I just watched, trying to detect any false notes in their reactions—probably just what the chief and the deputies were doing. Maybe the chief spotted something suspicious but I didn’t.

“We’ve identified the deceased as Mr. Barliman Vess,” the chief added.

I don’t think I was imagining the looks of relief that crossed all of their faces—quickly replaced with looks that clearly said, “Of course, it’s still a terrible thing.”

“May I remind all of you not to discuss what you heard and saw tonight until after I’ve interviewed you?” the chief said.

The watchers and Robyn all murmured their agreement.

“You, too, Ms. Langslow,” the chief added. “Michael asked me to tell you that he’s heading home and will see to the boys till you get back.”

I nodded. So much for going home and catching up on my sleep.

The chief left with one of the watchers—the Christie reader—while the Parcheesi players seemed to have lost interest in their game.

“What on earth was he doing here?” one of them asked. “Sorry, forget I said that,” he added, glancing up at the deputy.

“We could talk about what’s going to happen with our Christmas services,” the remaining woman watcher said. “That’s not against the chief’s orders, is it?”

The deputy shook his head.

“That will depend on how long the church is unavailable to us,” Robyn said. “If it continues to be a crime scene after today, we must trust Meg to find us a solution.”

“But having a death so close to Christmas,” another watcher said. “Surely that will cast a pall over all our celebrations.”

“Not if we remember the true meaning of those celebrations,” Robyn said. “The reason Christ was born among us.”

“‘Born that we no more may die,’” one of the men sang softly. I recognized the tune and some of the words from the little-sung third verse of “Hark! The Herald Angels.”

“‘Born to raise us from the earth,’” the singer went on. Two of the others joined in on the next line, “‘Born to give us second birth.’”

Another deputy stuck his head in, looking a bit surprised, but apparently warbling Christmas carols wasn’t against the chief’s orders, so both deputies joined in the last two familiar lines: “‘Hark! The herald angels sing, Glory to the newborn king!’”

“Very good,” Robyn said. I wasn’t sure whether she meant the singing or the sentiments, but everyone seemed more cheerful. “Charles Wesley did have a way with a hymn, didn’t he?”

“On a practical note,” the remaining woman said. “If we get the church back in time, will we need to reconsecrate it after this?”

The others all glanced over at the deputy, as if checking to see if this line of conversation was allowed.