The Snares of Death (7 page)

‘Exactly. Of course I may be wrong – and I shall certainly give him the benefit of the doubt. But it doesn't sound good.' She sighed.

‘Daphne, my dear, I think you need another drink.' He proceeded to pour her one.

‘But the news isn't all bad,' Daphne said, with a quirk of her eyebrows and an ill-concealed smile. ‘Have you seen the new issue of
Church Building
magazine?'

‘No.'

‘Mine just came today.' She found it under a stack of papers on the table, and riffled through it quickly till she found what she was seeking. ‘Look at this!'

David took it from her, and in a moment the grin on his face matched that on Daphne's. ‘Well, I'll be! Did you know they were doing this?' he demanded.

‘Of course. But I thought it would be nice to surprise you.'

The lead article, profusely illustrated with colour photographs, was titled ‘Comper's Glories Restored in Kensington Church', and featured the work that David had supervised in the restoration of the crypt chapel at St Anne's the previous summer.

‘Read it,' Daphne urged.

He skimmed through the technical details, already well known to him, until he reached the part that said, ‘One of the interesting aspects of the restoration was the involvement in the project of David Middleton-Brown, a Norwich solicitor with no formal qualifications in church architecture. He oversaw the project from start to finish, displaying remarkable sensitivity and knowledge of the craft. In this case, the Law's gain is church architecture's loss; perhaps Mr Middleton-Brown would like to consider embarking on a second career.'

‘Daphne! You told them all of this,' he accused.

‘Yes,' she chuckled. ‘But it's all true. You really should think about doing more of that kind of thing.'

‘Flattery will get you . . .' David began, then, with rising apprehension, saw the speculative way that she was looking at him. ‘Hey, what is this all in aid of ? What are you up to now, Daphne?'

She shook her head. ‘You know me too well. How about another drink?'

‘Out with it,' he ordered sternly, but he extended his glass nonetheless.

‘Oh, it's just that . . . well, there's another little project that I think you might be able to help with.'

David sighed and settled back in the chair. ‘Tell me.'

‘The church is St John's, North Kensington. I know the Sacristan there.'

‘Ah.' He was unable to hide a spark of interest. ‘That's an E. B. Lamb church, isn't it? One of the really quirky ones?'

Daphne nodded, grinning. ‘I knew you wouldn't be able to resist.'

‘What do they want? The last time I saw that church it was in fairly dire condition. It requires a great deal more than the sort of restoration that I've had any experience with, I should think.'

‘Exactly. The roof is practically falling in, I'm afraid. They desperately need some expert help.'

‘They want an architect, then, not me,' said David, with a rueful shake of his head.

‘Well, no.' Daphne refilled her glass again. ‘At least, eventually they'll need an architect, but for now . . .' She smiled to herself at David's interest; it hadn't taken much bait to hook him. ‘At the beginning they need some aesthetic and architectural advice – surely within your scope. But they also need some legal help. You see, it's not at all a wealthy parish, not like St Anne's. The only way they'll be able to finance the work is by selling off the school and the church hall.'

‘Ah.'

Daphne leaned forward. ‘It's important, David. The diocese wants to take the easy way out – they want to close the church, and amalgamate the parish with the one next door. They'll flog off the whole lot to some sharp property developer, and the church will be torn down.'

‘Not an E. B. Lamb church!' David's indignation was sharp. ‘That would be a crime!'

‘You'll help, then?' she asked quickly.

‘It will involve a lot of work, Daphne. Isn't there anyone in the parish . . . ?'

‘No one. You wouldn't be stepping on any toes. No one but you could give them the kind of help they need.'

Thinking aloud, he said, ‘They need to find a property developer who would be prepared to keep the school and the church hall standing – to convert them to offices, probably. It might mean playing several property dealers against each other, and negotiating with the charity commissioners as well. Complicated stuff.'

‘They trust you,' she assured him. ‘I've told them what a good lawyer you are. They've seen the work you've done on our chapel, and . . .'

David narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Daphne, have you already promised my services?'

Daphne nodded, unabashed. ‘I knew that you'd want to be involved. It's the project of a lifetime for you!' She proffered the whisky bottle. ‘Here, David. I think you're the one who needs another drink now.'

CHAPTER 6

    
For all the beasts of the forest are mine: and so are the cattle upon a thousand hills.

    
I know all the fowls upon the mountains: and the wild beasts of the field are in my sight.

Psalm 50.10–11

There was nothing on the exterior of the ordinary-looking Victorian town house on the outskirts of Norwich to distinguish it as the national headquarters of the British Animal Rights Coalition. Indeed, on the ground floor, apart from the large poster in the sitting room, there was nothing to set it apart from a normal home. But upstairs one of the larger bedrooms had been converted into an office, dominated by a very sophisticated and extremely expensive computer set-up, and the small boxroom on the first-floor landing was crammed so full of stacks of brochures and cartons of badges and bumper stickers that the door would scarcely open.

Often meetings were held in the office, but tonight's gathering would take place in the sitting room. There was almost a party atmosphere in the room, with little bowls of snacks placed strategically around on the tables. They were, of course, healthy snacks – sunflower seeds and low-fat crisps and peanuts with raisins – but they were snacks nonetheless. The huge, colourful poster had pride of place tonight; it complemented rather than overwhelmed the decor, defined as it was by the modern paintings that covered the walls.

The enormous black dog in the corner didn't move when the strikingly dressed dark-haired woman entered the room, but the man on the sofa turned and gestured at the bowls of snacks.

‘It's not a party, Fiona love. It's a meeting.' Rhys Morgan's protest was half-hearted.

‘Yes, but I think a bit of a celebration is called for. I've got in some sparkling grape juice, so you can have a little toast.' Fiona Crawford sat down beside him on the sofa and stroked the red hairs on his arm. ‘Aren't you cold in that T-shirt, darling?'

He put his arm around her. ‘You know I'm warm-blooded.'

‘Mmm. Don't I, though.' She snuggled against him, and sighed. ‘I wish I could stay for the meeting. But I said weeks ago that I'd show up for this gallery do tonight. And if I want them all to come to the opening of the Lucy Kingsley exhibition at the end of the month . . .'

Rhys looked at the clock. ‘You've got the timer set on the video, have you?'

‘Yes, of course. Why don't you turn the telly on now?'

With his free hand he pressed the remote control, and the television sprang to life. They'd come in on the tail end of the adverts, but within a minute or so the video clicked and began its quiet humming as Anglia News was announced.

Fiona watched impatiently as the newsreaders intoned the daily assortment of traffic accidents, armed robberies, and factory closures with resultant job losses. Finally they reached the features section, and she leaned forward in anticipation.

‘Today in Norwich, a new national organisation was officially launched: the British Animal Rights Coalition. Our reporter talked to its founder, Rhys Morgan.'

Rhys appeared on the screen, looking solemn as he was confronted with a microphone.

‘Mr Morgan,' said the talking head, ‘there are already a number of organisations devoted to animal rights. Why another one? And why is it based in Norwich? Most national organisations have their headquarters in London.'

‘I'll answer your second question first, I think. It's based in Norwich because that's where I live. And Norwich is actually very central for many of the activities that we're concerned about. The Norfolk countryside is full of inhumane battery farms – this county supplies most of the nation's poultry, you know. One of the largest animal research laboratories in the country is nearby. Hunting, shooting and other blood sports take place in this area on a regular basis. Cruelty to animals is not confined to the London area, I'm afraid.' He paused, then continued earnestly, ‘And yes, there are already many organisations advocating animal rights. But they've all tended to be very narrowly focused, concentrating on one particular aspect: experimentation, blood sports, fur, and so forth. We're aiming to bring them all together, to supersede narrow interests. We see ourselves very much as an information clearing-house as well as a political pressure group.' He went on in the same vein for several minutes.

In front of the screen, Rhys groaned. ‘I look dreadful.'

Fiona gave him a fierce hug. ‘No, you don't, my darling. You look wonderful.' She watched him avidly on the screen, a stocky young man with fair, freckled skin and curly hair, thinning in front, of a shocking red hue. The angle of the camera didn't show the bald spot on top, so pronounced that it almost appeared as a tonsure. He was one of those men in whom nature seemed to compensate for hair loss on the head by supplying copious quantities elsewhere on the body, and indeed his full red beard drew attention away from his rapidly balding pate.

‘Listen to this bit,' he said after a while. ‘I think you'll be pleased.'

His screen image was talking about the poster, as the camera focused on the whole, then showed each of the animals on it in close-up. ‘We're hoping that this poster will convey the image that we want to project, of an umbrella of caring.'

‘It's a very striking poster,' the interviewer said. ‘Beautifully done. Was it done by a local artist?'

‘No, it was created by Lucy Kingsley, a London-based artist. But for anyone who is interested, there will be an exhibition of her paintings opening locally on the thirtieth of March, at the Bridewell Gallery in Norwich.'

‘Rhys, darling!' Fiona threw her arms around him. ‘You've given me a plug! How marvellous!' She kissed him enthusiastically. On the screen his alter ego talked on, but soon he was being ignored by the two on the sofa. ‘What time are they coming?' she murmured.

‘Eight.'

‘Oh, good. That gives us time.'

‘But, Fiona . . . your gallery thing.'

‘It starts at eight. It won't matter if I'm a few minutes late.'

‘But you're all dressed . . .'

‘I can get all dressed again. Just shut up, Rhys, and kiss me some more.'

‘If you insist.'

‘I insist.'

A few minutes later the announcer was forecasting – at long last – a break in the wintry weather for the Anglia region, but neither of them heard a word, nor did they care. They were quite warm enough already.

Gary Goldstein was the first to arrive, just after eight. He, like Rhys, wore a T-shirt emblazoned with ‘BARC', but in his case it spanned a potbelly that should have been more decently concealed. A veteran of the golden age of protest, the 1960s, Gary looked every inch the ageing American hippy that he was, with his long greying hair in a pony- tail and droopy grey moustache, with his T-shirt and faded, tattered jeans. Gary's experience in causes ranging from anti-Vietnam protests to ‘Save the Whales' had been an invaluable help to Rhys in setting up the new organisation.

‘Hey, man. I caught you on the tube,' he greeted Rhys. ‘Pretty groovy.' He flopped on the sofa. ‘Great publicity. What strings did you pull to get that to happen?'

‘As it happens, Fiona knows someone at Anglia Television. One of her regular customers at the gallery. She was telling him about the Lucy Kingsley exhibition, and showed him the poster. He was interested, and followed it up.'

‘She's a groovy lady, Fiona. Useful to have around, even if she didn't have all that bread!' Gary helped himself to a fistful of sunflower seeds. ‘Where is she?'

‘She had to go out tonight. To some art thing.' Rhys indicated the television. ‘You really thought the interview was all right?'

‘Yeah. Didn't you?'

‘I hope it was.' Rhys sat down on the floor and began absentmindedly stroking the rough black fur of the dog, who hadn't moved for some time. The dog raised its head and licked his hand. ‘I thought it was very important to get across what we're all about. You know what the current perception of animal rights activists is: that they're a bunch of crazy people with their priorities all screwed up. That they go round blowing up innocent human beings out of a misplaced concern for lower life forms. I wanted to tell people that our function is largely informative. We're here to let people know what's happening to animals, and to give constructive suggestions as to what they can do about it. We're not a terrorist organisation – we're people who care about animals. That's the message.'

Gary nodded, looking thoughtful. ‘That's cool with me. But what about Maggie?'

‘Maggie.' He scratched the dog's ears. ‘We'll just have to keep Maggie under control, that's all.'

‘At Berkeley, no matter how committed we were to peaceful demonstrations, there was always one guy who wanted to put a bomb in the president's office. Just don't underestimate Maggie, Rhys.' For him it was a long and articulate speech, but Rhys's reply was terse.