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at the wheel and a woman beside him approaching the church gate at speed.
    After only a moment or two of colloquy Tod Morton, who had recognized Detective Inspector Sloan and Detective Constable Crosby, turned on his heel, took off his top hat and, without more ado, ordered the bearer-party back into the church.
    The Rector, on the other hand, who had never seen either policeman before, took refuge in canon law.
    â€˜I quite understand, gentlemen,’ he said, yielding to the two policemen with quiet dignity. ‘Fortunately the Order of Service for the Burial of the Dead provides for a natural interval between the church and the grave.’
    *   *   *
    â€˜A natural interval, eh, Sloan?’ Superintendent Leeyes gave the short bark that did duty with him for a laugh. ‘I like the sound of that.’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’ Duty bound, Detective Inspector Sloan’s first action had been to radio back to his superior officer at Berebury Police Station. ‘I’m arranging for the church to be locked while the coffin is there.’
    â€˜And I, Sloan, have had a word with old Locombe-Stableford…’
    Mr Locombe-Stableford was Her Majesty’s Coroner for East Calleshire and a long-time sparring partner of Superintendent Leeyes.
    â€˜â€¦ and he’s cancelled the burial order for the deceased.’
    â€˜I’ll let the Rector and Tod Morton know that they definitely can’t go ahead with the interment now, sir,’ said Sloan, ‘whatever anyone else may think.’
    â€˜And the Coroner’s ordered a post-mortem,’ added Leeyes. ‘So it’s up to the pathologist now. We’ll see what Dr Dabbe has to say.’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    â€˜Not that that let’s us off the hook, of course, Sloan. I hope you realize that.’
    â€˜Yes, sir. Naturally.’
    â€˜So see what you can do out there at Almstone. Strike while the iron is hot.’ He gave another seal-like bark, laughing at his own witticism. ‘I say you should catch ’em while they’re still at a wake … and not asleep.’
    â€˜Very good, sir.’
    â€˜And keep Crosby with you.’
    â€˜Thank you, sir,’ Sloan managed to say between clenched teeth. Detective Constable Crosby was the weakest link in any detection chain.
    â€˜Then we shan’t have him in our hair over here at the station.’

Chapter Four
    Death lays his icy hand on kings
    â€˜Lisa, Lisa!’ Mrs Muriel Peden shot through the green-baize door of the Manor in search of her cook. ‘Where are you?’
    As Albert Einstein put it so much better, everything is relative, and as many another victim of crisis has found, relative values can change rapidly. And unexpectedly. Matron was quite surprised to find that her own first steps were taken – like the way of all flesh – in the direction of the kitchen. Her thoughts had flown straight there as she had hurried out of the church and back to the Manor.
    While she had sped across the churchyard ahead of the rest of the congregation she had made a swift inventory in her mind of the menu of the excellent cold collation that ought to be – would surely be – awaiting the arrival of the mourners in the old oak-panelled dining room.
    â€˜I’m here, Matron.’ Lisa Haines, plump and white-aproned, appeared out of the larder, a great dish of smoked salmon in her hands. ‘Are they all back? Everything’s ready.’
    â€˜I’m sure,’ murmured Muriel Peden pleasantly, that being the least of her worries. She regarded the fish in a calculating way. Of all of the emotions chasing through her mind at that moment, she was honest enough to admit that it was economy that surfaced.
    â€˜And though I says it as shouldn’t, Matron,’ beamed the cook, ‘the table and the sideboard look really lovely. It was meant for proper food, that dining room.’
    â€˜And it would