Evil Angels Among Them (20 page)

‘Oh, you're terrible, you are.' She leaned against him and looked up into his eyes; neither of them even noticed when the other two left.

‘My car is in the car park,' said David at the door of the Crown and Mitre.

‘I can walk – I live just the other side of the village,' Lisa explained, still refusing to look at him.

‘I'll walk with you, to make sure you get home safely.'

‘You don't need to bother – nothing will happen to me in Nether Walston,' said Lisa, with her first smile of the evening. Afraid that perhaps he might find her ungracious, she added, ‘It's very kind of you, I'm sure.'

‘Not at all.'

They walked through the village in silence till she stopped at the door of a small, modern terraced cottage. ‘Here,' she said. ‘This is home. Thank you very much, Mr . . .' Her voice faded away as she opened the door and stepped inside.

David stood for a moment, bemused, looking at the door. Behind it he could hear a woman's voice raised in anger and the wail of a baby. Shaking himself out of his reverie, he went back through Nether Walston to retrieve his car.

Meanwhile, at The Pines, Enid Bletsoe was entertaining her sister and brother-in-law to supper. It was part of a long-standing arrangement, enshrined in tradition, whereby they reciprocated supper visits on a weekly basis, routinely and without any particular enjoyment on either side. At one time there had been a bit of culinary rivalry between the sisters, and they had tried to outdo each other with tasty concoctions, but that was far in the past: the meals had long since sunk into a sort of samey mediocrity, featuring whatever Fred had on hand in the shop and was easiest to prepare.

This evening, though, Enid was very glad that it was her turn. The comings and goings at Foxglove Cottage over the last couple of days had been of intense interest to her, and she would have hated to have gone out that night, when even yet something exciting might happen across the road. And it certainly provided a more than adequate subject for conversation.

Fortunately the menu – sausages and mash, with mandarin Angel Delight for afters – hadn't required Enid's presence in the kitchen for very long during the day, and she'd managed to keep a close eye on Foxglove Cottage. ‘That friend of the Rector's was there this afternoon,' she told Doris avidly. ‘Remember – the one who was visiting from London at Easter, with Lucy Kingsley, the artist?'

Doris nodded, more interested in Lucy than in David. ‘She had such pretty ginger hair.'

‘The actual term is “strawberry blonde”,' Enid corrected her, pursing her lips in a superior way.

‘Whatever. You don't think that colour could be natural, do you?' Unconsciously, Doris's hand went to her own dyed hair.

Enid sniffed. ‘I don't see why not. Some of us don't see the need to tamper with Mother Nature.' She took a sip of her bitter lemon, looking pointedly over the rim of her glass at her sister's hair.

There was no reply to that, nothing to be done but to shift the subject. ‘Was she with him? When he was across the road this afternoon, I mean?'

‘No,' Enid admitted. ‘But I wonder what he was doing there. I know he went to that lunch at Foxglove Cottage at Easter, but . . .'

Doris interrupted her. ‘He's from London, isn't he? And those women came from London, too. So maybe they know each other from London.'

‘London isn't like Walston, Doris,' her sister said with triumphant scorn. ‘It's just a bit bigger. Not everybody in London knows each other.'

‘But didn't someone tell me that he was a lawyer?' recalled Doris, ignoring her sister's tone. ‘Maybe that's why he was there.'

‘Of course!' Enid crowed. ‘If anyone needs a lawyer, it's that woman. I mean, it's just lucky for her that they don't hang people any longer. You can depend on it – that's why he was there.'

Ernest had been silent up to this point, concentrating on his sausages and mash. He was far less interested in the comings and goings at Foxglove Cottage than he was in the death that had brought it all about, and the consequences of that death. He took a breath and jumped into the pause in the conversation. ‘What I'd like to know is what the Rector is going to do about the vacancy.'

‘Vacancy?' Enid echoed, not following him.

‘Churchwarden,' he stated succinctly. ‘It's my understanding that the Rector can call a special parish meeting to fill the vacancy, or he can make do with one warden and wait until next year's Easter Vestry.'

Enid understood what he was getting at; on Sunday he had rushed to fill the vacant seat once more. ‘I suppose you'd like it if he waited a year,' she said in a snide tone. ‘Then you can play at being churchwarden again.'

He refused to be drawn. ‘Trouble is,' he went on as if she hadn't spoken, ‘I can't think of anyone suitable. And you know how the Rector relies on me to find the right person.'

‘Of course, there's always Roger Staines,' Enid continued, ignoring him as he'd ignored her. ‘There's no reason why he couldn't do the ceremonial parts of the job – fill in on a Sunday, carry the wand and so forth.'

‘But Roger Staines is ill!' Doris reminded her sharply. ‘He had a heart attack, remember? He's under doctor's orders!'

‘Yes . . .' Enid's eyes glittered as she turned to her sister, her malicious needling forgotten. ‘He
did
have a heart attack, didn't he? I just suddenly thought – what if she poisoned him as well? What if his heart attack was nothing more or less than digitalis poisoning, but the first time she didn't get the dosage right? What if Roger Staines had a lucky escape from that witch at Foxglove Cottage?'

CHAPTER 16

    
That thou mayest take the matter into thy hand: the poor committeth himself unto thee; for thou art the helper of the friendless.

Psalm 10.16

Breakfast at the Rectory the next morning, Saturday, was a somewhat dispirited affair; Stephen was already up and gone, Becca was silently miserable, and David and Lucy, who had talked late into the night in the privacy of their room – not entirely harmoniously – were tired.

‘You haven't talked to Stephen, then,' said Lucy, as a statement rather than a question.

‘Not yet – I thought about it, but I just couldn't.' Becca stirred her cornflakes with a defensive frown. ‘I will, though. Soon.'

‘You must,' Lucy reiterated firmly. ‘It will be difficult to tell him, but things will be better when you have.'

David helped himself to another cup of coffee. ‘You can do something for
me
, Becca,' he said.

She gave him an enquiring look.

‘It's Gill,' he explained. ‘I have the strongest feeling that she's keeping something back from me. And until I know everything, I feel that I'm operating in the dark. Could you talk to her and see if you can find out anything?'

‘Yes, all right.' Becca was glad to have a specific task, something that would take her mind off her own dilemma and enable her to feel useful. ‘I'll go this morning, if you like.'

‘I'd appreciate it. And while you're doing that, Lucy and I will have a little nose around Walston – see if we can unearth any village gossip.'

‘The village shop is always good,' Becca suggested. ‘And someone will be doing the flowers in church, of course.'

David and Lucy had gone when the phone rang. Becca looked at it with a feeling of sick loathing, but picked it up nevertheless, knowing from long experience that there was no escape.

‘Hello, Becca – it's Gill,' said a voice that was not the one Becca had expected. ‘Could I speak to David, please?'

‘He's not here – he's gone out for a bit. Can I give him a message?'

Gill sighed. ‘I thought he ought to know – that policeman has just been here. Without any warning, he just showed up on the doorstep.'

‘And what happened?'

‘Lou sent him away with a flea in his ear.' Gill gave a dry laugh. ‘But that doesn't mean he won't come back, and I'd feel better about it if David were here. Could you tell him?'

Becca made a quick decision. ‘I'll come,' she said. ‘I know I won't be much help if the policeman comes back, but I need to talk to you. I'll leave a note for David, telling him to come as soon as he gets back.'

‘Let's stop in the church first,' David suggested to Lucy as they left the Rectory.

‘All right.' She didn't sound very enthusiastic.

There was a slight but palpable air of awkwardness between them that morning, following their discussion of the night before. David had not responded to Lucy's revelations about Becca's tribulations in quite the way she anticipated: he had felt that perhaps Becca was overreacting to what was after all not a very uncommon occurrence. ‘Don't you think she's being just a bit . . . wet . . . about the whole thing?' he'd suggested.

Lucy's reaction had been anger on Becca's behalf. ‘Now you sound just like a man,' she'd accused. ‘You just have no idea how traumatic something like that can be for a woman, especially one as young as Becca, and one who has led the sort of sheltered life she has. Don't forget, David, her father insulated her from anything resembling real life. And Stephen hasn't exactly encouraged her to grow up either.'

‘So it's all the fault of men,' he'd snapped back uncharacteristically. In the end he'd apologised for his insensitivity, had promised to bend over backwards to be understanding and they'd kissed and made up in a rather satisfying way. But the memory of their disagreement lingered.

‘Sorry about last night,' he said awkwardly as they walked towards the church.

Lucy turned to him and smiled in a conciliatory way. ‘Me too, darling. I didn't mean to jump down your throat like that. And I appreciate what you said to Becca this morning – it's good of you to try to get her involved and make her feel useful.'

Gratified, David returned her smile; it was going to be all right after all.

They went in through the west door. As Becca had predicted, the church was not empty: Marjorie Talbot-Shaw was in the chancel, poking stripy pink tulips into a pedestal arrangement. After each addition she stepped back, removed her glasses and allowed them to fall to her ample chest where they hung suspended by a gold chain, viewed the overall effect, then replaced her glasses and moved closer to add yet another tulip.

‘Very nice,' said David, moving into the chancel.

‘Oh!' She turned and peered at them over her glasses. ‘You startled me – I didn't hear you come in.'

‘Sorry,' David offered with his most ingratiating smile. ‘I always think that this is one of the nicest times of the year to do flowers,' he added. ‘Those tulips are lovely – where did you get them?'

Marjorie began to thaw visibly. ‘From my garden. They
are
rather nice, aren't they?' She removed her glasses and prepared for a chat.

With her imposing height and the dramatic streak of silver in her dark hair, she was a memorable woman. ‘We've met before, I believe,' said Lucy. ‘At Easter. You were doing the flowers then as well, on Holy Saturday.'

‘Yes, of course.' Marjorie scrutinised them. ‘Friends of the Thorncrofts, aren't you?'

‘That's right,' Lucy confirmed, adding unnecessarily, ‘we've come back for another visit.'

‘I see.' Marjorie thought for a moment, then said, ‘You seem sensible people. Perhaps you'll be able to sort that young woman out. She's got a great deal to learn about being a Rector's wife, I'm afraid.'

‘Becca? What do you mean?'

Marjorie contemplated her flower arrangement. ‘Very standoffish, for one thing. Doesn't make any effort to become involved with things at church – things like the Mothers' Union and flower arranging. She doesn't entertain at all to speak of, except for her own little circle of friends, including those women at Foxglove Cottage, and that just won't do. A Rector's wife should set an example for the parish in her involvement with the church as well as her hospitality. And this idea that she has about having a job – well!' She turned away from the flowers and faced Lucy. ‘I'm not being critical, mind you. I'm just trying to help. The girl is very young, and needs taking in hand. But she won't listen to anyone in the parish. Perhaps she'll listen to you.'

Lucy was astonished and didn't know what to say. But David, shrewdly, understood. ‘You are – were – a rector's wife, then?' he guessed.

‘Yes, indeed.' She smiled. ‘My dear late husband Godfrey spent all his life in the service of the Church of England. And I like to think that I was a worthy helpmeet for him. I ran the Sunday School, sang in the choir, helped with the flowers, and, of course, was involved in the Mothers' Union. And the amount of entertaining I did! My dinner parties were famous throughout Shropshire.'

‘Shropshire!' Lucy exclaimed. ‘But I grew up in Shropshire. My father had a parish near Ludlow. John Kingsley – do you know him?'

Marjorie frowned. ‘No, I don't believe so. Though perhaps the name sounds familiar.'

They were interrupted at that moment by the approach of the Rector, who had spotted David and Lucy in the chancel. ‘Sorry to bother you,' he said, ‘but I wondered if you were going back to the Rectory soon?'

David turned to look at him; Stephen, like Becca, was looking much worse since their last visit. His cheeks had hollows that hadn't been there before and there were tiny lines around his eyes. His smile was strained, as though it required a great effort to produce. Before Lucy's illuminating talk with Becca, David and Lucy had attributed it to the problems within the parish; now they knew better. ‘We could be,' David said, willing to make a special trip if necessary.

‘I wondered, then, if you could tell Becca that I'll be home for lunch, around one. I didn't see her this morning,' he added. Stephen had in fact seen his wife increasingly little over the past several weeks: being around her was just too painful, and it was easier for his peace of mind to stay away from home. Concerns about his parish – even the death of a churchwarden – had paled into insignificance amidst the horror of his crumbling marriage. Becca wouldn't talk to him, wouldn't let him touch her – could scarcely bear to have him in the same room, it seemed. What had happened to the lovely and loving young woman he had married only a few months ago? At the bottom of his agony was the fear that it had something to do with him – that somehow he was responsible for killing her love and her spirit. He couldn't ask her what was wrong for dread of what she might tell him.