Evil Angels Among Them (11 page)

Becca cracked an egg into the frying pan, then gave a sharp cry. ‘Oh, I've broken the yolk,'

‘It doesn't matter, sweetheart. I'll take it as it comes.'

She covered her face with her hands. ‘It's ruined,' she said softly, her voice catching on a sob. ‘Ruined.'

Stephen leaned forward, alarmed. ‘I said I don't mind.'

‘And the sausages are burnt.' Silent tears trickled down her cheeks. ‘I'm a terrible wife to you, Stephen. A hopeless cook and a terrible wife. You shouldn't have married me.'

‘Don't be daft, sweetheart. It's only breakfast.' He half rose to go to her, but stopped as she visibly controlled herself and moved away to get a plate.

‘Let's talk about something else,' she said with studied calm, dishing up the sorry-looking breakfast and putting it in front of him.

It seemed a good idea, and Stephen didn't need very much encouragement to return to the topic that was so much on his mind. ‘I just don't understand how the man's mind works,' he mused. ‘Ernest, I mean. In the first place, I can't understand why he thinks he has the right to dictate to me what happens in
my
church. What authority does he have? But that question aside, I can't see what possible objection he could have to Quentin Mansfield as churchwarden. Quentin has all the qualities we need right now, and he's a respected member of the community – after all, he lives at Walston Hall!'

With a silent sigh, Becca welcomed the shift of focus on to external matters, however vexing they were to Stephen. ‘But he's only been here for a few years. People around here are suspicious of anyone who wasn't born in Walston. Or “bred and born”, as they say in Norfolk.'

‘Exactly my point!' Stephen slapped his palm on the table for emphasis. ‘What about Flora Newall? She hasn't been in Walston any longer than the Mansfields, and she's much more of an unknown quantity. She's very keen, of course, but no one really knows her very well. And she has a full-time job, so she certainly won't be able to devote the time to it that Roger did, or Quentin could.' As he ate his breakfast, oblivious to the broken egg and burnt sausages, he went on to the problem of Fred Purdy and the Quota, while Becca paced restlessly. ‘I just don't know what to do,' he concluded some minutes later. ‘I don't know where to turn. Nothing I've ever come up against before has prepared me for a situation like this.'

Becca sat down across from him, wrapping her dressing gown across her chest in an unconsciously protective gesture. She tried to think what her father would have done, but realised that her father would never have been in such a situation: no one would ever have presumed to tell him what to do. ‘Isn't there anyone you can talk to? The Archdeacon or the Rural Dean? Or a colleague in another parish?'

He shook his head. ‘I don't need pastoral advice – what I really need is legal advice. I need to know what steps, if any, I can take to stop Fred Purdy and his chums from doing their best to destroy the Church of England.'

‘Legal advice.' Becca frowned thoughtfully. ‘You need a lawyer, then.'

They had the idea simultaneously, but Stephen enunciated it first. ‘David Middleton-Brown!'

At that moment, David Middleton-Brown was not a happy man. By disposition he was fairly sanguine, through susceptible to occasional moods, and the past year of his life had been by far the most satisfactory to date. After years in the provinces, his career as a solicitor had taken off with a job at a prestigious firm in London. In addition, at forty-two he had found himself dizzyingly in love with the artist Lucy Kingsley, and to his great amazement and gratification he had discovered that the feeling was mutual. Twelve months of sharing her life and six months of sharing her house had convinced him that the arrangement ought to be a permanent one, but Lucy had not proved easy to persuade that marriage should be a part of their future. Now, after three traumatic weeks in which Lucy's stroppy fourteen-year-old niece Ruth had played a prominent part, that morning they'd finally seen Ruth off at Euston station. And a few minutes later Lucy had told him that she wanted to end their relationship: not because she didn't love him, but because she feared that she loved him too much.

David was still in shock as they returned home to Lucy's tiny mews house in South Kensington, having said little in the car. Twelve days: that was all the time he had to change her mind. At the beginning of April, twelve days hence, he would be granted possession of a house which he had inherited, and Lucy would expect him to move out. Unless he could somehow convince her within the next few days that she couldn't live without him. He didn't know where to start, or what to say. In their brief conversation at the station he'd been restrained in his arguments, realising instinctively that emotional blackmail would be counterproductive. But how to change her mind? He was well aware that his happiness now, and for the rest of his life, depended upon his success.

The phone was ringing as they came through the door. Lucy, silent and tearful, picked it up. ‘Hello?'Her voice came out sounding nothing like her.

‘Is this Lucy?' Stephen enquired tentatively.

‘This is Lucy Kingsley,' she confirmed.

‘Hello, Aunt Lucy.' It was a joke between them; Lucy had in fact been Stephen's aunt for a few months by virtue of her brief marriage to his uncle some years earlier, though she was only a few years his senior.

‘Stephen!' She made an effort to sound enthusiastic. ‘How are you? How is Becca?'

His reply required an equal effort. ‘Oh, we're both well. And you?'

‘Very well.'

After an awkward pause Stephen went on, ‘I was hoping for a word with David.'

‘He's right here.' Feeling unequal to further small talk, Lucy passed the phone to David, who was standing by with a questioning frown.

Lucy only heard half of the conversation, so David filled in the missing parts later in the kitchen over strong coffee. He would have preferred – indeed he craved – something stronger, but knew Lucy would take a dim view of whisky before noon.

‘He's having some real problems with his parish, apparently. Seems he has a headstrong, if somewhat dim, churchwarden, been there for yonks, who wants to stop paying their Diocesan Quota, and the man has managed to sway much of the congregation to back him on it. And there's a vacancy for the other churchwarden, but some self-proclaimed kingmaker in the parish has decided that he knows better than the Rector who ought to be elected. Stephen wants a particular chap who has business experience and money sense, but this Ernest Wrightman's candidate is a woman, a social worker who's apparently only been in the parish for five minutes.'

Lucy listened carefully, twisting a strand of her hair – naturally curly, shoulder-length, and shimmering red-gold in colour – round her finger. She frowned. ‘I still don't understand what it has to do with
you
.'

‘Neither do I, really.' David's generous mouth curved in a quirky, self-deprecating smile. ‘For some reason he seems to think that I can work miracles.'

‘He wants you to come?'

‘He wants
us
to come,' David amended. ‘He says they have a huge old rectory with plenty of room. His idea is that if we go to stay for a few days and see the situation I might be able to give him some advice.'

‘Do you think you can help him?'

‘I think,' said David with a short, unamused laugh, ‘that the advice I could give him after seeing the situation would be the same advice I'd give him right now: start looking for another parish.'

Lucy smiled wanly. ‘So you don't want to go.'

‘I didn't say that.' He took his time refilling his coffee cup as he thought through the implications of Stephen's request. He wasn't at all sure that he could be of any practical assistance to the young priest, recognising that the legal position was fairly straightforward. He could tell Stephen over the phone that overturning a decision by his PCC was nigh to impossible. But getting away to Norfolk for a few days might be just the thing as far as his own situation with Lucy was concerned. David was by nature non-confrontational and dreaded the very thought of spending the next twelve days in discussion of their future, going down the old paths again and again and reaching no happy conclusion. There was one important difference, though: this time he was fighting not for their marriage, but for the very existence of their future together. It was not a joyful prospect. A few days in Norfolk would be a respite from that and might even buy him some time. If Lucy would agree to put the issue on hold until they came back . . . ‘I wouldn't mind going,' he said at last. ‘It might be nice to have a holiday in the country, and it would be good to see Stephen and Becca, even if I couldn't do anything to help them. And,' he added with a smile, ‘it's a wonderful church. I'd like you to see it – it's one of the most beautiful wool churches ever built, with marvellous Perpendicular architecture and a lovely chapel that's been done up by Comper. What do you think, Lucy love?'

‘Yes, it might be nice.' Lucy was already beginning to regret the things she'd said to David earlier that morning. His arguments had been cogent, and she
did
love him. Perhaps a few days away from London would be good for both of them. ‘But can you get time off from work?'

‘He's suggested that we come next weekend, which is, of course, Easter, with the Bank Holiday on Monday. So we could have a long weekend in Norfolk without my having to take any time off. We could drive up on Saturday morning, and come back late on Monday.'

‘Let's go,' she said simply, reaching across the table to cover his hand with hers. ‘And in the meantime, let's not talk about . . . well, you know. I think we can let it rest for a few days.'

‘Splendid.' He exhaled in a long, heartfelt sigh and twined his fingers with hers. ‘I'll ring Stephen back and tell him to expect us next Saturday.' Suddenly he grinned and pulled Lucy to her feet, leading her towards the stairs. ‘Later, that is. For now, my love, if we're not going to talk, I've got a better idea. Actions speak louder than words, anyway.'

CHAPTER 8

    
Thou hast made us a very strife unto our neighbours: and our enemies laugh us to scorn.

Psalm 80.6

It was one of Gillian English's chief faults, according to Lou: she was too trusting, too willing to take people at face value. Gill hadn't seen much of Enid Bletsoe lately, but it didn't occur to her to read anything into that other than to theorise that perhaps the novelty of having new neighbours had worn off. So when she ran into Enid in the village shop on the Saturday before Holy Week, she greeted her with unsuspecting friendliness. ‘Hello, I haven't seen you for a while,' Gill said, approaching from behind.

Enid, who had just been discussing Gill and Lou with Fred Purdy at the counter, spun round. ‘Hello,' she responded grudgingly, not wanting Fred to think that they might be on friendly terms.

‘Are you enjoying the nice weather?' Gill gestured outside to a beautiful spring day. ‘It's been marvellous this week – I've really been able to get the garden into shape and get most of my herbs planted.'

‘Yes, well.' Enid sniffed and gave Fred a significant look; they'd only just been talking about the sinister nature of Gill's business enterprise. Anxious to escape from her neighbour's unwelcome attentions, she began putting her purchases into her shopping basket. ‘And I believe I'll take a packet of chocolate biscuits, Fred,' she added deliberately. ‘The ones dear little Bryony likes so much.'

Gill's voice was mild but firm; where her daughter was concerned she was capable of taking a stand. ‘I'd really rather you didn't give her chocolate biscuits. They're not good for her, you know. I won't let her have them at home.' She smiled in an attempt to soften her words. ‘The other week when you so kindly looked after her, she came home with some in her pocket and it didn't half make a mess in the washing machine.'

‘I'm sure young Jamie never left anything in his pockets, did he?' chuckled Fred Purdy.

‘Well, at least I wasn't daft enough not to check them before I did the wash,' Enid muttered, deliberately placing the biscuits on top of her shopping.

Gill judged that it was time to change the subject and picked one that she thought would further the cause of good neighbourly relations. ‘When did you say that the Mothers' Union enrolment would take place? I want to make sure I have the date in my diary.'

The shopping basket landed back on the counter with a thump as Enid turned to stare at Gill. ‘Are you serious?' she snapped.

Taken aback, Gill gave a half-apologetic shrug. ‘Well, you did invite me to join.'

‘That was before I knew what sort of person you really were.' Enid's eyes glittered with outrage and her voice was heated. ‘When you deceived me into thinking that you were a mother, a normal mother.'

‘But I
am
a mother.'

‘A pervert,' Enid spat. ‘An evil, twisted pervert. We don't want your kind in the Mothers' Union. We don't want your kind in this village. And all I can say is that I have nothing but pity for your daughter.' Majestically she swept up her basket and stalked from the shop.

Gill arrived home empty-handed and shaking and went into the sitting room, where Bryony was watching a video and Lou was surrounded by the Saturday papers.

‘I thought you were going shopping,' observed Lou, glancing up from the newspaper. ‘Didn't you buy anything?' She looked at her partner more closely. ‘I say, angelface, are you all right? You look like you've seen a ghost.'

Taking a deep breath to compose herself, Gill remembered her daughter's presence. ‘Bryony darling, wouldn't you like to go outside and play in the garden for a bit? It's a beautiful day.'