The Cold Light of Mourning - By Elizabeth J. Duncan Page 0,48

look out that window for inspiration,” he said to her. “And every time I do I understand what the psalmist meant when he wrote, ‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help.’ Well, I say psalmist, but it was David, actually.”

Bringing herself back to the business at hand, Morgan nodded.

“We’re sorry to disturb you, Rev. Evans,” she began.

“No need to apologize,” he replied. “I wish I could tell you I was giving some deep and profound thought to Sunday morning’s sermon, but you’ve actually caught me napping. Please, have a seat.”

He gestured at two chairs on the other side of his desk and looked intently at his visitors.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“We’d like to talk to you about the funeral of Emma Teasdale, especially the committal part of the service,” Morgan said.

“Oh, yes?”

“Did you happen to notice anything odd or unusual when you were at the gravesite? Was there anything about the scene that struck you as unusual or out of place?”

The rector sat back in his chair, put his hands in a prayer position, and gently touched the ends of his fingers to his mouth.

“Odd or unusual. Hmm, let me think.”

A few moments later, he leaned forward.

“Well, now that you mention it, there was one thing. Something about the coffin seemed different. I did notice that, and in fact, I think I mentioned something about it to Bronwyn that night.”

“Can you tell me what that was, Rev. Evans?”

“It was just a little thing, but I noticed that I could read the name and dates on the brass coffin-plate quite clearly. I can’t see as well as I used to, and now the plates are a little blurry, so I thought, Oh, that’s very good. They’ve started making the letters larger so us over fifties can read them better. But then I said to Bronwyn that night, ‘Why would us over fifties, or anybody else for that matter, ever need to read the coffin-plate?’

“So that seemed rather unusual, but I thought no more about it.”

Trying to contain her excitement, Morgan glanced at her supervisor and asked her last question.

“Can you tell me the name of the undertaker who would have arranged for the plate?”

“Certainly,” said the rector. “It was Philip, just across the square. Philip Wightman. Wightman and Sons.”

Morgan sat back as Davies took over.

“Rector, we are going across the street for a word with Mr. Wightman, but we need you to stay awake. I expect we’ll be back to finish this conversation in about fifteen minutes. Is that all right with you?”

Rev. Evans sighed.

“Certainly, it is. Quite all right. I guess now I really will have to make a start on that sermon. If it puts me to sleep, that doesn’t bode well for my poor parishioners, does it?”

Morgan and Davies smiled at his gentle joke, and took their leave.

A few minutes later the shop bell tinkled as they entered the premises of Philip Wightman.

Slipping on his jacket as he emerged from the back room, Philip took the measure of his visitors and extended his hand.

“Hello,” he said. “I’m Philip Wightman. May I help you?”

Davies and Morgan showed their warrant cards and got right to the point.

“We’d like to know about the brass nameplate you used for Emma Teasdale’s coffin,” said Morgan. “Was there anything different about it?”

“Different?” asked Philip. “No, it’s not different from any other nameplate we would use. Why do you ask?”

“We’re following a line of investigation and the nameplate may be important,” Davies said. “What can you tell us about it?”

“I don’t do the engraving myself, that’s outsourced, as they say, but I do affix the plate to the coffin. I need to make sure everything is spelled correctly, see.”

“And this one was no different from any other nameplate you might have used in the past little while?”

“No. The font changed in the 1970s—it used to be more of an italic script—but this plate was like any other I would use.”

“And the type was no larger?”

“No.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wightman, that’ll be all. We appreciate your time this afternoon.”

The jingling shop door safely shut behind them, Morgan and Davies looked at each other with a mixture of anticipation, excitement, and dread.

“So if the type wasn’t any larger, that must mean …” Morgan started to say.

“… that the coffin was closer to him, giving him the impression the words were larger,” Davies finished. “He thought he saw what he expected to see, that is, the coffin at its