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only be one in the small medieval market town, but Daphne has no other clues so she asks a traffic warden for directions to the nearest.
    A bas-relief signboard atop the thatched lych-gate welcomes all to the parish church of St. Stephen’s in the Vale, while inside the wooden structure the parish notice board announces that the Rev. Rollie Rowlands will conduct all manner of ecclesiastical services.
    Daphne is momentarily fascinated by the conglomeration of swallows’ nests hanging from the rafters before her eyes are drawn down the tunnel of ancient yew trees to the squat Norman tower of the centuries-old church, but she finds her view blocked by a man laboriously pushing his bicycle along the grave-lined path towards her.
    â€œSacrilegious to ride through the graveyard,” explains the wheezy man as he stops to get his breath at the gate.“The kids do it,” he carries on between breaths. “No respect — no respect.”
    Daphne sizes him up, a man with a paunch like a ten-month pregnancy, and realizes that although his numerous chins conceal his collar he is probably the vicar.
    â€œRollie Rowlands, rector,” he announces with an outstretched hand, dispelling any doubts as he rests his bicycle against the lych-gate. “Can I help you?”
    â€œI’m inquiring about Janet Thurgood,” says Daphne once she’s introduced herself, but the big man takes off his trilby to shake his head, and Daphne has a hard job keeping her face straight as his combed-over coiffeur falls in dis-array, leaving a monkish tonsure that is clearly more an act of God than Mr. Gillette.
    â€œSorry. Never heard of her,” explains Rowlands as he tries to flatten the wispy grey strands across his pate. “But I’ve only been here a few years. Mrs. Drinkwater who does the flowers will know.”
    â€œYou seem very sure,” replies Daphne, and the reverence in Rowlands’ voice borders on fear as he explains.
    â€œMrs. Drinkwater knows everything there is to know about this parish.”
    I guess that he and the flower lady have had more than a few words about the way he runs the church
, Daphne is thinking and is on the point of asking where she can find the august woman when Rowlands stuffs his wayward hair under his hat and hurriedly grabs his bicycle.
    â€œShe’ll be arriving in five minutes to fix up the church for a funeral,” he continues, nervously checking his watch. “And if you’ll excuse me, I have to leave now. Have to visit one of the parishioners — bit of an accident, sprained ankle, needs ministration. Mrs. Drinkwater will know about your woman I’m sure.”
    â€œJust one or two questions…” starts Daphne, but Rowlands has swung a leg over his bicycle and is forcing the reluctant machine towards the roadway.
    â€œSorry… must dash.”
    â€œWell, I’m damned…” mutters Daphne to herself as Rowlands stands on the pedals of the old sit-up-and-beg machine, a jumble sale donation, and hauls himself away.
    Daphne spends the next few minutes reading the parish magazine and bracing herself for the arrival of Mrs. Drinkwater, whom she imagines to be a big-boned matron with a booming voice. By the time the woman arrives, precisely five minutes later, she is still large in Daphne’s mind, and her stature is not diminished by the fact that she is driven to the gate in a stately black Rolls-Royce.
    However, despite the precision of the flower lady’s arrival, Daphne is temporarily nonplussed by the appearance of a childlike figure from the front passenger seat. It is only when the wizened curmudgeon opens her mouth and yells to the uniformed chauffer, “Stop dawdling Maurice. Get those flowers into the church before they wilt,” that Daphne steps forward.
    â€œMrs. Drinkwater?” she queries, and she’s grateful that she chose a suitably serious grey tweed suit and one of her least