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demanded. “Matthew was fine, right to the end when he got a bit wobbly. It was nothing much.”
    “Did you see how much he drank? Could someone have spiked his drink?”
    Ruth thought for a few moments.
    “He had a drink. A pint, I think. Or was it wine? Yes, I’m sure I saw him with a glass of white wine. Or was that Mark? No, Mark always drinks scotch. It must have been Matthew. I don’t know how many drinks he had but he wasn’t drunk if that’s what you’re implying.
    “And no,” she went on forcefully, “no-one could have spiked his drink. There was no-one there apart from family.”
    Ruth was starting to look very upset. Grief seemed to have divorced her from the possibility that a family member could have been responsible for Matthew’s demise.
    Amos judged that it was worth pushing his luck while she was not thinking straight.
    “Luke tells me that he and Agnes discussed your father’s will with Matthew. Did you hear any of that? Did he talk to you about the will?”
    “The will?” Ruth replied sharply. “That’s news to me. And no, I didn’t bother asking about it. It was neither the time nor the place. In any case, Matthew would not have talked about it without all the brothers and sisters being present. I’m absolutely certain of that.”
    “Did you see what Matthew ate?”
    “No, I can’t remember. I just had a couple of sandwiches because I was starving. And before you ask, I just had an orange juice because I was driving.”
    “Was your husband at the funeral?”
    “No, he was working abroad. He didn’t get back until back last night. He’s a geologist working in oil exploration so he has to be away a lot. We didn’t see the need for him to come back for the funeral. He didn’t see much of Dad when he was alive so there seemed no point in him being there when he was dead.”
     
     
     

 
     
    Chapter 15
     
    “Let’s have a coffee and an iced bun,” Amos said as they got back to the car. “I noticed there was a coffee morning on at the Methodist church round the corner. If we hurry we might just make it before they shut up shop. I assume it is the church that the Wilsons attended for various lengths of their mortal lives.”
    The coffee morning was indeed coming to an end but half a dozen people were lingering and a couple of cups of coffee and iced cupcakes were readily extracted for the latecomers. Amos paid £1.40 and looked around. There was only one man present with a dog collar. The inspector took him tactfully to one side.
    The Rev John Newbiggin had lasted longer than most Methodist ministers. Amos was well aware that the initial stay at any one church was three years.
    The congregation could request that a popular incumbent should remain for a further three-year term and, in exceptional circumstances, for one more year after that but seven was the maximum. The egalitarian Methodist church wanted to ensure that everyone got a fair share of the rough and the smooth.
    Newbiggin was into his seventh and final year but, even so, to ask about the Wilson children as attendees of the church in their younger days meant finding an older member of the congregation to talk to Amos and Swift.
    In response to Amos’s request, Newbiggin obligingly lined up Maud Sparey, a sprightly octogenarian who had retained all her marbles.
    “I take it you’ve attended this church for many years, Mrs Sparey,” Amos said pleasantly.
    “Call me Maudie,” the woman said cheerily. “Everyone else does, don’t they John?”
    Amos would not have dreamt of doing so unbidden. Older people, in his experience, usually hated the newfound presumptuous familiarity preferred by younger people.
    However, the minister concurred. “She’s a treasure,” he added.
    “Tell me, Maudie,” Amos butted in before Newbiggin had chance to launch into a eulogy about his star worshipper, “did all Mr and Mrs Wilson’s six children attend this church?”
    “They did indeed,” Maud Sparey said, beaming with