From her vantage point beneath the shadowy trees, the woman in black muttered a profanity that was entirely out of place in the churchyard. She sank down onto a long neglected tomb and cursed again when she saw the state of her new shoes. Her jaw set firmly in passionate ill will, she clamped a cigarette between scarlet lips, lit it, and exhaled disenchanted smoke from her long slender nose. A gust of arctic air made the woman shiver and tuck wispy tinted hair back beneath her sleek fur hat. The thud, thud of earth shovelled onto the wooden coffin only added to her exasperation, as the gravediggers committed Jane Victoria Lawrence's body to eternity. 'If the old bitch had only listened to reason.' The violent mute words echoed in the woman's brain. But there was no use crying over spilt blood. It seemed there was an heir to the property and that could present either a help or a hindrance. With an inquisitive eye she observed Belinda entering the car and being driven away. 'And we have Inspector Jordan on the case. Thinks he's Somerset's version of Hercule Poirot. More like a deficient Jane Marple,' muttered the woman in derisive tones as the Inspector's car vanished over the hill. The woman rose a little unsteadily to her feet. The chill of the graveyard was entering her bones and she needed a warming brandy. Lurking around graveyards at her time of life was a little like tempting fate. As she ground the half-smoked cigarette into the mud, she watched the Vicar, as he headed towards the church. The Vicar hummed fragments of a hymn to himself. He'd not only despatched Miss Jane Lawrence from this life but also from his mind. His attention was now firmly fixed on Sunday's sermon and he was oblivious to everything around him. "Our life with its temptations and struggles is often similar to a voyage on a stormy sea" was the text, but how to put it into language that his largely geriatric land-bound parishioners would relate to? The ancient church door swung shut, there was a moment's silence, and another figure emerged from behind the building. The woman pulled her elegant coat tightly about her, burying her chin into the gratifying warmth of the fur collar. Screwing up her eyes to focus on the man, for it was a man, a well-built athletic man, she watched as he made his way through the tombstones. For a moment, a desirable feeling of sexual anticipation warmed her, allowing her features to relax into a coquettish smile. But as the man drew nearer a frown of uneasy recognition creased her brow, adding lines to that face that had cost her dearly in cosmetic additives. Rather than confront him she turned and hurried away in the opposite direction, her black coat gradually blending into the gloomy environment. (C)2005 Brian Kavanagh