Ghosts of Columbia by L.E. Modesitt Jr. Page B

in the back corners of Columbia, unable to protest for fear of losing their last sanctuary. Even I had looked to the door at the mention of the Spazi.
    The wind, almost warm, blew through my hair, but I shivered anyway.

CHAPTER SEVEN

    M iranda’s memorial service was on Thursday afternoon at four o’clock. When I had talked to Llysette on the wire in the morning, after trying to reach her for nearly two days, she had indicated she would not be free until close to dinnertime. She had been almost curt, with a student waiting. So I had called Marie on the wire and told her not to prepare anything for dinner.
I had also refrained from telling Llysette about the trip to Columbia and decided to go to Miranda’s service alone. The watch had released no information on Miranda’s murder besides a perfunctory statement on continuing the investigation, but after vanBecton’s call, it was clear I was going to be involved through more than mere curiosity.
    Following my two o’clock class, I put on a black armband I had dug out of my armoire that morning. From the office I headed to the Bank of New Bruges to deposit the errant pension cheque that had arrived on Wednesday, and then I walked down to the small Anglican-Baptist chapel two blocks off the main square. No one saw the mourning band because it continued to drizzle and I wore my camel waterproof. I’ve never liked umbrellas, perhaps because they tied up one hand, and in the past that could have been a real problem.
    After slipping in the side door at a quarter before the hour, I sat near the rear of the church on the right-hand side. I eased out of the waterproof as soon as I sat down because, despite the drizzle, the day was warm for mid-October. Watching as people drifted slowly into the small church, I was not entirely surprised to see Llysette. She wore dark blue flared silk trousers and a white blouse with a loose blue vest that matched her trousers. She carried an umbrella, but had not worn a coat. She entered through the main door, carefully closed the umbrella, and sat halfway back. I bent down to check my boots before she looked in my direction.
    The pipe organ began with something suitably somber, and a young and clean-shaven man and a woman walked down the aisle and sat in the front pew on the right. Presumably he was one of Miranda’s sons, and she was his wife. They both wore black, and she had a heavy veil.
    Behind them, on both sides of the aisle, were a number of people from the university, including Doktor Dierk Geoffries and his wife Annette; Samuel Dortmund, the brass instructor; Wilhelm Mondriaan; and Johanna Vonderhaus. I didn’t quite understand why Mondriaan was there, except as a matter of courtesy, and he did have the Dutch penchant for courtesy—not to mention the somber clothes that fit in so well in mourning situations.
    The crowd was small, less than a hundred souls, not even half filling the small chapel, and the faint scent of perfume was overwhelmed by the pervading odor of damp stone.
    Philippe Hague, the college chaplain, stood up to conduct the service, although he was of the Dutch Reformed persuasion.
    “In God is our salvation and our glory; the rock of our strength, and our refuge, is in God. Praise be to the Lord, for our world, our souls, and our salvation. Let us pray….”
    Although the liturgy was not exactly familiar, I opened the book, found the words, and bowed my head with the rest.
    The service was standard, commending the soul of the dear departed to the care of a merciful God, praying that God would cause her murderer to repent of
his sins, and saying what a wonderful person Miranda Miller had been. No one mentioned that she had been somewhat tight, even by old Dutch standards, but I did find out that she had been widowed young. Her husband had died in the confusing mess that had marked the abortive Columbian intervention in the rape of Singapore by the Chinese.
    Good Chaplain Hague did not call the incident by any of