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deep in his pocket against the April wind. The other clutched his briefcase as if the wind might pluck it from his grasp. As he opened the gate to the road, his attention was caught by the incongruity of an ice-cream truck, faded stickers advertising the delights of summers past, parked in the driveway of The Herbage next door.
    A middle-aged woman with red hair in a braid that reached almost to her waist was carrying boxes into the house, accompanied by a young dark man with dreadlocks. He paused and frowned before setting off again.
    He crossed the road, heading to the church tucked into a side road that also served both the Royal Park and St. Pity’s Primary School. The children in the playground were playing hopscotch and bulldog, and he watched them for a moment, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, before walking on to the church.
    He stopped in the nave to genuflect and touch the base of the marble statue of Mary Magdalene, the namesake of the building. The stone around her feet was worn from countless touches as people begged for her intervention in their prayers.
    Jean Markhew was in the apse, tending to the candles. She waited for him to finish his silent prayers before she approached, her feet silent in soft shoes.
    “Father.” She nodded and half-bowed.
    “Jean. How are you?” Simon smiled and took her hand in both of his. He nodded toward the display in the transept. “You’ve done us proud again with the flowers.”
    “They’re just daffodils from the garden.” She smiled and looked down to conceal her blush. “I thought Our Heavenly Father would like them as much as I do.”
    “I’m sure he does.” Simon patted her arm. “How is Robert?” Jean was the widow of Robert Markhew’s brother Anthony, and lived at The Larches with him, her daughter Mary and his stepson, Richard. Like the manor, they were one of the few houses in the parish that were sufficiently well-off to employ staff, since Robert was a highly successful writer and internationally acclaimed photographer.
    “Like a bear with a sore head,” she said, her face dark. “Like a little boy who’s dropped his sweeties.”
    “Why?” Simon squeezed her hand. “Though now you have me imagining the famous Robert Markhew in short pants.”
    Jean forced a smile. “He’s wracked with guilt over Grace Peters. They had a fight, you know, and now that she’s dead he’s inconsolable. They never made up their differences.”
    “Oh?” This was news to Simon. “What did they fight about?”
    “He didn’t tell me. I expect it was all the pills she took.”
    “What pills? I knew Grace quite well. I never saw her voluntarily take pills for anything.” An image of Grace choking on little white torpedoes sprang into his mind. He shook his head to rid himself of it.
    “Sleeping pills. She took them for nightmares. Didn’t you know? I thought everybody knew.”
    “I’m sure it’s just a rumor, Jean. Pay it no heed.” Simon handed her another votive candle. “I’m amazed at the speed with which gossip spreads through the town, but gossip is all it is. Certainly it’s nothing to set your stock by. How are things at the house?”
    “All right, I suppose.” Jean’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “At least they would be if Richard left for good.”
    “Oh?” Simon dropped his voice to a whisper. “There’s no trouble, I hope?”
    “Nothing new, no. He has his mind set on money from Robert and treats me like I’m his servant sent to fetch and carry. He’s an angry young man. Robert can’t see what a money-grubbing little sod he’s dealing with. Only the other day I caught him poking his nose in Robert’s private room.” She lit the candle, placing it in the rack before crossing herself.
    “I’m sure it was perfectly innocent. Richard’s a good lad.” Simon tried to be reassuring. “I didn’t even know Robert had a private room.”
    “Maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t. All I’m saying is that he