The Funeral Had Two Brass Bands

How it begins

Agnes Cole had prepared a dignified opening march. The other band had prepared a polka.

Both had been hired for the same funeral.

She stood in the square with her cornet case under one arm and looked at the second conductor's music stand.

"I assume there's an explanation."

"So do I," he said. "I was hoping you'd brought it."

Behind them, the town hall's black ribbons moved in a warm breeze. Councillor Bell had died on Monday, leaving a public record of generosity, a private reputation for unpleasant lunches, and enough civic obligations to require three pages in the newspaper.

Agnes had played his election celebration. She remembered the bill being disputed afterward.

The second conductor held out his instructions.

West gate. Eleven o'clock. Continue by the riverside.

Hers said east gate, half past eleven, proceed directly to the cemetery.

The signatures matched.

Edward Moss approached from the carriage yard, carrying a small wheel fitting and looking less amused than the situation seemed to warrant.

"Have either of you seen the driver?"

"Which driver?" Agnes asked.

He looked between the bands.

"That's becoming an interesting question."

Across the square, a covered carriage began moving before anyone gave the signal. The second band raised its instruments. Agnes lifted one hand, stopping her own musicians from joining an event whose destination had apparently become a matter of opinion.

The carriage turned toward the river.

Edward watched its rear wheel.

"That isn't the one I repaired."

Agnes looked at the route sheets again. For forty years, she'd known how quickly a familiar tune could make people follow without asking where they were going.

This morning, someone had supplied two tunes.

She closed her cornet case.

"Nobody plays yet," she said.

The mayor hurried toward her, furious at the silence.

Agnes waited. She had never found noise especially useful when the important thing was hearing what happened next.