The Snares of Death (5 page)

Dexter decided to withhold his opinions of her devotion to Our Lady for the time being, and see what he could find out from the woman. There would be plenty of time after he'd arrived to sort out these aberrations. He put the flowers down in the chancel and regarded the woman in the murky light that filtered in through the dark Victorian east window. ‘There you are, Miss – or is it Mrs? – Vernon.'

‘Oh,
Miss
Vernon. Thank you, Father, for your help.' Dexter winced at the appellation, but Miss Vernon, her eyes already turned towards the Virgin, failed to notice.

She appeared to be in her late sixties, though her hair was no help in determining her age: she wore a wig of a most unlikely golden-blonde shade, in a style that had been popular probably two decades earlier. She was quite tall, and very angular in build; her movements were jerky and she gave the impression of clumsiness. Her clothing, too, seemed to fit the image, the various garments looking as though they had been assembled at random from a jumble-sale box.

‘Do you live nearby?' Dexter inquired as she went down on her knees before the statue and began sorting through the flowers.

‘Oh, yes, in the village. Do you know the village? Monkey Puzzle Cottage. It's down the lane from the old blacksmith's.' She looked up at him over her shoulder, adding proudly, ‘We have the only two monkey puzzle trees in the village. Probably the only ones in this part of the county!'

‘You don't say.'

She nodded solemnly, then ventured a smile.

‘Have you been at this church long?' he asked.

‘Yes, years and years. Ever since before old Father Lyons, God rest his soul.' She sighed. ‘Still, times change.'

‘Pastor Lyons' – he couldn't bring himself to use the other term, and she didn't seem to notice – ‘died some months ago, didn't he?'

‘Nearly a year ago. On Holy Saturday, while he was singing the Exsultet. I always thought it was such a lovely way to go.' She sighed again. ‘Of course, it ruined the service.'

Dexter frowned. What a very odd woman she was. ‘Was Pastor Lyons responsible for the renovations in the chapel?'

‘Oh, yes. He had a legacy from old Mr Carter. Ten thousand pounds it was, and that was a lot of money back in the sixties!' She paused, considering, then went on. ‘I don't mean to speak ill of the dead, mind you, but there were some who thought that the money should have been spent on other things.'

‘Such as?'

‘Oh, like a new roof. Or having the drainage done. We do have a bit of a problem with the damp, you see.'

He thought of another question. ‘Those tables in the back – why is one looked after and the other one so untidy?'

Miss Vernon laughed, an embarrassed deep titter. ‘Oh, you noticed that, did you? Old Mrs Humphries always used to do the flowers on that table, and keep it tidy. But after she died no one else volunteered to do it. We all have our own things to look after, you see?' she added defensively, gesturing towards the Virgin.

‘Well, I've kept you from your flowers long enough, Miss Vernon. Good day to you, and I'll be seeing you again soon.'

‘Oh, don't go yet, Father Dexter.' She scrambled to her feet awkwardly. ‘I just wanted to . . . well, that is, Miss Barnes and I very much hope that you will come and have tea with us at Monkey Puzzle Cottage just as soon as you've settled in.'

‘Thank you. Mrs Dexter and I will be happy to call on you.'

‘Oh! Mrs Dexter . . .' She stared at him; St Mary's had never had a married vicar, not within her memory anyway, and that went back a long time.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Vernon.' He turned and walked down the centre aisle; she watched his erect back with amazement.

‘Wait till I tell Alice,' she whispered, half to herself and half to the Blessed Virgin Mary.

CHAPTER 4

    
All my delight is upon the saints, that are in the earth: and upon such as excel in virtue.

Psalm 16.3

‘Really, Gwen. I do think you might have told me.' There were round spots of colour in Alice Barnes's cheeks and her formidable bosom bounced up and down as she rubbed the cloth round and round in vigorous circles on the top of the small pedestal table.

‘But, Alice, I did tell you,' Gwen protested half-heartedly.

‘Yes, but you didn't tell me until today. This morning. Why didn't you tell me you'd met our new priest yesterday, after it had happened?' She looked critically at the highly polished mahogany, and, satisfied, replaced the little protective mat and the telephone (giving it a swift polish for good measure), finally restoring its chintz dust cover.

Gwen gave the mantelpiece an ineffectual swipe with her duster, brushing the lustres which dangled from one of the vases so that they produced a faint, musical tinkle.

‘Mind those vases,' Alice said sharply. ‘And don't knock over the Staffordshire!' She moved briskly to the round table in the bay window at the front of the sitting room with her tin of beeswax polish, a neat, compact figure in a pastel-green twinset and a pleated skirt.

‘I'm sorry, Alice, but it just went out of my head. Remember, when I got home, Babs had gone missing.'

‘We
thought
she'd gone missing,' Alice corrected her. ‘But she'd just gone under my bed to chew on my slipper. Hadn't you, you naughty girl?' she addressed the King Charles spaniel which reclined in the shabby wing chair. The dog didn't move, but rolled her protruberant eyes lethargically.

‘Well, anyway, I didn't remember until this morning, when you asked me to go to the bakery and get the cream cakes for Father Mark's tea. And then I thought about Father Mark, and the church, and I remembered.'

‘Honestly, Gwen, your memory is hopeless these days.' Again Alice's bosom quaked with the effort of polishing.

‘I know. I'm sorry,' she said humbly.

‘You
did
get the cream cakes, didn't you?'

‘Yes, of course. All his favourite kinds. They're in the kitchen.'

Alice stopped polishing for a moment and fixed Gwen with her bright eyes. ‘Why are you just standing there? You could dust the books. After all, they were
your
father's!' She paused while Gwen drifted over to the bookcase which hung above the Edwardian desk. ‘Describe him to me again.'

‘My father?'

‘No, of course not! I mean Father Dexter!'

Gwen closed her eyes, remembering. ‘He was quite tall, and good-looking. Blonde, wavy hair. Light eyes. Sort of middle-aged, I'd say. Forty-five, or fifty.'

‘Wearing a cassock?'

‘No. A dark suit, and a grey clerical shirt.'

‘Not black? That's rather odd. Tell me again what he said,' Alice commanded. Having finished the table, she was engaged in polishing the leaves of the waxy begonia with her cloth.

‘He called me “my dear lady”, and helped me with the flowers. Helped me carry them up to the chancel, I mean. He didn't actually help me arrange them.'

‘And how did he identify himself ?'

‘Bob Dexter. He said that he would soon be the shepherd of the flock.'

‘You're sure he didn't say
Father
Dexter?'

‘I don't think so.'

‘That's highly irregular, I must say. And what else did he say?'

Gwen took down a thick, leather-bound volume and dusted it lovingly. ‘He asked me some questions. About Father Lyons, and the chapel renovations, mostly.'

‘I wish you'd thought to invite him to tea,' Alice said severely.

‘Oh, but I did! Didn't I tell you?'

‘No, you didn't tell me!'

‘That was the most curious thing of all! I asked him to come to tea when he'd settled in, and he said that he and
Mrs
Dexter would be very happy to call! Alice, he's married!'

Alice stopped in mid-polish, thunderstruck. ‘Married! I don't believe it! You must have mis-heard him.'

‘No, he definitely said Mrs Dexter!'

There was a long moment of silence, then a look of comprehension dawned. ‘Gwen! He didn't actually say
his wife
, did he?'

‘No . . .'

‘Then Mrs Dexter must be his mother!' Alice finished triumphantly.

Gwen sighed in relief. ‘Yes, of course. Why didn't I think of that? His mother must keep house for him.'

‘Gwen, I must say I find it most odd that you should even
think
of a priest being married! You know we've never had a married priest!'

‘Sorry, Alice, I don't know why . . .'

The door opened a crack and a second dog, virtually identical to the first, padded into the room, gave a tentative look at the wing chair and, finding it already occupied, moved towards the rose-pink dralon sofa.

‘Don't you dare, Nell!' Alice warned. ‘You know you're not allowed on the good furniture, you naughty girl!'

The dog gave her a baleful stare, and Alice noticed the remnants of something white around her mouth. ‘What have you been eating, Nell? It looks like . . .' She moved closer. ‘It looks like cream!'

‘Father Mark's cream cakes!' wailed Gwen. ‘Oh, why did I leave them on the kitchen table!'

Father Mark Judd saw the Nottingham lace curtains at the sitting-room window twitch as he drove up; either the old dears were watching out for him, or else those dreadful dogs were on the loose again – the wing chair that seemed to be reserved for their exclusive use was not far from that window.

Monkey Puzzle Cottage was a small, double-fronted Victorian house, built of Norfolk flint, slate-roofed, and flanked by the two eponymous monkey puzzle trees. It was rather grander in detail than in scale, with mock-Tudor windows and a very elaborate front door. Father Mark, as a frequent visitor, knew that the front door was never used. He parked his car – a bequest from a grateful parishioner – in the road in front of the cottage, locked it, and walked along the small drive at the side of the house. There, alongside the house, resided a car, also never used: an aged, poison-green Mini, secure under its polythene awning. Rumour had it that the car came out once a year or so, but Father Mark had never seen the two ladies using any form of transport but their two matching black Raleigh bicycles. He judged that it would take both of them to operate the complicated crank system to raise the awning from the car. They'd told him once that the car had been bought some years ago, before Miss Vernon's retirement, when the village school had closed its doors for lack of pupils and it had been necessary for her to travel some miles to teach at the new consolidated school.

The car blocked the access to the back garden, so Father Mark's path was of necessity somewhat circuitous, around the Mini and under the pendulous, spiny limbs of the monkey puzzle tree. Fortunately it wasn't yet dark, and he reached the back door without mishap.

They were waiting for him at the door, both of them, with smiles on their faces: Miss Barnes, small and tidy and deceptively fragile-looking with her bright eyes and her fluffy white hair, and Miss Vernon, tall and angular and dishevelled, bewigged as usual. The dogs were not in evidence.

‘Good afternoon, ladies,' he said with a smile. Father Mark Judd was an extraordinarily handsome young man, tall, well built and muscular, with dark wavy hair falling artistically over his forehead in a widow's peak, a full-lipped mouth above a chiselled chin, and, when he smiled, devastating dimples. Miss Barnes and Miss Vernon were not well known for their susceptibility to masculine pulchritude, but he knew that they had a soft spot for him, and was aware that the dimples had had the desired effect.

‘Hello, Father. Do come in,' fluttered Gwen Vernon.

‘Come this way,' added Alice Barnes, leading him into the sitting room. It was the only room in Monkey Puzzle Cottage he'd ever been allowed to see on his regular Monday tea-time visits. He imagined that most of the activity of everyday life took place elsewhere in the house; the sitting room was immaculate, and clearly used only for visitors.

Feeling immediately the chill of the room, Father Mark was glad that he had a jumper on under his cassock for additional warmth. The cottage lacked central heating, and the fire in this room seemed never to be lit. The two women were certainly dressed for the temperature, Alice Barnes in her twinset and Gwen Vernon in several woolly layers, topped by a rather moth-eaten cardigan. As he took a seat in one of the pink dralon chairs he couldn't help looking at the fireplace where, instead of a warm fire, there was a fussy pleated paper fan and a basket of fir cones.

‘Are you cold, Father Mark?' Gwen asked anxiously, following his glance. ‘Because if you are, we could light a fire, I suppose. Or I could bring down the electric heater from my room. Or we could sit in the kitchen. It's warm in there. The Aga . . .'

‘Do stop fussing, Gwen. I'm sure that Father Mark isn't as sensitive to cold as you are,' Alice interposed. She turned to him. ‘A fire is so dirty,' she apologised. ‘It's difficult enough to keep this room clean, without all the ash and the bother of a fire. Gwen is very cold-blooded, I'm afraid.'

‘Don't worry about me, Miss Vernon,' he replied quickly. ‘I'm warmly dressed.'

‘You should be used to the cold. You come from the frozen north, don't you?' Alice recalled humorously. ‘Northumberland?'

Father Mark preferred not to be reminded of his northern working-class background. ‘That's right. Not that Norfolk in winter is very much warmer!' He looked around him, noting the uncharacteristically empty chair by the window, and quickly changed the subject. ‘Where are Babs and Nell? Not ill, are they?'

‘They're in the kitchen,' Gwen began.

‘They've been rather naughty girls, I'm afraid,' Alice interrupted, with a warning look at Gwen. She'd told her not to mention the cream cakes, but with Gwen one just never knew. ‘Are you ready for some tea, Father?'