The Cold Light of Mourning - By Elizabeth J. Duncan Page 0,39

be Meg Wynne.

Now, she thought, I need to see if she comes back this way. She fast-forwarded to a quarter to ten and watched the tape. About six minutes later, the figure appeared again, headed back the way she had come.

Excited, Morgan reached for her mobile and phoned Davies.

“That’s good that you’ve spotted her,” Davies said, “now we’ve got something to go on. So you’ll need to interview the shopkeepers along the route, put up some flyers, see if you can find any townsfolk who saw her, and all the rest of it.”

Just before two the next afternoon villagers entering St. Elen’s for the funeral of Emma Teasdale looked at each other in amazement and smiled. Coming from the open door was the lilting, unmistakable sound of harp music.

“How wonderful, utterly wonderful,” said Mrs. Lloyd to the woman beside her.

As they took their places to the sounds of Debussy’s “Clair de Lune,” many took comfort in the music. Centuries before, the area had been home to some of Wales’s finest harpists and harp makers and this gentle tribute to a woman who had placed such a high value on music was appreciated by the villagers as appropriate beyond words.

“I think I know who was behind this,” whispered Mrs. Lloyd, nudging her neighbour.

The music continued for several more minutes while everyone settled into their seats and then Rev. Evans took his place to begin the service, exchanging a grateful, conspiratorial smile with his wife.

“Good afternoon. Pnawn da,” he began. “We are gathered here today to commemorate the life of our departed sister, Emma Teasdale, and we will begin by remembering the immortal words, ‘I am the resurrection and the life, says the Lord. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.’ ”

About forty-five minutes later, when the final hymn had been sung and the benediction spoken, the doors of the church opened, and the coffin was carried solemnly to a quiet corner of the churchyard where a grave had been prepared to receive it. A small procession followed, led by the rector whose white surplice fluttered softly in the breeze.

Surrounded by the friends who had admired, respected, and even loved her in life, the coffin of Emma Teasdale was gently lowered into the ground.

Standing at the foot of the grave, reading from his LLyfr Gweddi Gyffredin or Book of Common Prayer, Rev. Evans continued with the solemn service.

“We therefore commit her body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in the sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life.”

One by one a few mourners, including Penny, came forward and scattered handfuls of earth on the coffin. After a final few moments of silent good-byes, they turned away and made their way slowly from the churchyard to the hotel where a modest tea awaited them. As she turned away from the gravesite, with one last look over her shoulder, Penny thought the service had been exactly what Emma would have wanted, and that she would have been deeply touched by the harp music. But as she made her way out of the cemetery, past generations of tombstones rising out of the newly mown grass, she was aware of an idea trying to form in the back of her mind that something had not been quite right.

As she tried to bring it to the surface, Mrs. Lloyd, dressed in her best black suit that she wore only to funerals, caught her up.

“Well, Penny,” she asked, “what did you think of the service? I think Emma would have loved it, especially the music. I wonder who the harp player is. I don’t think she’s anyone we know, is she?”

Penny let go of her thoughts, and turned to Mrs. Lloyd.

“The music was wonderful,” she agreed. “Very moving and so appropriate.”

As they reached the steps of the hotel, Mrs. Lloyd moved on to the topic that was never far from her mind.

“There was a slap-up tea laid on for us on Saturday after the wedding,” she said. “Or nonwedding, I guess it was. Really a very nice effort, though, all things considered. I hope this one will be as good. Do you think they’ll have those nice little empire biscuits I like so much?” she asked eagerly.

Penny shook her head.

When the last of the mourners had left the churchyard, two men in overalls made their way to the grave and in a practiced, unemotional way