Never Laugh as a Hearse Goes By: A Penny Brannigan Mystery by Elizabeth J. Duncan Page A

said to Bronwyn. “I thought they’d be joining us but they’ve disappeared. I guess they’ve got better things to do.”
    “Well, never mind. I’m sure Minty has loads of arrangements to see to. It’s all go when you’re in charge of a conference. So much to do behind the scenes.” Bronwyn looked cheerfully around the room at the dozen or so women seated at table. “But we’re all keen to hear your presentation, aren’t we?” The women murmured agreement and Penny began discussing the life and work of Owen Jones, an influential Welsh architect and textile designer. English born, he was a founder of what is now the Victoria and Albert Museum in London and, Penny thought appropriately for the Library setting, his work was hugely influenced by the art and ornament of the Islamic world.
    Forty-five minutes later, the women murmured words of thanks to Penny as they trooped out. “Well, I think that went pretty well,” she said to Bronwyn as she packed up her samples and patterns. “Was it what you expected? Do you think they enjoyed it? I tried to keep it interesting and light, but honestly, this whole idea of doing a presentation for the few women here seems a bit daft. I wonder what the point of it was.”
    Bronwyn laughed and raised her hands. “Don’t look at me.”
    “Well, we have some time to spare before lunch. Should we go to the Library? I’ve been dying to see it.”
    “I think I’ll wait and see it with Thomas, if you don’t mind, Penny. But you go on ahead.”
    *
    “Right, then,” said the bishop when the rectors were seated around the table in the Anwyl Room. “As you know, over the past few years we have been experiencing a huge increase in theft in our rural churches, from Bangor to St. Asaph and every place in between to right here in Hawarden. And this scourge is not just happening to us in Wales—this epidemic is sweeping right across the British Isles. So joining us this morning to advise us on what we can do in our own parishes to combat this theft and thuggery is,” he glanced down at the card Minty had given him, “is Detective Chief Inspector Gareth Davies of the North Wales Police Service.” The bishop made a small gesture in Davies’s direction. “I’ll turn it over now to DCI Davies.”
    “Good morning.” Davies smiled at the earnest, sincere faces gazing at him. “I was delighted to be given the chance to speak to you today about an epidemic that concerns every one of us. Because it isn’t only churches being stripped of their valuable metals—war memorials have been defaced for their metal and worryingly, copper wiring is being ripped out of electrical substations. And recently, we had a situation in which idiotic vandals actually tried to burn down a telegraph pole so they could steal the wiring attached to it. And all the damage these mindless vandals are doing takes a huge toll on the public purse. They will do whatever kind of destruction it takes to steal a few hundred pounds worth of materials. And then it takes thousands of pounds to repair the damage they caused. Not to mention putting lives at risk when metals are stolen from, say, railway lines.
    “But we’re here to focus specifically on the theft of precious metals from churches, what you can do to prevent it, and what the police are doing about the problem.”
    An hour later, Davies began to wrap up.
    “So we’ve asked all scrap metal merchants to alert us to anything suspicious and we ask you to be vigilant and join your Neighbourhood Watch. And sadly, of course, it is no longer safe to leave your churches unlocked.” The room was still, the only sound the soft scratching of Minty Russell’s pencil as she took notes in her steno notebook. When Davies paused to meet the eyes of his audience, Minty’s pencil remained poised over the page. “I know you want your churches to be places of quiet reflection, where anyone may find refuge for a few moments of prayer or contemplation, but we no longer