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ostentatious hats as she feels the weight of the diminutive woman’s scrutiny.
    â€œAnd you are?” demands the crone in an accent that totally refutes the supposed demise of the class system.
    But Daphne can play that game and polishes her tone to reply. “I am Ms. Daphne Lovelace, OBE, at your service, ma’am.”
    â€œOh!” replies the woman snottily. “That’s rather pretentious of you.” But she knows that she is outranked and concedes. “What exactly can I do for you, Ms. Lovelace?”
    â€œJust call me Daphne,” she suggests and waits momentarily for reciprocation.
    Mrs. Drinkwater was born with a Christian name, but she rose above such familiarities when she married into money and became a lay magistrate. Even her long-deceased husband, a local brewery magnate inappropriately namedCecil Drinkwater, only ever called her “Dear” or “My wife.” And for most of her life Amelia Drinkwater has steadfastly resisted every attempt by family or friends to soften her.
    â€œWhat can I do for you, Ms. Lovelace?” the flower lady reiterates coldly, and Daphne has no choice but to explain the purpose of her visit.
    The name “Janet Thurgood” brings a cloud to Mrs. Drinkwater’s face, and she quickly hustles Daphne under the lych-gate, as if sheltering from an expected thunderbolt, while darkly muttering, “She was an evil woman. Do you hear me? Evil.”
    â€œEvil?” echoes Daphne questioningly.
    â€œI don’t speak ill of anyone,” says Mrs. Drinkwater. “But if I were ever to change my mind she’d be the first on the end of my tongue.”
    â€œOh my goodness,” breathes Daphne. “What on earth did she do?”
    The tiny woman catches hold of Daphne’s sleeve and draws her down with a conspiratorial whisper. “They say she murdered her children.”
    â€œIntriguing,” says Daphne, her tone asking for more, but Amelia immediately backs off, crosses herself reverently, and recants. “But you never heard that from me. Everyone knows that I never speak ill of anyone.”
    â€œNaturally,” replies Daphne and is tempted to push for more details, though she wonders if it’s worth the risk, especially as she knows that she has a more accommodating ally in her camp.
    â€œSo, if that’s all?” queries the ancient-looking woman as if daring Daphne to ask.
    â€œYes. Thank you very much,” says Daphne realizing that she has little prospect of gaining further information. But, as Maurice the chauffeur labours past with his arms wilting under the weight of a floral display, she seizes a final opportunity. “Can I help?” she offers, hoping to penetrateAmelia Drinkwater’s barricades under a camouflage of cut arum lilies, but the funereal arranger steps in.
    â€œNo, thank you. Maurice is quite capable. Now, if you’ll excuse us.”
    Plan B then
, thinks Daphne as she heads back to the bus stop, and is not at all surprised to find Mrs. Jenkins taking the return trip.
    â€œEverything all right at the doctor’s?” she queries mischievously and smiles at the confused look on the other woman’s face.
    It’s nearly five by the time that Daphne opens a can of Purr for Missie Rouge, puts the kettle on for a pot of her favourite tea, and picks up the phone.
    Eight hours’ time difference, she mentally calculates before dialling, but she’s forced to leave a message. Normality has returned to Trina’s world, and she’s on her daily round of bringing cheer to the elderly residents of North Vancouver.
    â€œI see the old pecker is looking up this morning,” the homecare nurse jests as she showers Mr. Howlins.
    The eighty-five-year-old beams toothlessly. “Not my fault, Trina. You could straighten a corkscrew with that smile of yours.”
    â€œYeah, right.” She laughs, giving his appendage a friendly tap. “I bet