The Ship of Death

Book 4: The Anglian Detective Agency Series

by Vera Morris

Genres: General Fiction; International Crime & Mystery; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

Vera Morris returns with the fourth instalment in her much-loved Anglian Detective Agency Series.

With a ruthless criminal loose on the Suffolk coast, life is anything but peaceful for the Anglian Detective Agency . . .

At Rooks Wood Farm, Rosalind Breen's twin sons grieve her death. Daniel shoulders the burdens of running the farm and caring for his brother, Caleb, who's shunned for his strange appearance.

Meanwhile, Minsmere Bird Reserve is suffering a spate of vandalism and senior partners of the Anglican Detective Agency, Frank Diamond and Laurel Bowman, are enlisted to find the culprits. But shortly after taking the case, Laurel discovers the body of a young man dumped in one of the meres and the detectives are caught up in a murder enquiry.

All evidence points to one suspect but can the Anglian Detective Agency catch the killer? Or will it take another death for the truth to be finally set free?

(P) 2023 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: October 15, 2020

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 256

Sample

Wednesday, February 23, 1972

The raucous cries of the squabbling rooks penetrated and briefly lessened Daniel Breen’s grief. He knew if he looked from the window of his parents’ bedroom, he’d see, in the dying light of the day, birds fighting over nest-sticks in the leafless oaks at the back of the farm house. Mum loved them, saying their early nesting heralded spring.

He looked down at her. Four flickering candles, one at each corner of the coffin, played light and shade over her waxen face. Death had smoothed her skin, making her look younger than her sixty-seven years. He glanced from her to the photographs of his parents, taken shortly after they married. They were placed on small tables on either side of the bed his parents had shared all their married lives; the bed where forty-three years ago, he and Caleb had been born within minutes of each other. He knew the story: he was born first, crying lustily and a good weight, followed by Caleb: tiny, blue, and silent. The doctor revived him, but told Mum and Dad he didn’t think he’d survive the night. Dad fetched the vicar to baptise both of them.

As he bent down to kiss her, the candles guttered from a gust of air from the half-open window and smells of molten wax and death met him. The undertaker had been offended when he said her body was to return to Rooks Wood Farm until the funeral; he wasn’t having her stay in some Chapel of Rest. She would remain in her beloved home until she joined Dad.

He stroked her cheek and kissed her – skin as cold as the ice on the dew pond. She’d never changed her hairstyle, it was the same as in the photograph, framing her delicate and beautiful face; now it was grey, not fair. His pain deepened, gripping his heart, and he slumped over the coffin. What would he do without her? How could he cope without her love and support? How would he be able to run Rooks Wood Farm and look after Caleb? She’d spent so much time with him, calming him down when he was upset, reminding him to feed the chickens, helping him collect eggs, nursing him when he got the winter coughs. Dear God, please give me strength, he prayed. He bit his lip and gripped the side of the coffin. Anger swelled inside him, almost swamping his grief. Anger with Caleb, with his mother, and with his father for carelessly killing himself in a stupid accident, but most of all with himself. He shouldn’t have let his love and loyalty to Mum and Caleb stop him from making a life of his own.

He went to the half-open window. In the fading light he saw rooks flying in from the Suffolk fields and hedgerows, the slow deep beat of their wings mirroring his fluctuating grief. Their harsh kaah-kaah-kaahs filling the air, as they roosted for the night, huddling together against the cold. A strengthening breeze, bitter from the North Sea, brought with it smells of brine and marsh mud. He shivered and realised how cold he was. He looked at his watch; five thirty, the light was fading fast; he closed the window and drew the curtains.

The door opened and Caleb came in. No one, meeting them for the first time, would believe they were twins, or even belonged to the same family. He looked at the photograph of Noah, his father; it could have been himself when he was thirty-two: tall, blond, strong. Caleb, who did he resemble? Certainly not their parents, and there was no one like him in all the photos in the Breens’ family album. Some of the older Dunwich folk said he looked like Mum’s elder brother, but there were no photos of him, and he’d never seen him; he lived abroad and Mum wouldn’t talk about him. People stared at Caleb’s strange appearance: his widely spaced eyes and dark hair, with its defined widow’s peak, like that of a pantomime villain. And when they saw his hands . . .

‘Come and see Mum, she looks beautiful,’ he said.

Caleb moved to his side. He’d several days’ growth of beard, and rank smells of earth, chicken shit and sweat attacked Daniel’s nose and made his throat contract. That would be another problem: getting Caleb to take regular baths and shave. Mum was good at that.

Caleb gripped the side of the coffin. ‘Why did she have to die?’

‘She didn’t want to. I’ve told you, it was her heart, that’s what Dr Smythe said.’

Caleb touched her cheek, his fingers splayed apart like a child greedily reaching for a sweet, the webbing of skin between his fingers almost translucent against the candle light, except for the areas scarred by cuts and bruises. He bent and kissed her. ‘Mum, I love you. Who’ll love me now?’

The childish words said in his gruff, deep voice, pushed away the last of Daniel’s anger and he gently moved Caleb’s hand away. ‘I love you, Caleb. I’ll look after you. Mum’s at peace. We need to do one last thing for her. We must get ready for the funeral on Friday, and look our best, so she’ll be proud of us. We have to help each other.’

‘I don’t want her to go to earth. Daniel, you mustn’t let them take her.’

‘No, Caleb, on Friday she must be buried in the churchyard with our father. They will be together at last, at peace.’

Caleb looked up at him, anger and grief playing over his face. ‘I don’t want to go to the funeral. They’ll stare at me. I can’t stand it.’

Daniel sighed. All he wanted to do was grieve. To grieve and to make sure the funeral went well. ‘We mustn’t think of ourselves, only of Mum. When the funeral is over, we’ll sit down together and work out how we’ll manage. You mustn’t worry, we’ll be all right.’ It was a life sentence, the thought of looking after Caleb, with no one to help. No, he mustn’t exaggerate, there were some old friends of his mother’s, people they’d known since childhood, they were helping with the funeral.

They’d talked together, he and Mum, about Caleb’s future when she eventually died, but it had seemed like a distant prospect: she was fit, active and only had the occasional cold. He’d never faced the problem square on. He’d reassured her he’d never desert Caleb, but now reality was staring him in the face, and although he loved his brother, the responsibility was mind-numbing.

Caleb looked at him, his brown protuberant eyes filmed with tears. ‘Oh, Daniel, you can’t do all the work and look after me. What about when I’m ill, and the cough is bad? And who’ll cook the meals?’

At least he’d stopped thinking about the funeral. ‘You do your bit, the poultry’s doing well, also Mrs Gorst might be willing to do more work. She’s not a bad cook.’

Caleb violently shook his head. ‘She’s all right, but that Jonas, he’s evil when no one’s around.’

Daniel tried to move him away from the coffin. ‘He’s only a boy, half your age. Don’t let him upset you. I’ll have a word with his father.’ The Gorsts worked for them and lived in a farm cottage.

‘Fred’s all right; he’s always polite.’

Fred Gorst knew his job and home depended on good relationships with the Breens, Daniel thought. He wasn’t too keen on Jonas himself, a surly young man, but strong and a good worker.

‘Come downstairs, Caleb. I’ll make us some supper.’ He blew out one of the candles.

Caleb gripped his arm. ‘Don’t leave her in the dark.’

‘We haven’t got many candles left; Leiston shops have run out of them. I’ll put the electric light on, it’s too dangerous to leave an unguarded flame.’

‘Supposing we have another power cut? She’ll be in the dark all by herself.’

‘The miners’ strike’s over, Caleb. They’ll be going back to work soon, and all the picketing will stop. The lights will stay on.’ That was a lie; they were due for another cut this evening, but he had to get him away from this room.

He looked round; the coffin, on its bier, stood beside the large bed, its size matching the room, with oak beams running the length of the ceiling, and also set into the white, plastered walls. As a child he’d loved to creep in here when Dad left early for work on the farm, and Mum had returned to bed with a cup of tea after cooking Dad his breakfast. He would climb in next to her and she would tuck the sheet and blankets round both of them. ‘Where’s Caleb?’ she’d ask.

‘He’s still asleep.’

She’d put an arm round him, kiss him on the forehead, and tell him a story. A favourite was about the rooks: how they were magical birds, and it was said if they ever left their home in the oaks, it would mean bad luck for the family. She’d smile and brush back his hair. ‘They’ve never deserted the Breens, not in hundreds of years, and they never will,’ she’d say, kissing and hugging him. She’d tell him stories about seabirds, or seals, or people who lived under the waves. Dad would raise his eyebrows when he told him about the stories. ‘You read too many books, Rosalind,’ he’d say, but Daniel could tell he was proud of her, with her gentle manners, her education and the way she was held in high esteem by all the people around, for she was a De Lacy before she married Dad.

He remembered how Dad smiled at her and she would give him a loving look. They’d known true, deep love. An older pain, one he knew well, gripped him. The slim chance he might find someone who was prepared to share life on the farm and responsibility for Caleb had disappeared for ever with the death of his mother. It would be too much for any woman. A few weeks ago, Mum told him Theresa had come back to live in Dunwich. ‘Why don’t you look her up?’ she’d said. ‘She asked after you. I think she still cares.’ Lovely Theresa, his childhood sweetheart, who wanted more from life than being a farmer’s wife; she’d left Suffolk for travel, adventure and eventually marriage to a Canadian. Widowed and childless she was back with her parents and working in Ipswich.

‘She didn’t care enough before.’ But despite his rough answer, a flicker of hope started to burn, and he wondered if she still felt as he did? Now, he’d never be able to find a woman to love, marry and have children with. After he and Caleb died there would be no more Breens at Rooks Wood Farm. When his mother’s coffin was lowered into the grave, his hopes and dreams would be buried with her. He blew out the three remaining flames and moved towards the door. Caleb turned on the light.

As they came down the narrow stairs, the telephone in the entrance hall shrilled out.

‘Rooks Wood Farm, Daniel Breen speaking.’

‘Daniel, it’s Aunty Dot. How are you coping? Everything all right at your end for Friday?’ Her brisk, no nonsense voice made Daniel smile. He watched Caleb go into the kitchen. ‘I may have some trouble getting Caleb to take a bath,’ he whispered, grinning as he imagined the look on Aunty Dot’s face.

There was a brief silence. ‘Would you like me to come over tomorrow? Everything is arranged at this end. I’ve checked with The Ship and they’ve catered for thirty, that should be enough, and the ladies will do the church flowers tomorrow.’

‘Thank you, Aunty Dot. You’ve been a great help.’

‘The least I could do for dear Rosalind and you two boys. And tomorrow?’

Daniel sighed. ‘I’ll give you a ring about twelve; if I need the fire brigade can you come in the afternoon?’

‘I won’t be hosing him down!’

‘You might have to,’ he said.

‘The sight of me waving a flannel and a bar of soap will soon get Caleb into the bathroom.’

Daniel went into the kitchen, glad of the warmth from the Aga. Caleb had made a pot of tea and was rinsing out two mugs. He stopped himself from inspecting them and sat down at the table. ‘That was Aunty Dot. She says all the arrangements for the church and the wake are fine.’

Caleb brought the mugs of tea to the table and sat down opposite him. ‘That’s kind of her. I wish Aunty Emily was still alive, I liked her best; Aunty Dot can be bossy.’

‘They were both good friends to Mum, and they looked after us when we were little, even though they weren’t much older than we were.’

Caleb slurped his tea. ‘I looked forward to them biking over from Dunwich in the school holidays; Aunty Dot was more fun then.’

‘That was before the war; it changed everything.’ It was a good cuppa. He took another mouthful and gave Caleb the thumbs up.

He grinned. ‘Is Aunt Dot really a detective? Isn’t it dangerous? I don’t want to lose anyone else.’

Daniel drained his mug. ‘Mum said she went undercover last summer at the holiday camp near Orford. Nearly got herself killed.’

‘I know she told me, too. What’s it called, the something agency or other, where she works with all the other detectives?’ Caleb asked.

‘It’s the Anglian Detective Agency, and Miss Dorothy Piff is the chief administrator, so mind you do what she says. She might come and visit us tomorrow, if she sees you looking like that,’ he scratched his own chin, ‘she might put you in handcuffs!’

Caleb’s eyes seemed to move even farther apart. ‘I better have a shave before she gets here – she’s a real fuss pot,’ he said.

Daniel smiled. ‘I think you’d better; if you haven’t shaved, she’ll throw you in the horse trough.’ He went into the larder. ‘Sausages OK?’ he asked.

‘With mash?’ Caleb asked.

‘You can peel the spuds, and we’ll have cabbage as well.’

Caleb pulled a face.

‘You’ve got to have your greens, Caleb. Remember what Mum used to say.’ Daniel opened the packet of sausages. If Mary Gorst wouldn’t take on some cooking, he’d better buy a few cookery books; he should have paid more attention when Mum was busy in the kitchen. Thinking of her – her graceful way of performing the most menial task – brought back his grief and sorrow. If only Dad were here, life would have been so different. How could he have been so careless? Whenever he’d been out shooting with him Dad always checked the safety catch was on, always asked him if his was. After the accident Mum was convinced someone had shot him, she wouldn’t let it go, but at the inquest the verdict was accidental death. Questions were asked about his state of mind, or if there were money troubles, but suicide was ruled out as well. He hadn’t thought about that for years, but Mum’s death brought it all back into focus. If someone did kill him, who? And why?

Laurel Bowman was lying on a rug in front of the fire in the sitting room at Greyfriars House, admiring her six-month-old Labrador, Bumper, asleep in his basket. Stuart Elderkin, his pipe clamped between teeth, was reading the Daily Express and Frank Diamond, looking cool in a cream polo-neck sweater and black flares, was engrossed in a book.

Stuart tapped the paper with the stem of his pipe. ‘They don’t like this Treaty of Accession; it goes against the grain bringing British law into line with Common Market regulations. They’ll have a devil of a job getting it through Parliament.’

Frank looked up. ‘My dad thinks they should concentrate on getting unemployment down. He’s in dreamland at the moment. Soon he’ll be running the country, with all his other trade-unions buddies.’

Laurel ran her hand over Bumper’s side, his fur was fine and soft; he twitched, no doubt dreaming of plunging into the North Sea, then he settled down, snuffling into the plaid blanket lining his basket. Smells of approaching dinner drifted in from the kitchen. She ought to go and see if Mabel needed a hand, but the peaceful atmosphere made her want to remain here. Dorothy was talking to someone on the telephone in the dining room, which also served as their office, but she couldn’t hear what she was saying. For once, the members of the Anglian Detective Agency were relaxing, their latest case recently completed, and only one new case in prospect.

Dorothy’s voice got louder. ‘I won’t be hosing him down!’

Frank looked up and raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s a shame.’

Laurel smiled at him. ‘Good book?’

He held up it up.

‘Shroud for a Nightingale; P. D. James. Really, Frank, haven’t you had enough of murder? We’ve got enough real carnage as it is.’ She shuddered as she thought of the bombing at Aldershot Barracks yesterday; six people killed, five of them women.

‘Yes, it makes our cases small beer, but I’ve got withdrawal symptoms, it’s over six months since mayhem at Orford Ness.’

Stuart tapped the newspaper again. ‘It was bound to happen; after Bloody Sunday the IRA wanted revenge, but we’ve had a relatively peaceful time, nice quiet cases with old-fashioned, non-violent villains; let’s keep it that way.’

Dorothy walked in and went over to stroke Bumper. ‘Fast asleep, the little tyke, and the rest of you look as though you’re about to join him. Come on, Frank, get cracking with the drinks, or Mabel will have that casserole on the table.’

Frank looked at Dorothy and pulled a face. ‘Haven’t you some shorthand notes you should be typing up, Dorothy? As administrator, can’t you go and administrate and leave us in peace?’

Dorothy plonked herself next to him on the sofa. ‘Gin and tonic, please.’ Frank sighed, but got up. ‘Stuart!’ She waited until he’d lowered his newspaper. ‘That was Daniel Breen on the phone. The funeral, as you know, is on Friday, two o clock. I assume you and Mabel are going?’

Frank turned from the sideboard, a bottle of Gordon’s Gin in his hand. ‘Stuart won’t be able to make it. We’ve got an appointment at the bird reserve at two thirty, business comes before pleasure, Dorothy.’

She lowered her blue-framed glasses and glared at him. ‘Rosalind Breen was a dear friend, and I’ve known the boys most of my life. Both Stuart and Mabel knew Rosalind. You want to go, don’t you, Stuart?’

Stuart shrugged and waved his pipe about. ‘We need to find out what the Warden wants us to do. We haven’t got another case at the moment. I’m a reserve member, Dorothy. I’d like to be there, I know the place well, Frank’s still a novice twitcher.’

Dorothy bristled. ‘I’ll see what Mabel has to say about that!’ She bustled off to the kitchen.

‘I think you ought to go to the funeral, Stuart,’ Laurel said. ‘I can go with Frank to the bird reserve.’

Stuart’s face dropped and he stuck out a lower lip, making his resemblance to a basset hound even stronger.

Dorothy came back with Mabel, whose face was flushed. Laurel hoped it was from the heat of the kitchen and not anger with Stuart. The peace of the evening was waning.

Stuart looked at Mabel’s face. ‘I’ll go, of course I’ll go. Laurel can go with Frank.’

Mabel put her hands on her hips. ‘I should think so!’

‘Like a Babycham, dear?’

She went to him and kissed his cheek.

Frank passed round drinks. ‘Peace restored. There’s no need for you to come, Laurel. I can’t see what the Warden might want us for, Stuart was only coming to boast of his avian knowledge.’

Dorothy turned to her. ‘Why don’t you come with us? I know you don’t know the family, but I’d like a good turn-out for Rosalind.’

Stuart pointed the stem of his pipe towards her. ‘You can cast your eyes over Daniel Breen, Laurel. He’s a good-looking chap and tall enough for you. A bachelor, and he runs a productive farm.’

Frank stopped pouring a bottle of beer into a pint glass. ‘Do you want this beer in the glass, or over your head, Stuart?’

Laurel laughed. ‘I’ve got my man, thank you.’ She tickled Bumper’s stomach.

‘Stuart’s right, Laurel, Daniel’s a well-built chap, but a tad too old for you, I think.’ Mabel turned to Dorothy. ‘Mid-forties?’ Dorothy nodded. ‘And you’d have to take on his brother as well.’ She shivered. ‘Wouldn’t fancy that!’

Frank passed a brimming glass to Stuart. ‘What do you mean, take on his brother? Laurel would have to bed both of them? Talk about Seven Brides for Seven Brothers!’

Dorothy tutted and told them about Caleb.

‘Webbed fingers,’ Frank mused. ‘Sounds like a genetic defect to me. Interesting. Wouldn’t mind a butchers.’

‘He’s not a specimen in a peep-show,’ Dorothy said. ‘He’s a strange boy, but Daniel will look after him.’

‘Has he got Down syndrome?’ asked Laurel.

Dorothy shook her head. ‘No. He’s reasonably intelligent, but he’s never been able to mix socially, he’s very conscious of his strange looks. I’m afraid his father, Noah, was unable to hide his disappointment in him; all his affection went to Daniel. Rosalind tried to make up for it, but I’m sure Noah’s lack of love for Caleb shaped him into the recluse he is today.’

Laurel sipped the Tio Pepe Frank had given her, its dryness making the inside of her mouth pucker. She took another sip. Poor man, she thought. ‘I’d like to go with you on Friday, Dorothy, if Frank doesn’t mind.’ She looked at him, dark curly hair grazing his shoulders, green eyes looking at her over the rim of his glass.

He wiped a trace of foam from his lips with a finger. ‘You’re hooked, aren’t you? Good-looking farmer – not interested. A lost lamb and Miss Bowman to the rescue.’

She felt her face flush. At times he was too perceptive, but his remark about throwing beer over Stuart for suggesting Daniel Breen as a likely prospect was heartening. She turned to Dorothy. ‘Is the Breen’s farm near here?’

Dorothy took a deep draw on her cigarette. ‘Rooks Wood Farm is a few miles west, as the crow, or should I say, rook flies. By the way, I believe it should be as the rook flies, their flight is more direct than crows. Rosalind told me that. Is she, or should I say, was she right, Stuart?’

Stuart nodded. ‘She was right. Can’t stand any of the corvids myself, nasty black birds, best thing you could do with them is bake them in a pie.’

Laurel wrinkled her nose. ‘Ugh! Disgusting.’

‘I’ve had rook pie,’ Mabel said, ‘you make it from the breasts of young rooks, tastes better than pigeon pie. There’s a recipe in Mrs Beaton.’

Stuart looked at her with horror. ‘Don’t make me one, please.’ He paused. ‘You could try it out on Inspector Revie, the next time he comes to dinner.’ They all laughed. Because of the agency’s co-operation in a former highly secretive case, involving many important men, they had a special relationship with the Suffolk constabulary, with Inspector Nicholas Revie as their contact.

‘We haven’t seen him for a bit, or that nice Mr Ansell. Besides, we’d have to wait until rook-shooting day, May the twelfth; they shoot the young ’uns when they’re still in the nest as they’re only tasty for a few months.’

Laurel quickly took another mouthful of Tio Pepe.

Dorothy blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. ‘Mabel, when are you and Stuart moving in? The rooms are ready.’

When Stuart and Mabel married, the idea was to let Stuart’s bungalow in Leiston and to move into one of the many unoccupied rooms in Greyfriars House. Mabel preferred to live at Leiston; Laurel knew she was embarrassed at the thought of her and Stuart making love in Dorothy’s house.

‘Can’t prise her away from that new kitchen, although she does most of her cooking here. I’m ready for the move; a bit more money from letting it out would be useful,’ Stuart said.

Mabel didn’t say anything, continuing to sip her Babycham.

‘What’s the Breen’s farm like?’ Laurel asked Dorothy. Mabel shot her a grateful look.

‘Changing your mind about Daniel? Checking his bank balance?’ Frank said, raising his half-empty glass to her.

‘Just interested. Well, Dorothy, are they good farmers?’

‘Daniel is, he went to agricultural college, had to leave before he’d finished his full three years. His father died in a shooting accident. Rosalind and he ran the farm, Caleb is in charge of the poultry, he doesn’t do a bad job and they employ two men. Father and son, the Gorsts. Daniel’s just told me he’s hoping to get Mary Gorst, the mother, to do some cooking for him and Caleb.’

‘Was anyone else involved in the shooting accident?’ Frank asked.

‘No,’ Dorothy replied. ‘Noah was out shooting pigeons. When he didn’t come back for his evening meal Rosalind went out to look for him with Caleb. Daniel was in college. They found him in the oak wood; the rooks had already started pecking at him.’

Laurel shivered. ‘That’s awful. She must have hated those birds after that.’

Dorothy stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray. ‘No, she loved the rooks. She was convinced someone had shot Noah. She couldn’t accept he could have been so careless. She made a terrible fuss, wouldn’t let it go, she kept bothering the police. Daniel finally persuaded her to accept the coroner’s verdict of accidental death. She’d sometimes talk to me about it, and say she still couldn’t believe he’d be so stupid. She adored him, she never looked at another man, not in that way, although there were a few who’d have been more than willing. She was a beautiful woman, even in old age, and the De Lacy name still carries weight round here.’

‘De Lacy?’ Frank asked. ‘Who are they?’

‘An old family, pots of money; they own an estate a few miles from the farm. The only one left is Bryce, Rosalind’s elder brother. He lives abroad, never married, so I’m not sure who’ll inherit the estate. It’s a pity relationships between the Breens and him aren’t better, as Daniel and Caleb are his only blood relatives. I don’t know why Rosalind wouldn’t have anything to do with him, I tried to squeeze it out of her, but she refused to tell me, and asked me not to ask again. So, I didn’t.’

‘What’s he like, Bryce?’ Laurel asked.

Dorothy shook her head. ‘I’ve never seen him, a manager runs the estate, no one lives at Shrike Hall, apart from some old nanny, if she’s still alive. Rosalind used to see her sometimes; she must be pushing a hundred if she’s above ground. I’ve heard Bryce sometimes visits her.’

Mabel got up. ‘I’ll be dishing up soon. Stuart, would you help me?’

Laurel started to get up, but sat down again as Frank shook his head. The look on Mabel’s face said it all. She wanted to get Stuart to herself and talk about moving, or not moving, into Greyfriars House.

Stuart groaned and followed Mabel out of the room.

Dorothy blew out her cheeks. ‘I wish I hadn’t mentioned it, but the work is all done, their new bathroom looks lovely, better than ours.’ She nodded to Laurel. ‘They’ve got spacious rooms on the ground floor, with their bathroom next door, so we won’t hear their shenanigans, it’s quite private. They were keen to move as soon as they knew you,’ she nodded to Laurel again, ‘were not leaving the agency, but now I think it’s Mabel who’s got cold feet; Stuart would move in tomorrow. Laurel, could you have a word with Mabel? See if you can find out what the problem is?’

Her stomach sank. Why did she always get lumbered with having conversations she didn’t want to have? She supposed she should be flattered for having a reputation for knowing how to handle people, but she didn’t want to spoil her relationship with Mabel, who was certainly prickly at the moment. ‘I’ll try.’

‘Good girl. I’ll give Stuart a hand.’ Dorothy marched off to the kitchen.

Frank raised an eyebrow. ‘You have all the luck, don’t you? Tomorrow a funeral of someone you’ve never met, and then the dubious pleasure of a tête-à-tête with the out-of-sorts Mabel.’

‘I wish I was going with you to the reserve, I’m not a fan of funerals.’ She stroked the tufts of hair growing between Bumpers pads, and burrowed her nose into his fur.

Frank put the empty glasses onto a tray. ‘I can’t imagine what the Warden wants us to investigate; have the little terns taken a turn for the worse and are trying to have their wicked way with the avocets? Or has someone raided the till at the shop and stolen all of two pounds and thirty pence? I can’t see there’s going to be much mileage for us there.’

She smiled at him. ‘A walk round the reserve is better than the inside of a church.’

‘Remember, you’ll get some funeral meats afterwards.’

‘I’m not staying for that. I’ll say I’ve got to get back for Bumper.’

‘I think you’ll have a more interesting time than me, you’ll see the Breens. I wonder which one will turn you on – Daniel or the peculiar Caleb?’

She gave Bumper a final pat and got up. ‘If one . . .