Free Up from the Grave by Marilyn Leach

finger on it. Rather, you’ll lay on your entire weight and wrestle the creature to its knees until all is neatly sorted.”
    Hugh now joined the women at the car. “What needs sorted?”
    Berdie gave Lillie a visual nudge to be quiet. “Deciding what time Lillie and I will meet for tea tomorrow.” Berdie nodded her head as nonchalantly as possible.
    “Elevensies, of course,” Lillie stammered in an all-knowing kind of way. “At The Copper Kettle.”
    “Right.” Hugh smiled slightly. “Why do I have the feeling you two are conspiring?” He pulled the car keys from his pocket. “I realize things in the Preswood home this evening were not perfect. Families seldom are. But it’s up to the Preswoods to work it out for themselves. I should hope you leave things well enough alone.”
    “We’re not ones to interfere.” Lillie fluttered her dark lashes.
    Hugh lifted his left brow. “That’s like saying rain isn’t wet,” he countered and opened the car door for Berdie and Lillie. “If you try it on, everyone involved will be soaked through. Catch my meaning?” He looked very deliberately at Berdie.
    “Eminently, dear,” she replied and slipped onto the car seat.
     
    ****
     
    Whether it was the dodgy cauliflower soup or the unstrung bits and pieces of recent events that played in her mind, Berdie was awake and restless when she should have been sleeping soundly.
    She eyed Hugh, slumbering beside her, and thought again how grateful she was that his prolonged military jaunts here and there were no longer a part of their lives. No, now she just had to share him with every Tom, Dick, and Cherry in the parish, including the Preswoods. Even so, she was grateful for his presence.
    She let go an easy sigh then arose. Putting on her dressing robe, she tried not to disturb the man with whom she delighted in sharing her bed.
    Within minutes, she was in the kitchen and had the kettle on, navigating it all by the light of a small candle lamp that sat atop several stacked recipe books. She poured a cuppa.
    Berdie felt compelled to wander down the dark hall to the library where she sat in one of the leather armchairs. She took a sip of the warm soothing liquid and let her restlessness melt into the stillness.
    She noticed that the richly woven curtain on one of the windows facing the church garden was slightly open. Taking her warm cup with her, she thought to close it, but found herself peering up at the dappled clouds that played hide and seek with the vivid stars gracing the night sky.
    There was something special about the wee hours when the world sleeps. The mad rush of conversation hushed, the frightful tear of spinning activity silenced. It was as if the beating of God’s heart silently sent it’s rhythm out to any who would take a moment to listen. And Berdie readily took note.
    She opened the curtain further and relaxed back into the gracious armchair where she could gaze into the beauty of the night.
    She swallowed her tea slowly when her eyes fell to the ground of the back garden. Even the beehive of activity around the tented crime scene was now absent. One lone constable stood watch, slowly pacing, fighting against the tedium that made sleep so very attractive.
    “Poor chap,” Berdie whispered aloud. “I bet he’d love a cuppa.” Just as she spoke the words, the solitary figure in the back garden commenced a great yawn accompanied by a stretch. “Tea it is.”
    By the time she prepared and poured the large Stanley flask, found Hugh’s sizable torch that looked more a car headlight, put on her wellies, and buttoned her coat, several minutes had elapsed.
    Once outside, the dark coolness reminded her that it was early spring.
    She walked towards the taped-off area. But the constable wasn’t pacing. In fact, he appeared to have become a big lump-of-a-thing in a piece of garden furniture. And not surprisingly, she heard a slight rattle-gurgle that sounded very much like snoring.
    She started to rouse him