Page 69 of A Very Bookish Murder
TWENTY-SIX
Rigby appeared confident as he began to speak. After all, he must be accustomed to addressing the police and the public, Ally thought, but this was different, of course. This was personal.
‘Jodi, who was really Joanne Rigby, was my big sister,’ he began. ‘I can only just rememberher, but I can clearly recall the birthmark on her neck, and fifty years later, I saw it again when I investigated her murder at the Craigmonie Hotel in Locharran two weeks ago. The shock took its toll’ – here he patted his heart – ‘but at least the DNA proved that I was right. It was indeed my sister, Joanne.’ Rigby paused and looked around. ‘What can I say? Nobody tells a five-year-old that his big sister has got herself pregnant and has been banished! But that’s how it was back then, a terrible disgrace, and shame on everyone concerned. Poor, poor Joanne!
‘Fortunately, times have changed, and if Joanne’s death produced one good thing, it’s been meeting that baby she had to give up.’ He smiled across at George. ‘I now have a nephew and am looking forward to getting to know both him and his lovely wife.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Unfortunately, it appears inevitable that someone here, right here at this graveside, must have murdered my sister, and I can only hope that DetectiveInspector Kandahar, who’s taken over from me, will be able to arrest that person before long.’
Ally heard some gasps and saw Amir nodding.
‘Jodi may not have been loved by everyone,’ Rigby continued, ‘because I think her life must have been blighted at times with her need for self-preservation and control. Let’s face it, she had to make her own way in the world from the age of sixteen and, all things considered, she did well. Let me wind up by saying that I am truly proud to be the brother of such a strong and talented woman. Thank you.’
The undertaker nodded towards Owen again, which resulted in Pavarotti belting out ‘Nessun Dorma’ at full volume, until Owen, with further twiddling of buttons, managed to lower the sound to a less ear-splitting level. There was certainly no chance of anyone resting in peace around here, Ally reckoned.
‘Eclectic mix,’ murmured Ross.
‘Yes and, apart from that weird jazz, all good stuff,’ Ally said.
‘We will now lower the coffin into the grave,’ said the main undertaker. ‘You may have noticed that there are fewer cords than normal. This is because we were unsure how many mourners would be here and also because a wicker coffin is very light indeed.’ He looked around for a moment. ‘Mr Harper, who is the chief mourner, and myself will take the first cord, and we’ve agreed with Mr and Mrs Rigby that they will take the second one, and perhaps’ – here he nodded to George – ‘you and your wife might like to take the third?’
George nodded, and he and Brigitte, who did not look very happy at the prospect, moved towards the coffin.
At this point, Desdemona looked up and called out, ‘I’m Desdemona Morton and I’ve known Jodi since university days, and I’d be honoured to take a cord.’
‘Thank you, Miss Morton, so perhaps you’d like to take the fourth cord with my fellow funeral director?’ As they movedforward, he looked round again, this time directing his gaze at Owen. ‘I understand you were her husband?’
Owen sniffed loudly. ‘Yeah,’ he said in what could only be described as a resigned voice.
The undertaker looked a little bewildered by Owen’s tone and was momentarily at a loss for words.
It was Harry Harper who came to the rescue. ‘Jodi left her husband years ago,’ he said, ‘but never got round to getting a divorce.’ He regarded Owen with some distaste.
‘Herchoice!’ snapped Owen, glaring back at Harper.
‘Yes, well,’ the undertaker said hastily, ‘whatever the circumstances, would you and your, er, partner like to take the fifth cord perhaps?’
Laura’s face was a picture. She plainly had no wish to participate in this strange and rather uncomfortable little ceremony, until Owen took her arm and rather roughly pulled her along with him towards the fifth cord.
The cords were picked up somewhat jerkily, and Ally had visions of the coffin slipping off, but after a minute or two they got it straightened, and, slowly and gently, they all lowered the wicker coffin into the grave.
Ally felt a great sadness. The woman might not have been very popular but she didn’t deserve to die in the way she had. No one did. She was only relieved that neither she nor Ross had been asked to take part. She could only imagine how Brigitte and Laura must be feeling; Laura in particular, having to help to lower the coffin of the woman she’d come here to kill!
Everyone stood silently for a moment, and Ally noticed Millie had moved up a little towards the top of the grave as if to get a better view of the coffin, now deep in the earth. Perhaps she was videoing the ceremony as well as Morwenna, although Ally couldn’t see a phone in Millie’s hand.
The sky had darkened further, looking almost bruised, which made Ally think of poor Millie’s black eye, now hidden by the ridiculously inappropriate sunglasses, which looked so out of place in this lowering, drizzly, windy day. Along with Millie, everyone was gazing down at the coffin and moving, very slowly, towards the top of the grave.
The chief undertaker cleared his throat again and said, ‘We will now play the final song which Miss Jones had requested. And then Mr Harry Harper will give a closing eulogy.’ He signalled to Owen, who’d gone back to his music machine again.
This time it was another of Sinatra’s signature songs, the very appropriate ‘My Way’. Both Rigby and George were dabbing their eyes, while Harry Harper stood, motionless and emotionless, at the top of the grave, looking down at the coffin. Was he in some sort of trance? Or drugged even?
Ally was a little concerned about Millie, who appeared to be behaving oddly. She was edging ever closer towards the top of the grave and clutching her coat tightly around her, as if she was terribly cold. Ally wondered if she was having some delayed reaction from last night’s injury. Perhaps she didn’t feel too well. Ally wondered if she should go over to see if she was all right, but as the Harper fellow was about to begin speaking, she decided against it.
And now it was the turn of Harry Harper to address the gathering. He looked around a little haughtily at everyone with the air of a man who was perfectly accustomed to public speaking.
‘The day Jodi was killed, part of me died too,’ he said sadly. ‘She was myeverything!’ He paused before repeating, ‘Everything!’ and letting this fact sink in. The only sound was some coughing and shuffling of feet from the bystanders. ‘She was the only woman who has ever brought me true happiness, and I don’t honestly know how I’m going to live without her. Iknow how thrilled she was to meet George, her son, and I can understand why she became so possessive, as if trying to make up for lost time.’
He then turned slightly in Rigby’s direction. ‘As for her little brother,’ he continued, ‘the coincidence is beyond belief, incredible, and very moving. It could have been a scene in one of her wonderful books. If only she could have met him again, after all those years, while she was alive! It’s strange that Jodi should have chosen to come up here to Scotland, just a few miles from where her brother was working. Surely it was the work of fate, but I can only imagine the horror that Bob Rigby experienced when he discovered who the murder victim was.’ He coughed. ‘She was a brilliant woman, a brilliant writer and, above all, a survivor – until, that is, some evil person brought her life to such a tragic end.’
At this point, his cape billowed out, somewhat dramatically, as if on cue.
