I wonder if there's a Mr. Jenkins, thinks Daphne as she watches the couple chit-chatting like a pair of teenagers all the way to her destination.
"Dewminster Market Place," sings out Bert, and Daphne dawdles for few seconds until the driver and his lady friend lightly link hands and slink together into the Market Café.
"I ought to be a private eye," laughs Daphne under her breath, then she stops herself, asserting, "That's exactly what I am."
"You might want to start with the church," Trina suggested earlier, as if there might 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.
"Sacrilegious 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.
"Rollie Rowlands, rector," he announces with an outstretched hand, dispelling any doubts as he rests his bicycle against the lych-gate. "Can I help you?"
"I'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.
"Sorry. 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."
"You seem very sure," replies Daphne, and the reverence in Rowlands' voice borders on fear as he explains.
"Mrs. 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.
"She'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."
"Just one or two questions…" starts Daphne, but Rowlands has swung a leg over his bicycle and is forcing the reluctant machine towards the roadway.
"Sorry… must dash."
"Well, 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.
"Mrs. Drinkwater?" she queries, and she's grateful that she chose a suitably serious grey tweed suit and one of her least ostentatious hats as she feels the weight of the diminutive woman's scrutiny.
"And 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."
"Oh!" 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?"
"Just 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 named Cecil 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.
"What 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."
"Evil?" echoes Daphne questioningly.
"I 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."
"Oh 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."
"Intriguing," 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."
"Naturally," 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.
"So, if that's all?" queries the ancient-looking woman as if daring Daphne to ask.
"Yes. 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 penetrate Amelia Drinkwater's barricades under a camouflage of cut arum lilies, but the funereal arranger steps in.
"No, 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.
"Everything 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.
"I 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."
"Yeah, right." She laughs, giving his appendage a friendly tap. "I bet you say that