â€˜Couldn’t we dig the coffin up again if we’re too late?’ asked Crosby. ‘It couldn’t harm for a day or so, could it, sir?’
    â€˜Not without an exhumation order from the Home Office, we couldn’t,’ said Sloan.
    Detective Constable Crosby, who had been in the Force for quite long enough to equate the Home Office with excessive paperwork, nodded his complete comprehension.
    â€˜And when we get back to the station, Crosby,’ continued Sloan, ‘you can prepare me a report on something called the Pragmatic Sanction. It might improve your driving.’ This, he knew, was unfair, but then he had just been badly frightened by a milk float.
    â€˜Yes, sir.’ He changed gear. ‘I know a bit already.’
    â€˜You do?’ said Sloan, surprised.
    â€˜It’s what Sergeant Gelven says was taken away from the police by the Crown Prosecution Service. He didn’t like that.’
    They had rounded the corner into Almstone before Sloan could do more than tuck the fact away in his mind. ‘There, Crosby,’ he said, leaning forward, ‘that’s St Clement’s Church over there. I can see the tower. Keep going.’
    *   *   *
    So it fell out that Mrs Maisie Carruthers, still too frail to attend the funeral, but not too immobile to get to the window of her room at the Manor, became the onlooker who saw most of the game. From her first-floor vantage point she was in the best position of all to see the cortège leave the church and start out very slowly towards the newly dug grave space in the south-west corner of the churchyard.
    It was led by the Reverend Adrian Brailsford in full canonicals, followed by Tod Morton, young sprig of the firm of Morton and Sons, Funeral Furnishers, complete with silk top hat, black jacket and striped trousers. After them came the first of the mourners, Brigadier Hamish MacIver and Captain Peter Markyate to the fore.
    Maisie Carruthers watched, fascinated, as this procession was met on the church path at full trot by two men. Though they were in plain clothes they had nevertheless stepped smartly out of the police car she could see parked by the lich-gate.
    What might at first have seemed a classic case of irresistible force meeting immovable object dissolved before Maisie Carruthers’ spellbound gaze into what, at that distance, looked for all the world like a discussion group. In the further distance she caught sight of another car with a man