The Snares of Death (2 page)

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank everyone at Marylebone House, especially editor Alison Barr, for giving this book a new lease of life. Retrospectively, I offer my deep gratitude to my incomparable editor, the late Sara Ann Freed of Mysterious Press/Warner Books. I would also like to thank MJO; my debt to him is beyond words.

Author's note

As in
A Drink of Deadly Wine
, certain ecclesiastical liberties have been taken. St Mary the Virgin, South Barsham, is a product of my imagination (as is the village itself). Wymondham Abbey, though, and the town of Wymondham, are quite real. And, improbable as it may seem, Walsingham and its Shrine do exist, and largely as I have depicted them. I do hope, though, that the Guardians of the Shrine of Our Lady of Walsingham will forgive me a bit of artistic licence, particularly in the descriptions of the College.

Dramatis personae

Also assorted Evangelicals and Anglo-Catholics, in large numbers!

Part 1

CHAPTER 1

    
Lift up your heads, O ye gates, and be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors: and the King of glory shall come in.

Psalm 24.7

On a chill February morning, less than three months before he was to die, the Reverend Robert Dexter packed his suitcase for a weekend trip. ‘Elayne!' he shouted. ‘Where are my clean shirts?'

There was no reply. ‘Elayne!' he repeated, his voice rising in irritation.

After a moment a young woman came to his bedroom door. ‘I don't think she's here, Daddy.'

Dexter's face softened but his voice retained its annoyed edge. ‘Where is she, for heaven's sake? Doesn't your mother realise that we're leaving in a few minutes? And she promised me that those shirts would be ironed . . .'

Rebecca Dexter smiled at her father. ‘I've ironed them for you, Daddy. Shall I bring them up?'

Returning her smile, Dexter shrugged off his residual anger. ‘Thank you, Princess. Have you packed?'

‘Yes, I'm ready to go. And I've been through your morning post – there's nothing that won't keep until Monday.'

The front door closed quietly, but Bob Dexter heard the click of the latch and followed his daughter on to the landing. ‘Elayne! Is that you?' he demanded, his frown returning.

The face that Elayne Dexter raised was startled. ‘Oh, Bob!'

‘Where have you been?' he scowled furiously. ‘Don't you realise that it's time to leave? The London traffic . . .'

‘I'm sorry, Bob.' Her voice was conciliatory but she was unable to meet his eyes.

‘Where have you been?' Dexter repeated.

‘I . . .' Elayne hesitated fractionally, then went on. ‘I popped down to the newsagent. To cancel the papers for the weekend.' She held her breath: would he believe her?

Losing interest, he turned away. ‘Oh, very well. But you should have done it yesterday. There really is no time to waste today.' He paused at the bedroom door to add, deliberately, ‘At least Becca has ironed my shirts for me.'

Elayne flushed. ‘Yes.'

‘Come on, then. I hope you've packed. When Bob Dexter says he'll be somewhere at three o'clock . . .'

‘Yes, Bob.' And Elayne hurried upstairs to change her shoes. There could be trouble if Bob were to notice her wet feet; the pavement between the vicarage and the newsagent's was perfectly dry.

Several hours later, his wife and daughter settled into their hotel, the Reverend Robert Dexter pulled into the car park of the Gates of Heaven Printing Company. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard and nodded in satisfaction: three o'clock. Just on time. He left his overcoat in the car, for although it was very cold, the walk from the car park to the building's entrance was a short one. The building was quite new, and purpose-built; the glass doors, etched with full-sized representations of the Pearly Gates, slid apart quietly at his approach.

The receptionist just inside the door recognised him, as well she should. Noah Gates, of course, employed only born-again Christians at Gates of Heaven. ‘Good afternoon, Reverend Dexter,' she said with an admiring smile. He recognised her admiration and was glad he'd left his overcoat behind. Without it, he knew that he cut a very impressive figure in his charcoal-grey suit and pale blue clerical shirt with the wide expanse of dog collar. ‘They're in the boardroom – I believe you know the way.' Bob Dexter returned her smile with a confirming nod and pressed the button to call the lift. The boardroom was on the top floor, a glassed-in box in a position to command the best views of Fakenham and the surrounding Norfolk countryside. As Bob Dexter entered the room he was conscious of the atmosphere of anticipation; it was as though they had been waiting for him, and he felt it was right that it should be so.

Noah Gates, naturally, was seated at the head of the oval table. He didn't rise, but gestured towards the empty seat at his left hand. ‘Hello, Bob. I believe that you know everyone here.' Bob Dexter looked around the table at the faces and nodded. ‘And you remember my son Toby.'

‘Yes, of course. How are you, Toby?' He reached across the table and gripped the hand of the young man sitting opposite, on his father's right. The young man's handshake was a bit weak, Dexter thought, but from what he knew of him he was a good lad.

‘Very well, thank you, Reverend Dexter. And you?'

‘Just fine. Just fine.' He shifted his attention around the table, acknowledging the greetings of the half-dozen or so men who were gathered there. They all looked very much alike, clean-cut and well-scrubbed and wholesome, with an air of having bathed in Harpic, and he was hard put to remember all of their names.

The preliminaries out of the way, Bob Dexter took his seat and looked at the man at the head of the table. Gates sat silently for a moment, fixing the men one after another with his stare, his eyes like small flinty black pebbles in an impassive face. The man's appearance was as uncompromising as his manner; short and compact in stature, he had dark hair untouched by grey, made even darker by the hair oil with which it was slicked straight back from his forehead. His colour was high and choleric, and the small pursed mouth was set above a pugnacious jaw. Noah Gates was clearly a man who meant business, all the time and in every way.

Several years ago Herbert N. Gates had been just a successful Norfolk businessman, founder of the Gates Printing Company of Fakenham. But at his sudden and enthusiastic conversion to Christianity, both he and his company had been re-christened: he became Noah Gates, and his company Gates of Heaven. And the focus of the company had changed. Most of his money had been made from printing salacious magazines – not actually pornographic, he was quick to explain, though the distinction was not always immediately evident, especially to those untutored in such things. Now, however, Gates of Heaven was dedicated to the furtherance of the Word of God, and though its profits were not so great as they had been, Noah Gates counted himself a happy man, and a blessed one.

Gates cleared his throat. ‘There will be plenty of time for chit-chat later over coffee,' he began. ‘But now that we're all here, we'd better make a start.' He picked up a pencil, brand new and sharpened to a precise point, and drew a circle on the pad of paper in front of him. ‘This is a cancer,' he announced. ‘Here, on our very doorstep. I don't need to tell any of you gentlemen what this cancer is, or what its source is.' He looked around again, then back at the paper; with a sudden movement he stabbed the pencil into the middle of the circle. ‘WALSINGHAM!' he thundered. ‘The Whore of Babylon!'

Toby Gates jumped slightly; Bob Dexter glanced across the table at him almost pityingly.

‘We all agree, gentlemen, that this cancer must be stopped. We've all worked together on this in the past, the last few years at their National Pilgrimage.' His voice was calmer now. ‘But now is the time for a really concerted effort. We must mobilise our forces. We must concentrate, this year, on wiping out this abomination once and for all!'

He stared at them challengingly but no one spoke. ‘You might ask how this can be accomplished. It may seem a difficult task, even an impossible one. Idolatry has survived – has flourished – in that detestable place for hundreds of years. But I believe – ' he paused impressively. ‘I believe that we are instruments of God's will in this matter, and I have asked Him for guidance.' Again he paused. ‘God has spoken to me. Through the Holy Spirit, and through His Holy Word, He has spoken.' Noah Gates closed his eyes and quoted, softly at first but swelling to a climax and then finishing on a whisper, ‘ “Their idols are silver and gold: even the work of men's hands.

‘ “They have mouths, and speak not: eyes have they, and see not.

‘ “They have ears, and hear not; feet have they, and walk not: neither speak they through their throat.

‘ “They that make them are like unto them: and so are all such as put their trust in them.

‘ “But thou, house of Israel, trust thou in the Lord: he is their succour and defence.

‘ “Ye house of Aaron, put your trust in the Lord: he is their helper and defender.

‘ “Ye that fear the Lord, put your trust in the Lord: he is their helper and defender.

‘ “The Lord hath been mindful of us, and he shall bless us: even he shall bless the house of Israel, he shall bless the house of Aaron.

‘ “He shall bless them that fear the Lord: both small and great.”

‘God will be with us,' he finished. ‘We cannot fail.'

At last someone spoke; it was one of the men at the far end of the table. ‘But how, Noah? What can we do differently? We've tried for years – we've tried talking to them, we've tried reason, we've shown them the Holy Scriptures, but they've hardened their hearts.'

Another added, ‘It's true, Noah. They don't listen. Last year at the National Pilgrimage I spoke to so many of them. They wouldn't even take our tracts! They just shook their rosaries in our faces!'

‘O ye of little faith!' Gates said, sorrowfully. ‘I tell you, God will be with us.' He stood, turned dramatically and unfurled a banner on the wall behind him. In letters several feet high on a background of fluorescent orange it proclaimed ‘MISSION: Walsingham'. Pointing to the letters one by one, he intoned, ‘ “Mary, Idols, Saints: Stamp It Out Now!” This is our new battle cry!'

Toby looked down at the table, saying nothing. When his father had outlined his plan to him several days ago, he had protested, ‘But it's ungrammatical! Surely it should be “stamp
them
out now”?' His father's scorn had been withering: ‘Who cares about grammar when people's immortal souls are at stake?' So now he held his tongue.

There were nods of assent around the table. The first man spoke again. ‘You're right, of course,' he said. ‘We must concentrate on the National Pilgrimage at the end of May. Ten thousand or more misguided Anglo-Catholics, all together at once! That gives us three months to make our preparations. If only we could get hold of a copy of their programme well ahead of time, find out what they're going to do, and plan some counter-strategy . . .'

‘Misguided? They're not misguided! They've deliberately chosen the path of idolatry,' Gates snapped. ‘And unless they repent, God will punish them for it.'

Bob Dexter had been uncharacteristically silent throughout the meeting. At last he spoke, and his rich, compelling baritone voice filled the room. ‘It's not just the National Pilgrimage, though,' he said. ‘That only happens once each year. Walsingham is there three hundred and sixty-five days a year, an affront to all those who love the Lord.' His pale blue eyes made contact with each of the men around the table before he continued. ‘God has called upon Bob Dexter to make a personal sacrifice, to help to drive a stake through the heart of that popish abomination.' All eyes were now on him as he made his announcement. ‘I have informed the PCC of my church in Richmond that Bob Dexter has accepted an invitation to become the Vicar of' – and his lip curled at the name – ‘St Mary the Virgin, South Barsham, just a few miles from here, and even fewer miles from Walsingham. It is a church of long-standing popish inclinations. I will change that, and then . . .'

‘Praise the Lord,' whispered Noah Gates fervently. But his eyes were hard, and speculative.

Tea and biscuits were served at last, and one by one the men circulated around to Bob Dexter, to offer their congratulations on his anticipated move. ‘No, I haven't been there yet,' he replied to a question. ‘I shall visit it this weekend, while I'm in the neighbourhood. And I'll be instituted right after Easter.'

‘How did you get the job?'

He smiled modestly, drawing himself up to his full height. Bob Dexter was a tall, imposing man, still handsome at nearly fifty, with wavy ash-blonde hair springing crisply from a high, domed forehead. ‘The former incumbent had been there for over thirty years. This time the appointment was the turn of the Martyrs' Memorial Trust. They wanted someone solid, a respected Evangelical, and they knew they could count on Bob Dexter.'

Another man, white-shirted and bespectacled, joined the conversation. ‘You've been a wonderful spokesman for the Evangelical cause, Bob. At the General Synod last month – you were superb. The things you said to those namby-pambies who wanted to outlaw fox-hunting on church property, and who called for the Church to boycott all products tested on animals . . .'

‘I just told them the truth. That in Genesis 1, God gave us dominion over “every living thing that moveth upon the earth”. You can't argue with that.'

The first man added, ‘And the way you spoke out against the plague of homosexuality! I saw it on the news – you gave those fairies some good straight biblical teaching to think about!'

Dexter nodded. ‘Bob Dexter doesn't believe in pulling any punches, just to win favour with the trendies! If God said it, it's good enough for me!'

‘The Church of England is full of poofters and perverts,' Noah Gates pronounced. ‘Just look at Walsingham. I just thank the Lord that I'm not associated with a church like that.'

Dexter shot him a look as the first man sprang to his defence. ‘It's a good thing there are men like Bob in the Church of England, Noah! Men who aren't afraid to stand up for what's right!'

Backing down, Gates amended, ‘The Church of England is lucky to have a man like Bob. I'm just glad I don't have to join him there, that's all. Each to his own, eh, Bob?' He laughed, an incongruously high-pitched, mirthless giggle.

Bob Dexter smiled frostily.

Before the gathering dispersed, Toby Gates found a moment to speak privately with Bob Dexter. ‘It's very nice to see you again, sir. How is your daughter – how is Becca?' He blushed as he asked the question. ‘I haven't seen her since last year's protests at Walsingham.'