The Three Taps by Ronald A. Knox — Read

Bredon and his wife looked at one another in astonishment. It was impossible that the funeral should yet be over; impossible, surely, that Brinkman, whose place in the pageant was such a prominent one, should have absented himself from the ceremony unnoticed. There was no doubt as to the path which the self-betrayed listener must have taken. From behind the wall, there was a gap in a privet-hedge, and through this there was a direct and speedy retreat to the back door of the inn. The inn itself, when they went back to it, was as silent as the grave -- indeed, the comparison forced itself upon their minds. It was as if the coffin from upstairs had taken all human life away with it when it went on its last journey, leaving nothing but the ticking of clocks and the steaming of a kettle in the kitchen to rob solitude of its silence. Outside the sun still shone brightly, though there was a menacing bank of cloud coming up from the south. The air felt breathless and oppressive; not a door could bang, not a window rattle. The very flies on the windowpanes seemed drowsy. The Bredons passed from room to room, in the vain hope of discovering an intruder; everywhere the same loneliness, the same stillness met them. Bredon had an odd feeling as if they ought, after all, to be at the funeral; it was so like the emptiness of his old school when everybody was out of doors except himself on a summer day.

"I can't stand much of this," he said. "Let's go down toward the churchyard, and see if we can meet them coming back. Then at least we shall be in a position to know who wasn't here."