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Phyllis

Phyllis had never confessed this to anyone, but she hated Hercule Poirot. She’d read all the novels, of course; she’d read every book Agatha ever wrote and wouldn’t hear a word said against them. But secretly, she found the Belgian detective deeply irritating. That silly little mustache, the annoying way of talking, not to mention his constant self-aggrandizement. Unlike Miss Marple, who knew that the key to being a good detective was to be inconspicuous, Poirot liked to put himself at the center of everything, preening and posturing like a peacock. Phyllis had therefore been somewhat disappointed when she’d seen the notice for Eve Watkins’s funeral in the newspaper and realized that the answer to catching the murderer and thief Michael Watkins lay not, as she’d hoped, in a Miss Marple novel, but in a Poirot one instead.

And so it was that on Tuesday morning, Phyllis found herself standing outside the gates of St Piran’s church, wearing a black coat, sunglasses and a head scarf to disguise her blue-rinsed hair. She’d had to leave Craddock at home, much to his annoyance, but he was far too conspicuous. Now though, as she stared up at the tall, imposing face of the church, Phyllis wished she had her companion with her.

When her mother was alive, Phyllis had come to St Piran’s twice a week. There had been other churches nearer to their home, but Eliza Hudson had been a devoutly Christian woman and had preferred the monotone, joyless sermons of Reverend Platt to the more modern, upbeat style at their local church. And so, every Wednesday and Sunday, come rain or shine, Phyllis and her mother had silently trudged three miles along the rocky clifftop path from their home to the church, which stood on a small, exposed headland between St. Tredock and Port Gowan. The last time Phyllis had been here was the day of her mother’s funeral, eleven years ago. She hadn’t realized at the time that it would be her last visit. But the following Sunday, Phyllis had found herself sitting at the kitchen table at ten o’clock, drinking a cup of tea, without the slightest inclination to leave the house. She had not entered this—or any—church since.

An icy gust of wind blew in off the sea and Phyllis pulled her coat around her. Perhaps this was a bad idea? Just because this was how Poirot solved the mystery in After the Funeral didn’t mean she’d have the same luck today. Besides, Craddock didn’t like being left alone and—

Phyllis stopped and took a deep breath, asking herself the same question she always asked when something was unclear. What would Miss Marple do? Adjusting her head scarf, she set off up the front path toward the church.

As soon as she stepped inside, Phyllis’s senses were assaulted. That distinctive smell, a mixture of sea salt, wood polish and piety so strong that it used to stick to her Sunday coat. The damp chill in the air; somehow the church always felt five degrees cooler than outside. The almost deafening silence of the vaulted space. It was all so familiar that for a moment Phyllis expected to see her mother sitting rigid-backed in one of the front pews, her head bowed in prayer.

But your iniquities have separated you from your God;

And your sins have hidden His face from you,

So that He will not hear.

“Hello! I’m afraid you’re a little early.”

Phyllis jolted at a posh voice. A tall, silver-haired man was smiling down at her.

“Come on in, it’s freezing out there. Would you like an order of service?”

Phyllis took one and hurried toward the back of the nave. She slipped into one of the rear pews, removed her sunglasses, and studied the order of service while she waited for the mourners to arrive. Eve Louise Watkins , it said on the front, along with the dates 1933–2024 . So, the old bird was ninety-one? Not a bad innings, although rather irritating to be murdered; by that age, you’d be expecting pneumonia or a urine infection to see you off.

Under the writing was a photo, an old black-and-white image of Eve in her thirties or forties. She was a striking woman, although not in a good way, with a square chin, pointed nose and thick black eyebrows. The idiom “the kind of face only a mother could love” popped into Phyllis’s head and she snorted softly. That expression had never meant anything to her, given her own mother hadn’t been able to stand the sight of Phyllis’s face.

Behind her, she heard the church door creak open, and she put the order of service down and turned to pay attention to the people coming in. As was to be expected for the funeral of a ninety-one-year-old, the majority of the mourners were elderly, too, and a slow procession of wheelchairs, walking sticks and Zimmer frames made their way into the church. Phyllis kept her eyes trained on each new face as they arrived, paying particular attention to the male mourners.

In After the Funeral , Agatha Christie had the murderer attend a funeral in disguise, pretending to be a relative of the deceased. While Phyllis had not particularly enjoyed the book when she first read it—Poirot was at his most insufferable when he made his big reveal—she was now grateful for the story. Because even though Michael had murdered Eve, stolen money and was now on the run from the police, surely he might still attend his own mother’s funeral?

Phyllis continued her vigil over the growing congregation. Was that elderly man in the wheelchair actually Michael, with his head shaved to make himself appear bald? What about the man wearing a blue anorak and tracksuit bottoms, who seemed to be taking a suspiciously long time to find his seat? Or even the elderly lady with the large, feathered hat who was limping in now?

Phyllis glanced at her watch. It was past midday so the funeral would be starting at any moment. It was a large congregation for such an elderly person. When Phyllis’s mother died, aged ninety-eight, there had only been three people at the funeral: Phyllis, the vicar and the organ player. Not that Phyllis had expected it to be busy. Her mother hadn’t been an easy woman to love: pious, sharp-tongued and judgmental. But still, Phyllis had hoped that at least some of the regular members of the congregation might attend, if for no other reason than to support her.

“Mind if I sit here?”

She looked up to see the silver-haired man who’d been handing out the order of service looming over her. Phyllis was about to say no, but then the organ burst into life, filling the air with a loud, slightly out-of-tune chord, and before she knew it, the man had slid into the pew next to her. Phyllis shuffled to the other end of the bench as the church doors swung open and the coffin appeared.

The congregation rose to their feet—at least those who were mobile enough did—and Eve Watkins began her final journey through the nave. The coffin was carried by four pallbearers, but a quick scan of their faces told Phyllis that none of them were Michael. There were three figures walking behind: one was Cynthia Watkins, wearing a silly hat and an expensive-looking coat, and the other two were women in their thirties who must be Cynthia and Michael’s daughters. The trio followed the coffin to the top of the aisle and then slipped into the front pew on the right. As they took their places, Cynthia leaned over and whispered something into the ear of the man standing next to her.

Phyllis’s heart began to pound. Was this Michael, brazenly standing in the front row of St Piran’s church while the Cornish police scoured Bodmin Moor for him? If so, it was an audacious move, although criminals had been known to do worse: just look at Murder Is Easy .

“Good turnout, isn’t it?”

The silver-haired gentleman was leaning toward Phyllis and speaking in a low voice. She ignored him, her eyes trained on the back of the suspect’s head, willing him to turn around and reveal his face. He and Cynthia had exchanged a few more words, their heads bowed toward each other conspiratorially.

“I had no idea Eve had so many friends,” the man continued. “Mind you, Cynthia’s promise of a cream tea at the wake might have incentivized a few. People will do anything for a good scone.”

Phyllis sighed loudly, hoping that might discourage the man from talking. Her mother could never stand people making noise in church and had once hit a man over the back of the head with her prayer book after he’d yawned too loudly.

“Of course, I imagine all the gossip has helped attract a crowd too.”

At the word gossip , Phyllis’s ears pricked up. She had no time for tittle-tattle herself, but like Miss Marple, she knew it was often a useful way to get information.

“What gossip?” she asked, then winced as if her mother might reach out from beyond the grave to give her a clip round the ear.

“Dearly beloved…” The vicar’s voice rang out at the front of the church as he welcomed the congregation.

The silver-haired man slid closer to Phyllis, his voice dropping to a whisper. “They think Eve’s son killed her! His fingerprints were all over her and he hasn’t been seen since.”

Phyllis sighed; she’d been hoping for something new that might help her investigation.

“The police came and interviewed me about it on Friday,” her companion said, and she could hear a tinge of pride in his voice.

“Why did they interview you?”

“I live next door to Eve and was the one who saw Michael run out of the house. I didn’t think anything of it at the time; I’d heard him and Eve arguing shortly before, so I assumed he was just going out to clear his head. Little did I know what had really happened.”

Oh, now this was interesting. Phyllis turned to face the man properly. He must be about the same age as her and was cleanly shaven, wearing a smart suit and black tie. His eyes were the brightest blue she’d ever seen and fixed on her face.

“Did you say you heard Michael and his mother arguing?”

A few rows in front, one of the congregants let out a pointed cough. The man leaned closer to Phyllis, his breath brushing her ear as he lowered his voice further.

“I wasn’t eavesdropping, of course. But I’d just got back from walking my dog, Bella, and Eve must have had a window open, as their voices drifted out.”

“What were they arguing about?”

“I could only hear the odd bit, but from what I picked up, Eve was furious at Michael. She kept shouting about a letter and some debts, and how he should never have kept it a secret from her. But then Bella started barking for food, so I took her inside, and the next thing I knew, I heard a door slam and saw Michael’s car speeding out of the drive.”

Phyllis found she was holding her breath. Michael was in debt! That must have been why he stole the community center money. And—Phyllis felt her chest tighten as another penny dropped—maybe he killed his mother to get his hands on his inheritance? At last, now she knew the motive: greed .

“Do you know—”

“Shh!”

The pointed cougher turned to glare at them both. The silver-haired man gave an apologetic nod, and when the woman turned back to the front he glanced at Phyllis with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. Despite herself, Phyllis felt her cheeks flush, and she turned back to the altar. As she did, her heart dropped.

The man from the front row had disappeared.