Theft on Thursday by Ann Purser

Author:Ann Purser [Purser, Ann]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Suspense
ISBN: 9781101567661
Google: hDAX4SQhe0YC
Amazon: 0425207471
Barnesnoble: 0425207471
Goodreads: 885329
Publisher: Berkley
Published: 2004-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-SEVEN

THURSDAY MORNING, AND THE WHOLE VILLAGE PRE-pared for Cyril’s funeral; not just old friends and neighbours, distant relations, civic dignitaries and representatives of his old regiment, but also those who wanted to be seen to be there.

The passing bell began to toll, and Lois shivered as she made her way to the church. It was a mournful sound, one bell ringing insistently, reminding the village that this was no ordinary morning. It had been one of Cyril’s duties, and he had solemnly seen many an old friend on their way with his doleful ringing. Out of respect for an old customer, Mrs. Carr had announced that she would not open the shop until two o’clock. Sandy Mackerras had been allowed time off, and members of the choir had made arrangements to be free for their part in the service. Lois had helpfully revised the cleaning schedules.

Bill, Rebecca, Jamie and Mrs. T-J were all in the vestry, putting on their scarlet robes. Old Gladys, long-time friend of Cyril and former organist, had let it be known that she was extremely offended at not being asked to play, and arrived at the church early. She sat in a front pew, and glared disapproval at Sharon, already at the organ playing a selection of Cyril’s favourite songs. “No idea how to play those old tunes,” Gladys muttered to an old crone sitting beside her. “Making a right mess of ‘Moon River’—got the timing all wrong!” She smiled nastily, cheered up by knowing she could have done better.

The church filled up, until folding chairs were hastily fetched and set out in a side aisle. Conversation was subdued but vigorous. There were waves of recognition from one side of the church to the other. Babies were soothed, coat collars turned up in the draughty church, comments passed on how much older so-and-so looked in the dusty light coming through grey glass windows. A few brave souls hummed “Moon River,” and a tear or two fell, remembering old Cyril and his eccentric performances on his own Hammond organ.

Then silence fell. Sharon glanced around and received her signal from the undertaker. She brought the recital to a gentle close, and put her hands in her lap.

“Jesus said,” a loud voice proclaimed from the porch, and heads were bowed. Brian Rollinson, tall and spare, his face shining with certainty that Cyril had gone to a far, far better place, began to pronounce the soul-stirring words: “I am the resurrection, and I am the life; he who believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live, and whoever lives and believes in me shall never die.”

Lois looked around, her spine tingling, and saw the vicar heading the sad procession, his white surplice fresh and immaculate, his head held high. Undertakers bore Cyril’s coffin, crowned with flowery wreaths, slowly up the aisle towards the chancel. Following were Cyril’s sister and her daughter, and a small group of people, distant relations, who were complete strangers to the assembled villagers. As the coffin passed slowly, some choked and fumbled for their handkerchiefs.

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