The Snares of Death (13 page)

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The church was packed, Dexter noted with satisfaction as he waited for the procession to begin. Practically every seat was filled. It would appear that everyone in the village had come to see their new Vicar take possession of his benefice. But instead of an expectant hush, there was a buzzing like a nest of angry wasps as the congregation regarded the posters which bedecked the church. ‘Not even fit for a primary school,' Alice muttered furiously to Gwen.

Dexter wore his charcoal-grey business suit with a paler grey clerical shirt; it was not necessary, he thought, for him to show off by dressing up. But the visiting clergy of the Deanery, two abreast at the beginning of the procession, were not all so restrained. Many of the clergy associated with Walsingham had come – just to flaunt themselves in his face, he was sure – and they were in full regalia, even to their birettas. How dare they? thought Bob Dexter. But starting tomorrow, he'd show them. He'd wipe the smile off that curate Mark Judd's face.

As he passed, Dexter smiled at Becca, standing in the front row of the nave with her mother, singing the first hymn. Becca was looking exceptionally lovely tonight, he thought, with her hair loose down her back in a shining curtain. Her eyes were shining too – with pride in him, Dexter told himself. And how proud he was of her, his beautiful daughter.

He was not the only one to notice Becca that night. With Mark Judd was another young priest, Stephen Thorncroft. A friend and colleague of Mark, as one of the part-time assistants at the Shrine of Our Lady of Walsingham, Stephen Thorncroft also served as Vicar of a neighbouring parish. Although he could not begin to compete with the startling good looks with which Mark had been blessed, Stephen was a handsome young man in a scholarly sort of way, with fair hair, a long ascetic face, and a sensitive mouth; his grey eyes were intelligent behind gold-rimmed spectacles.

Stephen first saw Becca as he rose from his seat in the choir stalls to sing the Gradual hymn; in that instant he felt as if the breath had been knocked out of him entirely. Singing was out of the question, but when he finally felt able to speak, he leaned towards Mark and whispered under cover of the hymn. ‘Who is she?'

‘Who?'

Stephen inclined his head. ‘That incredible creature in the front row.'

‘Oh, that's Dexter's daughter,' Mark murmured with a smile.

‘Dexter's daughter? You're joking!'

‘No joke, my friend.'

‘But she's . . . she's . . .'

‘Quite a stunner, wouldn't you say? If you like the type.'

Stephen closed his eyes, then opened them again. She was still there. ‘Do you think I could meet her? Later, at the bun-fight?'

Mark was amused. ‘I'm sure you could. But if you're smart, you'll stay away from her. With that one, you'd get Daddy in the bargain. And I don't think you'd want that.'

Stephen sighed, a sigh of despair mingled with joy. ‘This is serious, Mark,' he whispered at last. ‘I'm in love.'

CHAPTER 14

    
My zeal hath even consumed me: because mine enemies have forgotten thy words.

Psalm 119.139

It was raining when Tuesday dawned, but a bit of spring rain was not enough to dampen Bob Dexter's enthusiasm for the task that faced him. He was up very early, and had already begun when Toby Gates arrived at the church just after nine.

Toby had not seen St Mary's, or anything quite like it, before; he looked with amazement at the statues and the candles. ‘Good morning, young man,' Bob Dexter greeted him cheerfully, peering out of the south porch.

‘Good morning, sir. This really is . . . quite something, isn't it?'

‘Isn't it? But it won't be by the end of the day, I can assure you.' Dexter joined Toby at the back of the church.

‘Whatever are you going to do with all this stuff ?'

‘Temporarily, anyway, we're going to move it all to the south porch.' He gestured towards the little room he'd just left. ‘I've been clearing it out to make room. It can all be stored in there until I'm able to dispose of it.'

‘Well, I'm ready to get to work, Reverend Dexter.'

‘Good man,' he said approvingly.

Mid-morning, Becca dashed over from the vicarage with coffee for the labourers.

‘It's really raining!' she announced, shaking the droplets from her hair. ‘I hope the coffee isn't too watered down!'

‘Becca, Princess, how thoughtful!' Dexter came to her immediately, kissed her cheek, and took a mug from the tray that she carried.

‘Hello, Becca,' Toby said with a shy smile.

‘Oh, hi, Toby. Coffee? Sugar?'

‘Yes, thanks. No, no sugar.'

Becca dropped into a pew and sipped her own coffee. ‘You've really made progress, haven't you?'

Dexter surveyed the church. All of the statues from the nave had been removed and stored. St Francis was gone, and St George, and the curious priest, as well as Our Lady of Walsingham. Gone, too, was the painting of King Charles the Martyr, and the gruesome hunting scene, and the popish picture of the Virgin standing on the crescent moon. ‘Quite an improvement for two hours' work, wouldn't you say?'

‘What else have you got to do?' Becca questioned. ‘It looks like you've just about finished.'

‘We've got to take those Stations of the Cross off the wall – that may be a bit tricky. And the English altar up in the chancel has to be dismantled. It's a good thing I've got Toby here – that's definitely a two-man job!' Dexter smiled at the tongue-tied young man, who blushed.

‘What will you put there instead?' she wanted to know.

‘For the moment, we'll leave the plain altar table there. We'll just take down the corner posts and the hangings.' Dexter looked towards the east end of the church. ‘What I'd like to do, of course, is to get a nice modern communion table for the nave. Up there, in front of the screen,' he gestured.

‘What about that statue in the chapel?' Toby asked. ‘Are we going to take that down today?'

Dexter frowned. ‘I don't think we can. It's up very high, and I haven't seen a ladder around here that's tall enough. It may have to wait for another day.'

‘And what will you do with all the things you've removed? You're not just throwing them away, are you?' asked Becca.

‘Ah! That, Princess, is how Bob Dexter plans to finance all the changes in this place!' Dexter put a hand on her shoulder. ‘There's quite a market for all this nonsense, if you know the right people. When I've sold it all, I'll be able to afford some proper carpet for this place, and a sound reinforcement system, and some new, bright lighting – maybe even a new Sunday School room in the chapel!'

‘But who will buy it? You don't know any of those people – the right people, Daddy.'

Dexter gave a short laugh. ‘But I know a man who does!' He squeezed her shoulder. ‘Last night, at the reception after the service, I had a word with that young curate chap, Mark Judd. He's not really a bad fellow, for one of that Walsingham lot. I told him what I wanted to do, and he said that he could help me to find the right buyers. Quite decent of him, really.'

‘Yes . . . I don't think the Walsingham priests are necessarily all bad, Daddy.' Becca looked thoughtful.

Dexter suddenly remembered that while he'd been talking with Mark Judd last night, Becca had been having an animated conversation with a blond young man in a cassock – another of those Walsingham priests. That wouldn't do. ‘Toby,' he said abruptly, ‘you will be staying for lunch, won't you? I'm sure that Becca will be glad of the chance for a nice chat.'

‘Why, yes, thank you, sir. My father doesn't expect me back at Gates of Heaven until this afternoon.' Toby smiled at Dexter, then at Becca. ‘And I was wondering if you would like to come out with me for a meal tomorrow evening,' he added to Becca, then turned back to Dexter. ‘That is, if it's quite all right with you, sir.'

‘Yes, of course.' Dexter nodded approvingly; the boy was quick on the uptake.

‘I'd love to, Toby,' said Becca with a smile.

For David, Monday night had been even worse than Sunday night. At least he'd had a few hours of sleep before his dream on Sunday; on Monday night sleep had eluded him entirely. He'd tossed and turned, worried and fretted in the narrow bed he'd slept in for years.

The idea came to him in the early hours of the morning – perhaps he'd get a new bed. He told himself that his sleeplessness could be cured by this simple expedient. His old bed was just knackered, that was all – a new, more comfortable one would make all the difference. And why should he replace it with another single bed, just because his mother had thought it more suitable? A double bed, with more room to spread out, would undoubtedly be much more conducive to a good night's sleep.

So David told himself. It had nothing at all to do with Lucy, or with her imminent visit. There was no chance that she'd be sharing his bed, after all. She'd never given him any indication that she was interested in him in that way. No, that wasn't quite true – once, a long time ago, she'd wanted him to stay the night with her. But he hadn't realised it, and a lot had happened between them since then: he'd asked her to marry him, and then immediately changed his mind, and she'd said that she wouldn't marry him anyway. It had taken a long time after that for their relationship to be restored, or perhaps reconstituted to the platonic friendship they now shared. No, it had nothing to do with Lucy.

Nonetheless, he felt acutely uncomfortable, and even embarrassed, when he went into the bed shop during his lunch hour on Tuesday.

The young man who served him was accommodating and helpful, but David, who had never bought a bed before, found the whole experience trying in the extreme. It was with relief that he left the shop at last, having made his choice and received assurance that delivery would be made on Wednesday evening.

CHAPTER 15

    
Them that are meek shall he guide in judgement: and such as are gentle, them shall he learn his way.

Psalm 25.8

‘Now remember, Toby, Becca is a working girl, even if she does work at home,' Bob Dexter said with a smile. ‘Not too late, please.'

‘Of course, sir. I have to work tomorrow myself.'

‘Bye, Daddy. See you later.' Becca kissed her father on the cheek.

‘I'll wait up for you. Have fun, both of you. And do drive carefully, Toby,' he added. He stood at the door and watched their departure.

‘I thought we'd go into Norwich for a meal, if that's all right with you,' Toby said, opening the car door for Becca. ‘I know a rather nice place there.'

‘Sounds great,' she smiled. ‘I haven't been to Norwich yet.'

‘It's a vegetarian restaurant. I hope that's okay.'

‘Yes, of course. I didn't know that you were a vegetarian, Toby.'

‘I'm not, not really. But . . . well, it's just one of the things that's been bothering me lately. Eating meat, I mean. Cruelty. Cruelty to animals, cruelty to each other. There's too much of it in this world, Becca.'

‘Why don't you tell me what's been bothering you? I'm a good listener,' Becca invited.

‘Do you mean it, Becca? I
would
like to talk.' His look of gratitude startled her with its intensity.

‘Of course.'

‘Somehow I feel that you'll understand.'

So the journey into Norwich went by quickly, with a great deal of earnest conversation. The Green Scene lived up to its name; it looked like a small forest, with its green-painted walls and myriad plants in hanging baskets dangling over the diners' heads. The tables and chairs were varnished pine, simple and blocky, and there were no tablecloths.

Toby led Becca to a table in the corner; the laminated menus were on the table. ‘It's not licensed,' he apologised. ‘So we can't have any wine.'

‘Oh, that's all right. We never have it at home. Daddy doesn't really believe in drinking, you know. I'm surprised that you do.'

Toby flushed guiltily. ‘My father doesn't believe in it at all, of course – you know how strict he is. But once in a while, when I'm not with him . . . Well, I don't think a little glass of wine every now and then will do you any harm,' he finished defensively.

‘No, I'm sure it won't,' she soothed.

‘Mineral water, then?'

‘Yes, that's fine, Toby.'

The waitress, dressed in a ‘Green Scene' T-shirt and jeans, appeared to take their order. She regarded them fiercely through round horn-rimmed spectacles beneath a straight fringe of brown hair. ‘What would you like?'

‘Mineral water for now. I'm afraid we haven't had a chance to look at the menu,' Toby apologised. ‘If you could give us a few more minutes . . .'

‘All right,' she said ungraciously, stalking away.

Becca smiled, amused, and picked up the menu. ‘What do you recommend?'

‘The ratatouille pancakes are good. And I've had the bulgar chilli – that's nice, if you like something a bit more spicy.'

The waitress returned with a bottle of mineral water and two glasses. ‘Have you decided yet?'

Toby looked across the table. ‘Becca?'

‘Um . . . Oh, I think I'll have the ratatouille pancakes.'

‘Make that two,' Toby added.

‘Right,' said the waitress. ‘With salad?'

‘Yes, please.' When she'd departed, Toby sat tense for a moment, then settled back in his chair. ‘Anyway, Becca, as I was saying . . .'

The waitress returned. ‘We're out of pancakes,' she announced. She folded her arms across her thin body and peered out from under her fringe. ‘So what would you like?'

Becca looked again at the menu. ‘Oh, I don't know. Nut cutlets?'