Evil Angels Among Them (14 page)

‘Theoretically he could do,' David explained. ‘But the person he wants as warden has indicated that he won't accept under those circumstances. Fair enough – I suppose the man feels he doesn't want to stand if he doesn't have the backing of the congregation. So that makes the election pretty much a foregone conclusion.'

Lucy got up and went to stand beside him. ‘And doesn't Stephen like the other person who's standing?'

‘It's not that he doesn't like her – I don't think he has anything against her. But he feels that she's an unknown quantity, that he doesn't know her well enough to get her measure. And he very much resents having the matter taken out of his hands by an interfering parishioner.'

‘I met the one warden today,' Lucy told him. ‘At the village shop with Becca. Fred Purdy, the one who wants to stop paying the Quota.'

‘And?'

‘He seemed a complete prat to me – he couldn't stop laughing at his own jokes. I wasn't impressed,' she admitted. ‘I would have said he was harmless, but evidently not. At least not when it comes to the Quota.'

‘He's been warden for years, according to Stephen. And his word carries a lot of weight in the parish.'

‘At the risk of sounding politically incorrect, “weight” is a good operative word when it comes to Mr Purdy,' Lucy said with a wry smile. ‘He's a bit on the tubby side. And he looks like a garden gnome.'

David laughed, a spontaneous laugh of amusement; it seemed to him that it was the first time he'd laughed in weeks. A sensation of well-being enveloped him; for no particular reason, he suddenly felt that things were going to be all right, at least as far as he and Lucy were concerned. He took her hand. ‘I love you, Lucy,' he said quietly. ‘So very much.'

Her reply was so soft that he held his breath, straining to hear. ‘Yes, I know.' She gave his hand a squeeze. ‘But I'm not used to it yet – I need more time. I just hope you can bear with me for a bit longer.'

He exhaled his breath on a sigh, somewhere between relief and disappointment. ‘Take as long as you need, my love. I'll be here.'

CHAPTER 10

    
I labour for peace, but when I speak unto them thereof: they make them ready to battle.

Psalm 120.6

Easter Sunday dawned as brilliantly sunny and cloudless as the previous day and there was a full congregation at St Michael's to celebrate the Resurrection, the most joyful and important festival of the church year; many of them had brought out their spring best, and the dark garb of winter had given way to pastel dresses and even an occasional hat.

In recent weeks there had been a subtle reshuffling of the seating arrangements at St Michael's, reflecting the polarisation of the congregation. Gillian English and Lou Sutherland, along with Bryony, usually sat on the south side, and Becca Thorncroft sat with them. In consequence, those who disapproved of the women – and their number was substantial – had shifted to sitting on the north side, as if afraid of contamination.

The exception to this was Ernest Wrightman, who was genuinely torn between his desire to support his wife and all right-thinking members of the congregation, and the irresistible opportunity to fill, if only for a brief time, the vacant churchwarden's seat on the south side. Roger Staines had not yet come back to church, so the seat was there for the taking, and it seemed only right that its temporary occupant should be a man who had served faithfully as warden for many years. In the end his desire to sit in that seat and to carry the wand again had won over other considerations, and Ernest Wrightman was the sole hostile presence on the south side of St Michael's.

Unfortunately for Ernest, on this Easter Sunday Roger Staines had made an effort to come to church. Preparing himself to his customary standard of sartorial splendour after weeks of relative inactivity had taken rather longer than he'd anticipated, and he arrived a few minutes before the service was to begin, to find Ernest ensconced in his seat, churchwarden's wand firmly in his hand.

‘Oh, excuse me,' Roger said in a mild, surprised voice.

Ernest turned; his gingery eyebrows drew together in alarm. ‘I wasn't expecting to see
you
here,' he growled aggressively.

Happily Roger apprehended at once what was happening. He would have quite liked to have sat in the churchwarden's seat for one last time, thus fulfilling his term of office, but it wasn't worth an embarrassing scene. ‘No problem, my dear chap,' he said gracefully. ‘Carry on.' With a wave of his hand he moved forward and took a seat behind Gill and Lou.

The service was followed by an event which emphasised the polarity of the congregation: a grand Easter luncheon party at Foxglove Cottage, to which Gill and Lou had invited Stephen and Becca, along with their weekend guests, as well as Cyprian Lawrence and Roger Staines, whom they had met through Becca. After some thought, and in a spirit of solidarity, they had also included the Mansfields, though they scarcely knew them; Ernest Wrightman's treatment of Quentin Mansfield's candidacy for churchwarden qualified them as outcasts of the congregation. Stephen had been a bit reluctant to accept the invitation, pointing out with some justification that the Rector shouldn't be seen to be siding with one faction over another, but Becca had replied, unarguably, that no one else had invited them.

Seating that many people round the dining-room table was out of the question, so Gill had produced an impressive buffet, with the added advantage of allowing their guests to circulate freely during the meal.

The party was a great success, everyone agreed. The food was excellent and the company congenial. David and Lucy found it interesting as a way of getting to know a few more of Stephen's congregation, and from them to glean information about the others. While Lucy had a long chat about music with the organist, David enjoyed talking to Roger; it was rare, in his experience, to find a person whose interest in things of the past was as great as his own. Roger filled him in on the finer points of the history of Walston, eventually moving on to the present.

‘I saw what happened this morning,' David commented. ‘When you came in.'

Roger grimaced. ‘Ernest, you mean.'

‘What was that all about?'

‘It seems that Ernest has rather enjoyed being the surrogate churchwarden while I've been ill. I decided it wasn't worth making a scene over.' His smile was not unkind. ‘Ernest means well, I think. And I'm not about to disparage the work he's done for the church over the years, but he's pompous, self-important and more than a bit tedious. I find him difficult going.'

‘Sounds a charming fellow,' remarked David ironically. ‘What a shame I haven't had the pleasure of his acquaintance.'

‘Quite.' Roger raised his eyebrows. ‘But tedious as he is, I don't think he's as dangerous as Fred Purdy. I don't mind telling you this business about the Quota has got me worried.'

Stephen wasn't very good company for anyone on Monday as he prepared himself for that evening's meeting. In the afternoon he shut himself in his study to think and pray about his response to his congregation's intransigence. The Annual Parochial Church Meeting, much as he dreaded it, would provide him with a forum to address his parishioners in a way that had not been appropriate or possible during Holy Week and Easter. It was customary, during the APCM, for the Rector to speak at some length, reviewing the past year, assessing the present and looking forward to the future. This, Stephen realised, was his opportunity to articulate some painful truths.

They wouldn't be expecting it, he knew; he'd been through the minutes of past APCMs, and it seemed that Father Fuller's annual talks had always been of a positive nature, congratulating the parish on making it through another year and predicting continued prosperity and maintenance of the status quo. Since this was Stephen's first such meeting, they would be expecting nothing short of gratitude at his good fortune in being granted the living of Walston and praise for their role in making him welcome in their midst. They would get something quite different, he resolved, reaching for his Bible. Perhaps he couldn't do anything to stop them doing what they pleased, but at least he could give them something to think about.

As evening drew in, they all gathered for the meeting in a corner of the nave which Harry Gaze had prepared in advance with chairs arranged in a semicircle around a table where the Rector presided. The meeting was, legally, two meetings. The first, open to anyone resident in the parish whether they ever attended church or not, was the Vestry meeting for the election of churchwardens; the second, limited to those on the electoral roll, was the APCM. In practice, of course, the two meetings flowed together seamlessly.

The Vestry meeting went very much according to expectation. After the necessary preliminaries, nominations for the office of churchwarden were called for and Ernest Wrightman got to his feet with alacrity. ‘Mr Chairman,' he boomed pompously, ‘I nominate Mr Alfred Purdy and Miss Flora Newall.'

There were no other nominations, and the candidates were declared elected. After the frenzied goings-on of the past weeks, it was almost disappointingly anticlimactic, thought Becca in her front-row seat.

But even she was not prepared for what followed. The technicalities of the minutes and the electoral roll report out of the way, Stephen rose to his feet. He took his time, looking over the assembled parishioners with unsmiling gravity.

‘I understand,' he began at last, ‘that it is the custom for the Rector to spend just a few minutes reviewing the past year and looking forward to the next one.' There were a few confirmatory nods. ‘And I'm sure you haven't come here to listen to a sermon from me.'

‘Too right,' Fred Purdy whispered to Ernest Wrightman with a quiet chuckle and an elbow in the ribs. ‘We get enough of those on Sunday, don't we?'

‘But I'd like to read you a few of Our Lord's words.' Stephen picked up his Bible from the table and opened it to the marker he'd placed earlier. ‘From the Gospel according to St Matthew, Chapter Seven. The Sermon on the Mount. “Ye shall know them by their fruits. Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles? Even so every good tree bringeth forth good fruit; but a corrupt tree bringeth forth evil fruit. A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit, neither can a corrupt tree bring forth good fruit. Every tree that bringeth not forth good fruit is hewn down, and cast into the fire. Wherefore by their fruits ye shall know them.”'

In the dim light of the nave he could see the puzzlement on the faces of his congregation, but at least he had their attention. ‘Since I came here to Walston last autumn, I've heard of nothing but Father Fuller. You've all told me what a fine priest he was, how compassionate and caring, how much time he spent in prayer and meditation.' There were nods of agreement. ‘You've told me how privileged I am to follow in the footsteps of a man like Father Fuller.' More nods.

Stephen paused, then slammed his Bible shut with an abrupt ferocity that made his listeners jump. ‘But look at you!' he said, his voice quiet but intense. ‘Since I've been here I've seen scant evidence of Christian charity, of even basic human kindness. This parish is a cesspit of sin. Squabbling, jockeying for position, backbiting. What would Our Lord think of such shameful behaviour? What would Father Fuller think?'

The restrained passion of his tone gave his words an impact that shouting could not have achieved; puzzlement gave way to shock. But the ultimate reaction was one which Stephen had not anticipated. He was prepared for defensiveness and resentment, for arms folded across chests and for eyes staring back at him defiantly or even cast down in penitence. Instead, though, eyes swivelled around to look at their neighbours. Doris looked at Enid, while Enid, hearing only the part about sin, stared at Gill and Lou. Ernest scowled at Quentin Mansfield, then at Cyprian Lawrence. Becca flushed and looked down at her clasped hands, then cast a quick glance over her shoulder at the men of the congregation, hoping in vain to catch a guilty look on someone's face.

Nonplussed but determined to persevere, Stephen amplified his theme. ‘The fruits of Father Fuller's long ministry here are not very healthy. Not least of them seems to be a widespread lack of understanding of our role as part of the Church of England. We at St Michael's are not some congregationalist sect – we're a part of the national Church, and have been for centuries. Don't we owe something to that Church which has nurtured us for so long? Don't we owe her our loyalty, our support? In these difficult times . . .' He was interrupted by a loud metallic crashing noise sounding almost like a car smash, but it came from within the church and reverberated deafeningly through the stone building.

‘Oh!' Harry Gaze was up, and moving more quickly than anyone had seen him move for years, towards the chapel. Everyone else sat as if frozen; the noise still echoed as Harry scuttled back, his face a picture of horror. ‘Father!' he gasped, addressing Stephen in a portentous, awe-struck voice. ‘It's happened! The armour's come down!' He collapsed into the nearest chair, clutching his chest. ‘It's a sign, Father. We're wholly in for it now!'

CHAPTER 11

    
For he shall give his angels charge over thee: to keep thee in all thy ways.

Psalm 91.11

The beginning of Flora Newall's career as churchwarden was as eventful as the run-up had been, as she found that her popularity had increased even further. During her first week in office, even before her swearing-in by the Archdeacon, she met with Ernest Wrightman, who lost no time in letting her know what was expected of her as warden, and with Fred Purdy, still determined to carry on with his plans, while other parishioners stopped her in the street to put forth their own agendas.