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didn’t need no help until the end,’ said Hazel between mouthfuls.
    â€˜Ah…’ said Sloan, whose professional concern was that Mrs Gertie Powell hadn’t had the wrong sort of help towards the end. He drew breath and took a long shot: ‘So when did she give you the letter, Hazel?’
    â€˜â€™Bout a month ago.’ The big girl didn’t even pause before she answered. ‘I remember because it was just before I went on my holiday. Mrs Powell gave me some money for that and then gave me a letter.’
    â€˜Another slice of ham, Inspector?’ Lisa’s knife hovered above the ham bone. ‘I’ll have to get started on dishing up the desserts any minute now.’
    Wordlessly, Sloan passed his plate, his eye still on Hazel Finch.
    â€˜Then Mrs Powell,’ resumed Hazel Finch, ‘asked me if anything happened to her would I post that letter.’
    â€˜Did she tell you when you were to post it?’ asked Sloan.
    â€˜Oh, yes.’ Hazel nodded. ‘She was most particular about that. She said it was to go into the pillar box outside Almstone post office the day before her funeral.’ She finished a large mouthful and then went on, ‘You see, she wanted her son to have it on the day to cheer him up at the funeral.’
    â€˜Nice, that, wasn’t it?’ said the warm-hearted Lisa Haines sentimentally.
    â€˜So she wasn’t expecting to go while you were away?’ said the detective inspector to Hazel, leaving aside the question of whether what Mrs Powell had done – if she had – was nice.
    â€˜Oh, no.’ Hazel Finch shook her head quite vigorously. ‘Promised me she’d still be there shocking everyone when I got back.’
    â€˜And she was?’
    â€˜Lived another fortnight.’ She grinned. ‘Ever such a naughty lady, she was really … but nice with it, if you know what I mean.’
    Detective Inspector Sloan said truthfully that he knew exactly what she meant. And he did, although the naughty people he usually dealt with were anything but nice. Downright nasty, most of them: unprincipled, violent, greedy, selfish, murderous perhaps.
    â€˜You’re going to miss her, Hazel,’ opined Lisa Haines.
    â€˜She was fun,’ pronounced the care assistant.
    As epitaphs went, thought Sloan, it couldn’t easily be bettered.
    *   *   *
    Out in the churchyard Detective Constable Crosby was making the revised arrangements for the disposal of the dead with Tod Morton, the undertaker.
    â€˜She’s to go over to Berebury Hospital for Dr Dabbe,’ the constable said.
    â€˜Ah, a post-mortem case,’ said young Tod knowledgeably. ‘Thought as much the moment I set eyes on you and the Inspector. Don’t often see the police at a funeral.’
    â€˜And pretty pronto, please,’ added Crosby.
    â€˜Trouble?’
    â€˜Could be,’ said Crosby.
    â€˜Cutting it a bit fine, weren’t you?’ said Tod curiously.
    â€˜No,’ said Crosby.
    â€˜Another ten minutes and we’d have had her six feet under.’
    â€˜Ten minutes is ten miles,’ said Crosby ineluctably.
    â€˜Not in a hearse, it isn’t,’ rejoined Tod. ‘You police’ve got your regulation two and half miles an hour on the beat and we’ve got—’
    â€˜The doctor,’ Crosby interrupted him, ‘is waiting.’
    The undertaker waved a hand in the direction of the south-west corner of the graveyard. ‘So is the lady’s lair…’
    â€˜Her what?’
    â€˜Lair.’ Tod Morton jerked his shoulder in the direction of the Manor. ‘The Fearnshires are a Scottish regiment.’
    â€˜So?’
    â€˜A lair is what the Scots call a plot in a churchyard,’ said the undertaker. ‘When they’ve paid for it, that is.’
    â€˜That’s as maybe,’ said the constable magisterially, ‘but as far as the