Death in the Opening Chapter by Tim Heald Page A

Not domestic dung, despite its neat identical rows of brown pellets. Orderly ordure. ‘Good point. It sounds like a basically antiseptic union.’
    â€˜Not like some,’ she said.
    â€˜Maybe not,’ he said, refusing to rise to such obvious bait, even on a Sunday morning in the country.
    â€˜Leaving motive on one side for the time being,’ said Monica, ‘she had the opportunity.’
    â€˜So we’re saying that she followed her husband into his church, interrupted his sermon-prep, made him tie a rope round his neck, attached it to a beam, stood him on a suitable chair and then kicked it away, causing him to suffocate, or whatever.’
    â€˜We’re not saying that,’ said Monica.
    â€˜No,’ conceded her husband, ‘but if we’re suggesting that Mrs Fludd murdered her husband, then something along those lines must have happened. Why be so melodramatic? Why not just put something lethal in his Ovaltine one night at the rectory?’
    â€˜Because if she did that, dummy, she would have been the only suspect. By topping the unfortunate Sebastian in church, she created a whole raft of other possibilities and other suspects. She deflected attention, made herself just one among many, rather than the only possibility. It’s obvious.’
    This was unanswerable. Bognor remained silent. Finally, he said, ‘So if she did it, she was being cold-blooded enough to finger other suspects.’
    â€˜If it was her,’ said Monica, ‘it was cold-blooded. No getting away from that.’
    â€˜If it was her,’ said Bognor, ‘it would have to be a persuasion job. She wouldn’t have had the strength to do all the preliminary business, even if she could have kicked the chair away from under him. If it were her, then it would be amazingly cold-blooded and preconceived in every possible way. I’m not sure anyone is that calculating.’
    â€˜Oh yes, they are,’ said Monica. ‘You know the old saw: divorce no, murder yes. Catholics say it mostly. Maybe Mrs Fludd was like that.’
    â€˜So, Mrs Fludd would rather have killed her husband than divorce him. If she wanted to end the relationship then she had no option. Death or nothing. She might offend the law of the land but not of God.’
    â€˜You’re twisting what I said,’ Monica protested. ‘Besides killing people is wrong. There’s a commandment about it. God sent the word down from the mountain on a tablet. Via Moses. It was a serious old testament prophet job.’
    â€˜A bitter pill for some to swallow.’ Bognor grinned. There were moments when he loved his wife very much. This was one of them. They had learned to tolerate each other’s feeble jokes. He inhaled the smells of the countryside and reflected that there were worse things for a man to be doing before Sunday lunch than going for a walk in rural parkland. Even when death loomed so large in the immediate background. After all, death was part of his job, and if they couldn’t both accept that, then they could accept nothing. In the long run, they were all dead and death provided interesting and crucial conundra. He was glad that his job involved basics and not peripherals.
    â€˜For what it’s worth, I don’t think the reverend was the victim of a nuptial murder, but at this stage I don’t want to rule anyone out. Not even Mrs Fludd.’
    â€˜But if it wasn’t Mrs Fludd . . . mind your feet . . . it was someone who knew the vicar’s movements. They knew he’d be in church preparing his sermon.’
    â€˜Unless they had an appointment. Sebastian might have arranged a meeting with his killer.’
    â€˜That sounds unduly defeatist,’ complained Monica. ‘We’re not talking euthanasia here. I don’t see any evidence for the reverend wanting himself dead.’
    â€˜I don’t mean that he knew the killer was his killer,’