The Snares of Death (36 page)

They'd been to Evening Devotions at a quarter past eight, which Monica had found enthralling; to Lucy it was fascinating if bizarre. The candlelight procession around the Shrine church and grounds, following the statue of Our Lady of Walsingham, she had found unexpectedly moving, though she knew that she would never dare to admit it to David. They were so sincere, these pilgrims – dozens of them, clustered in their little groups, their faces ablaze in the candlelight with devotion to Our Lady. It should have been silent, though, she thought: the Pilgrim Hymn, with its thirty-seven verses, only detracted from the solemnity of the occasion. After the procession the service continued with Exposition of the Blessed Sacrament and concluded, quite late, with Benediction.

Seemingly, though, Monica was not ready to go to sleep. ‘Isn't this fun? Just like summer camp!' she enthused.

‘Very nice, Monica.' She thought of David.

As if reading her mind, Monica asked, ‘Where does your boyfriend live?'

‘Not too far from here – near Norwich.'

‘Are things . . . serious . . . between you?'

‘We don't have any plans to marry, if that's what you mean.'

Monica hesitated, then pressed on. ‘I don't quite know how to ask you this, but don't you ever want to get married? You must have had plenty of chances.'

Lucy was glad for the privacy of the dark. ‘I'm happy with things the way they are,' she replied evasively.

‘I'd like to get married,' Monica said. ‘But I don't suppose I ever will.'

‘Oh, I'm sure . . .'

The girl rolled over with some difficulty on the narrow bed and squinted at Lucy in the dark. ‘There's this bloke, Tom Rigby, in the produce department at Tesco,' she confided. ‘He keeps wanting me to go out with him.'

‘Well, why don't you?'

‘Because he's not a priest. He doesn't even go to church!' Monica grimaced. ‘You see, Lucy,' she continued reflectively, ‘I wouldn't want to marry anyone but a priest.'

‘A priest!' Lucy sat up in bed. ‘Monica, priests aren't superhuman beings, they're just men. Men in dog collars. Some of them may be a little better, or a little nicer, than other men, but not necessarily.' She frowned, thinking of Mark Judd and the way he'd treated Becca Dexter. ‘And even the best of them can be sheer hell to live with. My father is the sweetest, kindest man on earth, but the life that my mother had to live as a clergyman's wife – well, I wouldn't marry a priest for all the money in the world,' she declared.

‘It would be worth it,' Monica insisted. ‘I'm
sure
it would be worth it!'

Now was perhaps not the time, Lucy thought, to shatter the girl's illusions by explaining that the priests who proliferated around Walsingham were not likely to be very good candidates for marriage, not for her or for anyone else.

Long after the girl's breathing had become deep and regular, Lucy lay awake. Perhaps David
had
been right, she thought, and she shouldn't have come. She'd give it until tomorrow night, and if she hadn't discovered anything significant, she'd admit defeat, ring him up, and ask him to come for her.

She missed him, she admitted to herself. She would never admit to him, though, how much she had missed him the last two nights, after spending a whole week together. And tonight was even worse, here in this miserable excuse for a bed.

Had she been honest with Monica – with herself ?
Was
she happy with things the way they were? Why couldn't she just grow up, and tell David she'd marry him? What, after all, would be so bad about being Mrs Middleton-Brown? How much longer could she go on having her cake and eating it? How much longer did she
want
to?

CHAPTER 45

    
Who going through the vale of misery use it for a well: and the pools are filled with water.

Psalm 84.6

On Sunday morning, Lucy awoke to a very odd sight. Jammed into the narrow space between the chest of drawers and the wash-basin was an ironing board and the substantial bulk of Monica Cooper, struggling with yards of recalcitrant white cotton and a very tiny iron.

‘What on earth . . . ?'

Monica looked up, smiling sheepishly. ‘Good morning, Lucy. Sorry if I woke you. I'm ironing Father Clive's alb – he's going to celebrate Mass for us this morning in the Shrine church.'

‘Why can't Father Clive iron his own alb?' Lucy thought it was a reasonable question, but Monica was aghast.

‘But he's a priest!'

Lucy sat up in bed and hugged her knees. ‘I've got an idea – why don't you marry Father Clive?' she suggested humorously. She smiled to herself at the fanciful wedding portrait that materialised in her mind: Monica, moon-faced and enormous in a white gown, dwarfing her dapper groom, Father Clive with his bristling salt-and-pepper crew cut that reminded Lucy of an improperly cleaned paintbrush.

‘He's already married!' Monica exclaimed, even more scandalised. ‘He's got four children! One of them's as old as me!'

Lucy didn't feel that she could gracefully escape from attending the Mass – she was, after all, supposed to be a devout pilgrim – but after it was over she couldn't face the rest of the morning's programme, the Stations of the Cross followed by Intercessions in the Holy House. She thought of the interesting-looking novel that she'd packed in her suitcase and as yet had not had the chance to begin; perhaps now was her opportunity. ‘I've got a bit of a headache,' she only half-fibbed to Monica. ‘Perhaps I'll go back to the room and lie down for a while.'

‘Oh, you poor thing! Sometimes that happens to me, fasting before Mass,' the girl sympathised. ‘Do you want something to eat? Have you got any paracetamol?'

‘Yes, I've got some tablets, thanks. I'll just lie down now, and I'll see you at lunch.'

At lunch, which was no more appetising than last night's dinner had been, Rose Phillips lectured to them all about the history of Walsingham, with occasional humorous interjections from Father Clive. ‘Through the years, how many feet have trod these sacred streets?' he chuckled; he seemed to find feet an ever-rich source of humour and interest. Lucy fantasised whimsically that his favourite service of the year must be Maundy Thursday, with its ritual foot-washing ceremony.

Monica, uncharacteristically quiet, appeared almost feverish with suppressed excitement. ‘Are you all right?' Lucy asked in concern.

‘I can't tell you now,' the girl whispered conspiratorially. ‘I'll tell you later – when we're alone!' Her excitement, however, did nothing to affect her appetite, and she polished off Lucy's unwanted stodgy sweet in addition to her own.

They walked in the garden after lunch. ‘Monica, are you all right?' Lucy repeated.

The girl smiled shyly. ‘Oh, Lucy. I don't know how to tell you what's happened!'

‘Something happened at the Stations of the Cross?' It seemed highly unlikely, but then Walsingham itself was highly unlikely.

‘Well,' Monica began, flopping down on the grass, ‘we were led round the Stations of the Cross by a priest – one of the Shrine priests. He was so spiritual, Lucy. He made it all come so much alive: the scourging, the nailing to the cross, everything! I've never heard anything like it!' She plucked a blade of grass and contemplated it as though it held the secrets of the universe, and when she turned her face at last to Lucy it was enraptured. ‘After it was over, I stayed behind to tell him how much it had meant to me. We talked for quite a while. Oh, Lucy! He was so nice! So gentle, so kind! And of course so spiritual! And handsome!' she added.

‘I see.' Again Lucy wondered if perhaps it would be kind to explain a few of the facts of life to this seemingly naive girl, but realised that it would probably be futile.

Monica smiled at Lucy, aglow with happiness. ‘The best part of all is – he asked me if I'd like to meet him tonight, at the Bull. For a drink. Lucy! I've got a date with a priest!'

Her dream come true. For the first time, a chill premonition sent a shiver up Lucy's spine. ‘What is he called?' she asked slowly. ‘This wonderful priest – what is his name?'

Puzzled, Monica replied, ‘His name is Father Mark. Father Mark Judd.'

Lucy knew beyond a doubt that Monica wouldn't hear a word against Father Mark, and so she held her tongue. She tried to convince herself that she didn't need to worry – that by the end of tomorrow Monica would be back in Basingstoke, far removed from the considerable charms of Mark Judd. What, after all, could happen in one evening, in one day? They'd have a drink, perhaps flirt a bit, and that would be that. Her obvious adoration was fuel for his male ego, that was all – a way to pass one evening. But all of these rationalisations failed to banish the small kernel of fear that had lodged in Lucy's mind.

Monica had wanted to be alone, to pray in the Shrine before the sprinkling at the Holy Well at three. Lucy was curious about the sprinkling and had decided to take part, but for now she stayed on in the garden, watching the pilgrims, thinking her thoughts. She thought about Monica, and the look of awe on her plain face at the memory of Mark Judd. She thought about Becca Dexter, and the anguish that had been on her face just a few days ago, the day that Mark had dumped her. She knew, in her heart, that if she stayed in Walsingham another day, the anguish might well be on poor, vulnerable Monica's face also. She couldn't do anything to stop it, but she didn't have to stay around to watch it. After the sprinklings, she said to herself. After the sprinklings I'll ring David. I'll tell him to come this afternoon, and take me home with him. I was wrong, she thought. There are no answers at Walsingham. Only more questions.

Lucy had been half afraid that Mark Judd would be performing the sprinkling at the well, and was relieved to see that it was Owen Osborne who greeted the assembled party in the nave of the Shrine church. The old priest explained, in his mellifluous voice, what was going to happen, and led some prayers, then the pilgrims queued up at the steps down to the well. Lucy watched those ahead of her so that she would know what to do when her turn came. Each pilgrim was given a dipper of water to drink from, was signed with the cross on the forehead, and then had the water poured into cupped hands. Some applied the holy water to afflicted parts of their bodies, while others let it run through their hands. When her turn came, standing before Owen Osborne, Lucy did the latter.

When it was over she went in search of a telephone. It was in fact not easy to find one: apparently most of the pilgrims had more exalted aims than hers, and were not concerned with contacting the outside world. With a feeling of great relief she located one at last, and dialled David's number, suddenly almost breathless with anticipation. There was no reply. Lucy let it ring ten times, twenty times – she knew how he hated to answer the phone. Nothing.

Having made the decision to go, her disappointment now was extreme. Where could he be, on a Sunday afternoon? She'd just have to try again a bit later.

She wasn't up to the Procession of the Blessed Sacrament, she knew that. Perhaps a walk in the countryside would clear her head.

It was a small village, and it didn't take long to be out of it. The countryside here was gently rolling, and alive with May-time growth. The hawthorn was in full bloom, and the fields foamed white with cow-parsley. There was a small stream trickling clear over a bed of smooth stones; Lucy followed it along its path for a while.

In a field she saw a van parked: a distinctive blue van, its side painted with the letters ‘BARC'. Lucy smiled; perhaps she'd go and have a chat with whoever was with the van. It would be a change, anyway, from the holy goings-on that she'd left behind her. She remembered, too, that there was a question she wanted to ask – a question for Nicholas, or Gary, or possibly even Maggie.

As she walked towards the van, Lucy saw that there were two people entwined together in the sunshine outside. She was not near enough to identify them – certainly not Fiona and Rhys, she thought, but a couple nonetheless, as revealed by their body language, even at a distance, and by the kisses they continued to exchange. It looked like a curly-haired young man and a tall, long-haired girl. Maggie? she thought; it seemed unlikely, but Lucy decided that it was possible. Surely not Maggie and Rhys? That would break Fiona's heart.

Absorbed in each other, they were still unaware of her as she drew near. Lucy felt embarrassed, a bit of a voyeur – obviously they were not expecting to be observed in this out-of-the-way corner of the Norfolk countryside. But she was relieved to see the young man wasn't Rhys – his curly hair was brown, not red, and his face was clean-shaven and unfamiliar to her. Then he saw her, and with a look of sheer panic tore away from his lover, and made a dash for the safety of the van.

The long-haired girl turned around and looked at Lucy with a puzzled frown. It was after all not a girl: it was Nicholas Fielding.

Totally disorientated, it took Lucy a moment to speak. ‘Nicholas!'

He was equally surprised. ‘Lucy Kingsley! Fancy seeing you here!' He grinned, unembarrassed. ‘Caught in the act.' Nicholas looked bemusedly at the van, where his lover had disappeared. ‘I'm afraid that Toby is a bit shy,' he apologised. ‘But we can sit down out here, if you don't mind the grass.'

Lucy was glad to sit down; she didn't really know what to say about what she'd seen. After a moment she decided to ignore it – Nicholas didn't seem to expect any comment. She remembered the question that she'd wanted to ask him. ‘Nicholas,' she said, ‘I wanted to ask you something about the night that you went to South Barsham church, the night that Bob Dexter was killed.'

‘Yes?'

She hesitated, making sure to frame her question in a way that didn't prejudice the answer. ‘The three of you – Maggie, Gary and you – were together on that expedition, Fiona told me. Was there any time that you weren't all together?'