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dislodging his glasses. He snatched at them with his hand, missed, and was forced to bend to the floor to retrieve them. He came up with his face flushed from the unaccustomed exertion.
    “I did indeed. I always give the … ah … dear departed a final blessing before closing the coffin for the … ah … last time. I can assure you, Constable, when that coffin arrived here in my … ah … church last night, Dr. Gordon McDuff’s earthly remains were inside it.”
    Phoebe moaned and began fanning herself with a lace handkerchief. Cecily absently patted her on the shoulder, her attention fastened on the two men. She didn’t want to miss one word of the conversation.
    “You saw him yourself?” P.C. Northcott asked, moving his pencil painstakingly over the page.
    “Yes, yes, of course I did.” Algie mopped his moistforehead with the back of his sleeve. “I told you, I … ah … gave him his last blessing.”
    P.C. Stanley Northcott said in his ponderous voice, “H’and may I also presume that the coffin was right here the entire night?”
    “As far as I can tell, Constable. I do know it’s the same coffin, since it has the doctor’s initials carved on it.” Algie nodded appreciatively. “A very nice touch, I thought.”
    “It would seem,” Cecily put in, “that someone switched the bodies during the night.”
    “That would be my assumption,” the policeman agreed, “though why anyone should do that, I cannot for the life of me imagine.”
    Cecily often wondered how long it took Northcott to write out a full report. He wrote like a child first learning the skill. At times, when he really had to concentrate, his tongue protruded from the corner of his mouth, as if seeking inspiration on its own.
    Again the pencil scratched across the page. Then the constable snapped the book shut, lifted the flap of his pocket, and tucked it away. “I think that will be all for now … though I daresay I shall return in order to ask some more questions in the near future.”
    Unable to curb her impatience any longer, Cecily took advantage of the small pause. “Tell me, P.C. Northcott,” she said, giving him her best smile, “how did you learn that it was not Dr. McDuff’s body in the coffin?”
    “H’ah, well, that one was simple enough.” The constable puffed out his chest, putting even further strain on the brass buttons of his uniform jacket. “As it happens, some of the village lads were sliding on Deep Willow Pond this morning. And as you might suppose, one of them fell in. If it hadn’t been for Joe Salter passing by, right at the opportune moment, young Bernie Briggett would not be alive to tell the tale.”
    “Oh, my,” Algie said, clutching his throat. “How perfectly dreadful. I trust the poor boy is unharmed?”
    “Quite unharmed, thank you, Vicar,” P.C. Northcott assured him.
    “But what has that to do with Dr. McDuff?” Cecilypersisted, determined not to let the conversation stray off course.
    “H’ah well, yes. It appears that whilst the boy was under the water, he spied a dead body. At first no one believed him, but then Joe and a couple of his mates had a look. And lo and behold”—he paused for effect—“blowed if it weren’t the good doctor hisself. Dead as a blinking doornail, of course—” He coughed. “Begging your lady’s pardon that is, ma’am.”
    He’d addressed Cecily with his apology, but Phoebe automatically murmured, “Quite all right, Constable.”
    “Yes, well, he would be dead, wouldn’t he,” Cecily said, a trifle impatiently. “After all, Dr. McDuff died several days ago.”
    The constable cleared his throat. “Er … yes, well, anyhow, if it hadn’t been for the fact that the doctor’s body had been weighted down with a branch from that old oak tree, we might never have found him. Rotten right through, that limb were. Snapped like a chicken’s neck as soon as it hit the water, and up floats the body.”
    “Oh, my heavenly father,” Phoebe moaned,