Chapter 1

Venetia Hamilton Hargreaves wondered whether sandwiches and sausage rolls might have been a better choice than canapés as she waited for her husband’s corpse outside St Paul’s Church. It would soon be lunchtime and surely people would prefer something more substantial than a sliver of smoked salmon on a cracker smeared with cream cheese? Well, it was hard cheese now. Too late to change. The air was heavy and humid, and a heat haze shimmered off the gleaming black paintwork of the hearse. A storm was forecast. The coffin was crowned with an elaborate spray of lilies and ivy, and the blooms trembled with every step the pallbearers took as Venetia followed them down the aisle; the same aisle that she had walked as a bride, carrying freesias and lily-of-the-valley on the arm of her handsome groom almost fifty years before. A sad but somehow satisfying symmetry. This time she had her son at her side. It had been her son, Heron, who had insisted on canapés, specified the champagne, and booked the hotel where both were to be served after the service. Venetia’s suggestions had been swatted aside because Heron had assured her that he ‘knew best’. He had even chosen her outfit, and she had let him have his way. For now. He took his place beside her in the front pew as the coffin was set down on trestles before the altar. His face was red with the effort of containing his emotions and he clutched a meticulously folded handkerchief in his fist in case eventually he should fail. Heron was an unfortunately comic misnomer for one so deficient in stature and grace, but his grandfather had been a keen amateur ornithologist. He had named his children Hawk, Osprey, Nightingale and Swan, and his sons had continued the practice with their own offspring. With his scarlet cheeks and tubby torso, poor Heron looked more like a crotchety Christmas card robin. Venetia placed her hand on his arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. She felt him tense at her touch and returned her hand to her lap. In contrast to her son’s discomfort, Venetia was surprisingly sanguine for her public debut as a widow. She would miss her husband, of course she would, but in the way that one misses a comfortable cardigan that has shrunk in the wash and become too tight to wear.

The church was almost full. Hawk Hamilton Hargreaves had been a popular and well-respected man, and he would have been gratified to see such an impressive turn-out for his last hurrah. He had chosen the order of service himself and Venetia was grateful. It had saved her the worry and she was glad for him that he was getting exactly what he wanted. After welcoming the congregation with respectful solemnity, the vicar announced the first hymn and as they stood to sing ‘Jerusalem’, the small boy beside Venetia clattered to his feet, dramatically brandishing his hymn book in both hands. Kite was Venetia’s ten-year-old grandson, and this was his first funeral. He was clear