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with.’ She held up the squarish brown envelope containing the death certificate and flapped it a little.
    Susie nodded wearily. ‘Oh, I know. There’s so much to do when somebody dies. But they say it’s good for you. Helps to keep you going.’
    Monica gave an impatient shrug. ‘Just a lot of bureaucratic nonsense, more like. But thank you for being kind. It does make a difference.’ And she left.
     
    The Registrar was a woman with a severe hairstyle, heavy spectacles and a brisk manner. Monica had been first in the queue, waiting outside for the door to open at ten, but despite this, she had been kept waiting in an anteroom for almost ten minutes, while a disorganised minion tried to ascertain her business. By that time, three more people had appeared, intent on registering the birth of their babies.
    ‘Let me see now,’ said Ms Registrar, opening the brown envelope. ‘Oh dear … so young. Do you know, this is the fourth man in his middle years to go like this, since Easter.’
    She shook her head, more disapproving than sorrowful. Monica guessed that she was about Jim’s age herself. The fact that Jim was not unusual was faintly reassuring. ‘Were they all heart attacks?’ she asked.
    ‘I think so. Yes,’ mumbled the woman, reading the certificate carefully. For a long minute, she scrutinised the document in silence, much to Monica’s irritation. She could see quite clearly that there were very few lines of writing on it. Then the official sucked her teeth, and tapped her fountain pen on the edge of the desk. Outside the door, the wail of a baby came loud and clear. Monica wanted to point out the existence of the queue, but suspected that this would only have a delaying effect.
    ‘Did your husband have any history of heart trouble?’ the woman asked. ‘Or did this come right out of the blue?’
    ‘It was very unexpected. But then heart attacks are, aren’t they.’
    ‘You have no reason at all to doubt this diagnosis?’
    ‘None at all. Jim was lying in bed beside me. His heart just failed. A nice way to go, some might say.’
    ‘But not you?’
    ‘I don’t know. I suppose there isn’t really any good way to die – not at that age.’
    ‘Well, I’m not sure I can accept this at face value.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘We can’t know for certain what the cause of death was. Not without a post-mortem.’
    Monica sat back in her chair, stunned. ‘But – but isn’t it too late for that?’
    ‘Not at all. Of course it isn’t. Why do you say that?’
    ‘Oh, well. Embalming, that sort of thing …’
    ‘They’re not allowed to touch him until I issue my certificate. It wouldn’t even cause a delay to the funeral. No need for you to worry at all.’
    ‘So, what are you going to do?’
    ‘Firstly, I’ll ring the doctor. I’ll do it now, while you’re here, and then take it from there.’ The woman smiled, for the first time, and Monica tried to relax. The baby’s howls grew louder outside and a second one joined in. Mercifully, Doctor Lloyd was still at the surgery. The Registrar spoke quickly. ‘This Mr Lapsford,’ she said. ‘You’ve put “myocardial infarction”. How certain are you about that?’ She listened and jotted a few words on a pad. ‘Right … right. Yes, I know. But that’s not my problem. Well, I suppose that’s true.’ She laughed briefly. ‘All right then. Sorry to worry you. Goodbye.’
    ‘Well, he’s convinced me,’ she told Monica. ‘It is my job, you know, to be sure.’
    ‘Of course.’ Sure of what? Monica wondered. That she hadn’t somehow murdered the man in his bed? That must obviously be it. For a moment, she half wished there could be a post-mortem, to settle the whole business once and for all.
    But she had no time for doubts. Questions about dates, names, National Insurance, were fired at her, the keyboard rattled, and finally a printer across the room disgorged a modest green document which was headed ‘Disposal Certificate’. This,