Chapter 3 The Funeral

Inside, the whitewashed church of St James was cold, and the glare of the sun against the walls was excruciating for Jasper, who had forgotten to bring dark glasses. As funerals go, it was going well enough. Jasper slumped in the family pew of the village church, breathing slowly and trying to keep nausea at bay. He spent most of the service with his eyes closed until his mother elbowed him in the ribs to tell him that it was his turn to do the reading.

Jasper stood up, and staggering slightly because the sun shining through the stained glass window hit him straight in the eye, he walked towards the simple and ancient pulpit. He was so tired his eyes were half-closed, which is why he half tripped up the steps to the pulpit. The silence shattered by coughs which spread across the church.

There were muffled giggles from the back of the church.

Righting himself, Jasper's eyes narrowed sharply, and he glared towards the sound of the giggles. He rested his hands on the front of the pulpit, more to keep himself standing than anything else. Jasper looked directly at his mother, and in a soft and gentle voice said directly to her;

"Let your heart not be troubled."

He knew that she was quietly distraught over the death of his father. He had always been amazed that she had loved him through all his infidelities. Most of the women he knew would have walked out years ago. He knew it wasn't just her position and title of duchess that kept her at the manor, she genuinely loved him.

Of course, he hadn't helped, god knows how she had put up with him when he was younger. He had been a bit wild at Cambridge but still managed to get a first and then he did his stint in the Army which included two tours in Helmand. That was the only thing his father was pleased with, not that he had bothered to say so to him. He'd got that little nugget from Henry Conway, the family lawyer.

Jasper glanced at the coffin, supported by trestles and covered with white roses and lilies. Just looking at it made him angry. Angry for the way his mother had been treated. Incandescent, because father was a bastard to her. Sad, his father never got on with him. Always criticising everything he had done, not even a handshake when he was mentioned in Despatches, not that he expected one from anyone else he was just doing his job, but couldn't his dad have even said well done?

His mother had protected him from lots of arguments with his father, she had stood up for him many times. He was sorry for being late this morning, the last thing he wanted was to upset her even more. Last night he'd cried, not for the father who died, but for the father he could have been.

There were a few more coughs across the church.

"You believe in God; believe also in me."

Jasper's voice rang out over the bowed heads and solemn faces. There was a 'Humph' from the middle of the congregation, and the coughing ceased immediately and heads slowly dipped. Jasper looked around, the chief constable glared back at him, his face pale with anger. He'd made an enemy there, but Samuel Chichester's cohort Gerry Mortimer the Lord Lieutenant of the county would soothe the way, especially if he wanted to continue doing business with his mother's stud.

Marsha Reed, the chairwoman of the parish council, had bagged the seat in between them, her large black hat, more suitable for a wedding, A forty-something widow of several years, Marsha, was a committee junkie. She knew everyone in the village and most of their business too, whether they wanted her to or not. Jasper had attended the last parish council meeting on behalf of his father, and Marsha Reed had done a perfect imitation of an octopus, her hands had been everywhere, touching his knee, his arm, his thigh. He'd had to move seats away from her, sighting a riding injury. All that was missing had been the black ink when the ravishing Lucy Calverley, who ran the coffee shop, had expressed her sympathy over his father. He might have to visit the coffee shop more often.

His mother cleared her throat, urging him to carry on with the reading.

"In my Father's house are many rooms. If it were not so,

Would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you?"

Standing at the back of the church were members of the village, including that long streak of crap, Roper Albright, the chair of the county council. Rumour had it that he wanted to put a bypass on Jasper's land. He'd be kicked up the bypass if he tried anything like that.

He was just about to carry on with the reading when the main door opened and someone edged through the crowd at the back.

Jasper watched him as he pushed his way through. He had no idea who the man was, even though he looked familiar. He leaned against the wall, or rather, against the tombstone of Sir Henry Applewick, who if he had still been alive would have probably spit the shaven-headed thug on his trusty sword.

Jasper finished his reading and slumped comfortably back into the pew he closed his eyes not wanting to look at the coffin, and still breathing slowly to assuage nausea, which was barely helped by the scent of the lilies, he was soothed by The Reverend Quentin Peabody who had a voice that would lull a complete insomniac into a comforting doze.