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cook in her native Aberdovey, Meinwen might well have discovered a symphony in the sounds around her.
    After what seemed like an hour of waiting, but according to her mobile phone was less than half that, the hearse appeared followed by two black Daimlers. She waited until the coffin was transferred to the building and the family ushered inside, then joined the rank and file of mourners attending the funeral of Helen Matthews, ignoring the askance looks some of the other attendees gave her for her rainbow-colored umbrella.
    She slipped into a seat at the back of the chapel, hoping the service would not be layered in religion. Helen had been a good friend and supporter of Meinwen’s books and pamphlets on the history of Laverstone, but other than the Tuesday-night reader’s group, Meinwen knew little about the woman. Piped music played Abide with Me at a muted volume.
    Her heart sank as she picked up the order of service. At least it was an Anglican one, rather than the full-blown spectacle of a Catholic requiem mass. Reverend Dodgson appeared from the staff door and strode to the lectern. It could be worse.
    “Dearly beloved. We are gathered here to pay tribute to our sister, Helen Matthews…”
    Meinwen stifled a yawn and wondered if it was too late to slip out again. Probably. The doors had been closed and were guarded by a gentleman in a morning suit as if they were prisoners who might take the opportunity of the first hymn to bolt screaming from the room. A glance at her mobile earned her a pursed-lip expression from the elderly lady to her left. Meinwen pretended not to notice.
    After a brief but heartfelt prayer, since the priest seemed to know the deceased personally, a young man stood and walked to the front. He faced the assembled mourners with a set of index cards in his hand. His mouth opened and closed several times before he glanced at the cards and cleared his throat.
    He gripped the lectern with his free hand. “My mother was a woman of many passions…”
    Meinwen perked up. This sounded more interesting. As far as she’d been aware, Helen was the sort of woman who’d prefer a nice cup of tea to unexpected passionate sex over the kitchen table but she wasn’t one to judge unfairly.
    “Her passion for reading was almost matched for her passion for collecting antiques and she had a habit of penning a poem every day of her life. It pleases me to say I’ve paid for the hosting of her website for the next five years as a lasting tribute to her.”
    Meinwen snorted. Five years? It wouldn’t last five weeks without fresh input, just one of those sites that stayed around to skew the results of internet searches. Type in the name of a fluid discharged by a septic ulcer and you’d get Helen’s poem about her cat, Molly. She wondered if Donall Matthews would look after Helen’s pets.
    Meinwen was jerked back to the present by the man moving back to his seat. She wondered if she should clap or would that be disrespectful. It gave her the idea for another book, and she fumbled in her handbag for a pen to jot it down. Funerary customs from ancient Laverstone to modern times.
    The brief flurry of scribbling earned her another glare.
    Reverend Dodgson introduced the next hymn and the audience stood. As a self-styled witch, Meinwen knew the value of a communal sing-along but the hymns were generally unable to inspire passion in anybody. She stared at the order of service. The Lord’s My Shepherd was much better as a psalm. As a song it suffered from syntax hammered into place to make the verses rhyme. Still, again, it could be worse. She scanned the rest of the sheet. No, All Things Bright And Beautiful was thankfully absent. She’d had enough of that at the First Aberdovey Methodist School. Not that there’d been a second. It was a victim of grammar. It should have read The Aberdovey Methodist First School.
    The music died down into a painfully extended end note and they all sat, Meinwen a moment behind the