The Killer in the Choir. Simon Brett

And so, in theory, your social circle expanded.

      Carole looked round desperately for any fellow members of the Preservation of Fethering’s Seafront committee, apart from Ruskin Dewitt, who had looked straight through her, as if they’d never met before. She couldn’t see any others. Maybe they all felt that they’d done their bit by turning up at the church, and that attending the wake too was beyond the call of duty.

      Rather than standing there, exposed as someone who didn’t know anybody, Carole was about to slip away back to High Tor when she was greeted by a bonhomous cry of, ‘Hello. Bloody good service, wasn’t it?’

      The voice came from the tall young man, dressed in a pin-striped suit and wearing an appropriate black tie, who had accompanied Alice Mallett in the church. He had the red face of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors, and the figure of a fit young man who was just starting to go to fat.

      Carole was faced by another social dilemma. She was sure she knew who the speaker was, but she hadn’t been properly introduced and only had Fethering gossip as her guide. ‘Yes, very good service,’ she said clumsily. ‘I’m sorry? Do we know each other?’

      ‘No, but since I know hardly anyone here, I thought I should jolly well take the initiative.’

      ‘Very good idea.’ There was a silence. ‘I’m sorry. I still don’t know who you are.’

      ‘Ah. Right. Roddy Skelton.’

      ‘Oh.’ But still Fethering etiquette did not allow her to say, ‘You’re Alice Mallett’s fiancé.’

      Fortunately, he supplied the deficiency by saying, ‘I’m Alice Mallett’s fiancé. Had her old man waited a bit longer before he kicked the bucket, I’d be able to say I was his son-in-law.’

      ‘Ah yes. Well, nice to meet you. I’m Carole Seddon.’

      ‘Old friend of the family?’

      ‘Hardly. That is to say, I met your father-in – your prospective father-in-law – through a committee he set up.’

      ‘Ah.’ After the initial burst, the conversation seemed to have become becalmed.

      ‘About the Preservation of Fethering’s Seafront,’ Carole volunteered.

      ‘Oh yes, good stuff. All have a responsibility for the countryside, don’t we?’

      ‘Certainly.’

      ‘Mustn’t forget it.’ Then he said randomly, as people always did in this kind of conversation, ‘Global warming, eh?’

      ‘So …’ Carole picked up after a long pause, ‘when are you and Alice actually getting married?’

      ‘Seventeenth of May.’

      ‘Ah. Here?’

      ‘Yes. Traditional stuff. We’re both locals, well, we were. Alice, of course, hoped her old man would be able to walk her up the aisle, but … well, there you go …’

      ‘Mm.’

      The next silence that threatened was interrupted by the approach of Roddy’s fiancée. Alice Mallett was holding a flute into which she was pouring from a bottle of champagne. ‘Hello,’ she said in a voice that suggested she’d downed an unfeasible number of drinks since the wake started or, more likely, had got some in before the ceremony.

      ‘Steady on, old thing,’ said Roddy, indicating the glass. ‘You’re meant to be one of the hostesses here, you know. Pouring drinks and things.’

      ‘I am pouring drinks.’

      ‘Yes, but you’re meant to be pouring drinks for other people, not just yourself.’ He guffawed, somewhat unnaturally, trying to sound as if he was making a joke. But the look he gave his fiancée suggested genuine concern.

      Alice Mallett stared at their empty hands. ‘You haven’t got glasses. I can’t pour for you if you haven’t got glasses.’

      ‘But maybe you could—’

      ‘Shut up, Roddy! I’m being more of a bloody hostess than she is.’ She jutted a contemptuous shoulder towards her stepmother.

      ‘Now come on, sweetie,’ said Roddy in a conciliatory tone which Carole felt might get used a lot in the course of his upcoming marriage, ‘today’s about your old man, not about Heather.’

      ‘Is it?’ demanded his fiancée combatively. She turned suddenly to Carole. ‘Do you like her?’

      ‘Sorry? Who?’ She knew the answer, was merely playing for time.

      ‘Her. Heather. My stepmother.’

      ‘I’ve never really met her properly.’

      ‘Very sensible. Keep it that way, if you’ve got any sense.’

      ‘Oh?’ Carole was bemused by this sudden aggression.

      ‘Well, I’ve met her properly,’ Alice continued. ‘I’ve spent much longer with her than I would ever wish to have done. And I don’t like her.’

      ‘No, I rather got that impression,’ said Carole.

      ‘As a general rule,’ came the acid response, ‘people don’t tend to like the woman who’s killed their father.’

      TWO

      Carole left the wake without having a drink, either coffee or champagne. After making her astonishing statement, the bereaved – and very drunk – stepdaughter had moved away, with her fiancé fussing at her side, trying to get her to behave more appropriately. Carole had another quick look around to see if there was anyone she wanted to talk to, and finding with no great surprise that there wasn’t, slipped unobtrusively out of the hall and returned to High Tor.

      As she entered the kitchen, her Labrador Gulliver looked up from his station in front of the Aga. His expression was, as ever, hopeful, though he knew he had already had his morning outing on Fethering Beach, and no other walks would be on offer until early evening.

      Carole was in a dilemma. She desperately wanted to share what Alice Mallett had said with her neighbour, Jude, but she never went the easy way around any social interaction. Had she lived in the North of England – or indeed had she been a less uptight Southerner – she would have gone straight next door to Woodside Cottage to see if her friend was in. But Carole, being Carole, phoned instead.

      Jude was in. ‘How did the funeral go?’ she asked.

      ‘Very interesting.’

      ‘Oh?’

      ‘I’d love to talk to you about it.’

      ‘Talk away. I am in listening mode.’

      ‘Well, I wondered if we could meet …?’

      Jude couldn’t entirely keep a giggle out of her voice as she said, ‘Given our proximity, I’d say that was quite possible.’

      ‘Yes. Well … you wouldn’t fancy joining me for lunch at the Crown & Anchor, would you?’ This was unusual. It was rare for Carole to suggest a pub visit in the middle of the day.

      Jude’s response was unusual too. She said, ‘No.’

      ‘Oh?’

      ‘Sorry, I’ve got a client booked in at two.’

      ‘Ah.’ The monosyllable managed to convey all of Carole’s reservations about her neighbour’s work as a healer.

      ‘Trouble is, it seems a bit pointless going to the pub and not having a drink, but I do need my concentration to be …’

      ‘Of course. Well, how about you coming round here? I could assemble a salad …’

      ‘Hmm,’ said Jude, when Carole had finished her report on the wake. She pushed