Solo - Jack Higgins [29]
'Would you indeed?' The Welsh accent was much more noticeable now as it always was in times of stress. Morgan turned to Baker, 'And you, Harry? Is that what you'd do?'
Baker looked troubled. Ferguson said, 'They're considering promoting you on the autumn list, or had you heard a whisper already? Brigadier, Asa, at your present age, means you should make major-general at least before you retire. Something to be proud of.'
'Who for?'
'Don't spoil it, Asa. You've come a long way.'
'For a little Welsh pit boy who walked into the recruiting office with the arse out of his trousers, isn't that what you mean?'
Morgan went out, slamming the door violently. Baker said, 'You were a bit rough on him, sir.'
'Which was exactly what I intended, Chief Superintendent. He'll be back when he's reached boiling point.' Ferguson reached for the teapot again. 'Now, how would you like it?'
The interior of the church of St Martin at Steeple Durham was sparse and beautiful in its simplicity. Norman pillars rising to a roof that was richly carved with figures, both human and animal. Perhaps because at the period it was built it had been used as a place of refuge, there were no windows at ground level. The only light was from round, clerestory windows high up under the roof, so that the church itself was a place of shadows.
Harry Baker and Stewart arrived just after two and found Francis Wood waiting in the porch in his vestments.
'Chief Superintendent - Inspector. It's good of you both to come.'
'No news, I'm afraid, sir.'
'No arrest, you mean?' Wood smiled gently. 'What possible difference could it make to us now if there were?'
'I saw Colonel Morgan yesterday. His sentiments were rather different.'
'Knowing Asa, I would imagine so.'
People started to arrive, mainly on foot, obviously villagers. Wood greeted them and then the gate in the wall on the other side of the churchyard, which gave access to the rectory garden, opened and his wife appeared.
She was not dressed in mourning, but wore a simple grey suit with a pleated skirt, tan shoes and stockings. Her hair was tied back with a velvet bow as on the first occasion Baker had met her. She was unnaturally calm considering the circumstances.
She nodded to Baker. 'Superintendent.'
Baker, for once, couldn't think of a thing to say. Francis Wood kissed her briefly on the cheek and she moved on inside. The hearse pulled up at the lych gate and a few moments later the coffin was brought forward on the shoulders of Harry Pool, his son and four assistants, all suitably garbed in black coats.
Wood went forward to greet them. Baker said, 'You know what I hate about this sort of thing, George? The fact that they've probably done two already today. Same hearse, same black overcoats, same appropriate expressions. It means something, but I'm not sure what.'
'No sign of Morgan, sir.'
'So I'd observed,' Baker said, and added as the procession moved towards them, 'Let's get inside now we're here.'
They sat in a pew half-way down the church and the cortege moved past them, Francis Wood reciting the Order for the Burial of the Dead.
I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.
The coffin was placed before the altar rail, the bearers retired. There was a pause and Wood carried on.
Lord, thou hast been our refuge from one generation to another.
The door opened, then shut again so loudly that he paused and looked up from the prayer book. Heads turned. Asa Morgan stood there in full uniform, razor-sharp, polished Sam Browne belt gleaming, medals hanging in a neat row beneath the SAS wings above the tunic pocket. He removed the red beret, sat down in the rear pew.
The one person who had not turned was Helen Wood. She sat