“On my window, perhaps,” Fimberry said. “Yes-in the undercroft.”

“It’s a public meeting, is it?”

“As far as I know. They’re particularly interested in attracting the businessmen in the area. That’s why they’re having it at Saturday lunchtime. I’m sure you’d be most welcome if you wanted to come.” He gave a high, nervous laugh like a horse’s whinny. “The more the merrier, that’s what the organizer said to me.” He smiled and brought his face uncomfortably close to Dawlish’s. “He’s called Sir Rex Fisher. I don’t know if you know him?”

Dawlish shook his head. “We’ve never met. I know of him, though.” He turned to Rory. “I must push off. We’ll run into each other at Cornwallis Grove, I expect. But do come to lunch if you can manage it.”

“And of course if you come to the meeting,” Fimberry went on, “you’ll be able to see round the chapel. If you’re lucky you’ll see the Ossuary as well.”

“We brought nothing into this world,” said Mr. Gladwyn, “and it is certain we can carry nothing out. The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the Name of the Lord.”

It was cold in the dark little church, and Lydia’s hands burrowed deep in the pockets of her coat. She was beside Mrs. Alforde in one of the pews at the front. A sparrow had found its way into the church and every now and then it launched itself into flight, fluttering in vain around the pitch-pine beams, searching for the sky.

The plain coffin was resting on trestles in the chancel. There were no flowers. Someone was crying quietly.

“I held my tongue,” Mr. Gladwyn was saying, “and spake nothing: I kept silence, yea, even from good words; but it was pain and grief to me.”

In the other front pew was a tall woman in a long, dark, shabby coat, with her face hidden by a veil. There were two other women, both old, one on either side of her. The undertaker’s men and the sexton were behind them.

“Thou turnest man to destruction: again thou sayest, Come again, ye children of men.”

Mrs. Alforde stood, sat and knelt, and Lydia followed suit. There was no singing. The Vicar had pared the service down, and its brief, stark finality was terrible. When the time came, the little congregation trooped out after the coffin to the open grave at the bottom of the churchyard. They watched the undertaker’s men lowering the coffin into the raw earth. The sun came out from behind a cloud and suddenly the churchyard was bright and full of color, inappropriately festive.

“He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.”

It was then that Lydia noticed the neighboring grave. Amy Narton’s. She glanced at the veiled woman on the other side of the coffin and wondered what on earth she must be feeling. Her husband and her daughter were lying side by side.

Earth pattered on the coffin. The undertaker’s men looked straight ahead, their faces full of sombre boredom. The last prayers were said, and then the collect, and then at last it was over. Lydia wished she had not come: idle curiosity had made her a tourist in someone else’s grief. There was no excuse for that.

Afterward, as the knot of people around the grave disintegrated, Mrs. Alforde went up to the woman with the veiled face. Lydia watched them talking. Then Mrs. Alforde said something to one of the elderly women beside her and rejoined Lydia, who had waited several yards away on the path.

“Poor woman,” Mrs. Alforde said. “I hope you don’t mind; I’ve promised to go and see her after lunch. It shouldn’t delay us too much.”

“No, of course not.”

She fell into step beside Mrs. Alforde and they went through the gate into the grounds of the Vicarage. Lydia glanced back at the women near the grave. Mrs. Narton had raised her veil and was staring after them. As soon as she saw Lydia had turned, she let the veil drop.

“A very poor turnout,” Mrs. Alforde murmured. “Narton wasn’t much liked. And even though his death was officially an accident while cleaning a gun, everybody knows it must have been suicide. They don’t like suicides here. It’s felt that they bring shame on everybody.”

“You’ve no objection to pork, I hope,” Mr. Gladwyn said, shaking out his napkin.

“I like it very much,” Lydia said.

“Good, good.” He sharpened the carving knife on the steel. “And I can particularly recommend the broccoli. I always find that being outside in this raw weather gives one an appetite.”

There were only the three of them at lunch, the Vicar, Mrs. Alforde and Lydia. The meal was served by a middle-aged maid who bobbed a curtsy to Mrs. Alforde.

“It was good of you to come down today,” Mr. Gladwyn said after he had taken the fine edge off his hunger. “I’m sure it was a comfort to poor Mrs. Narton.”

“I said I’d look in and see her this afternoon,” Mrs. Alforde replied. “At least she has the cottage.”

“Only in a manner of speaking, I’m afraid. I’m told that Narton took out a mortgage on it.”

“Because he lost his job?”

“Not just that. No, the problem was that Narton became quite obsessed with one of his neighbors, a man called Serridge. Quite a decent sort of fellow-perhaps you’ve met him?”

“I don’t think I have.”

“He bought Morthams Farm a few years ago. He was very helpful when I took the plunge and purchased a motor car. When he moved in, he brought a lady with him whom he introduced as his wife. She left rather suddenly a few weeks afterward and it transpired that they weren’t married after all. No one knew where she had gone.” Gladwyn frowned as he concentrated on trimming the fat from his meat. “You can imagine the gossip it caused. People are always willing to believe the worst. Indeed they want to, in some cases. In the end it turned out that she was alive and well and living with an old friend in America. But Narton was still convinced that Mr. Serridge was responsible for some sort of skulduggery. What really drove him was the death of his daughter. Do you remember?”

“Yes, poor Amy.” Mrs. Alforde helped herself to another sprout. “A dreadful shame.”

“She’d worked briefly at Morthams, and Narton was convinced that it was Serridge-” Gladwyn coughed, glanced at Lydia, deposited the fat on the side of his plate and then continued “-that it was Serridge who was responsible for her plight, and therefore indirectly for her death. He became so obsessed with pursuing the poor man, against all reason, that he lost his job. But that didn’t stop him-he’s been harassing the man ever since. Poor Mrs. Narton, how she’s suffered. First the shame of what happened to her daughter, then Amy’s death, then her husband’s increasingly bizarre behavior, and finally his death too. Between ourselves, whatever the coroner decided, I’ve little doubt that Narton finally snapped under the strain and took the easy way out.” Gladwyn sighed gustily and wiped gravy from his chin with his napkin. “Still, who are we to judge?” He turned to Lydia. “I’m so sorry. Here we are, Mrs. Alforde and I, chattering on about old acquaintances and quite forgetting how tedious this must be for you.”

“Not at all. It sounds a sad story.”

“And Mr. Serridge?” Mrs Alforde put in. “Is he completely blameless in this, do you think?”

“There’s little doubt that his relationship with the woman was unorthodox,” Gladwyn said weightily, with another glance at Lydia. “He has in fact subsequently talked to me about it at some length. He says he was sadly misled by her, and he’s heartily sorry for what happened. He hoped they would marry but she left him in the lurch. There’s no doubt about that, incidentally-she actually wrote to me and explained the circumstances. No, Serridge spent a lot of time in the colonies, and to be frank he’s not the sort of man you would expect to meet in a lady’s drawing room. But he’s very straight, if I’m any judge of character.”