The Snares of Death (9 page)

She shrugged. ‘It's a little sad. It's the only house I've ever known. There are a lot of memories in this house.'

A lot of memories. ‘But the new vicarage is very nice,' he said. ‘We'll settle in there quickly, I'm sure. We'll all be together, that's the important thing. And – will you be glad to be nearer to Toby Gates?'

Rebecca smiled at her father. ‘Toby Gates is a nice chap. I know a lot of nice chaps, Daddy.'

Bob Dexter was satisfied. Becca's heart was still his.

Later in the day, while the removal men were loading their van, Elayne Dexter slipped unnoticed out of the house and went across to the church. But instead of going in, she went around the back to a secluded part of the churchyard. Sheltered by the church, she felt safe from being observed – Bob couldn't possibly see her from the vicarage, even from an upstairs window.

The tiny grave had been carefully tended; last year's grass had been kept clipped and the new spring grass, a pale vulnerable green, had only begun to poke up slender tentative shoots. Bob never came back here, never knew how much time she spent tidying this small bit of earth. Elayne removed the wilted daffodils and replaced them with fresh ones, for the last time. Next week the daffodils would be dead, and she would be far away. Bob had never asked her if she wanted to move, and even if he had, she would never have been able to tell him her real reason for wanting to stay in this place. The thought of abandoning this little grave to uncaring strangers, probably never seeing it again, was more than she could bear. Painful tears pricked her eyes and she leaned back on her heels, reading the words on the stone for the many thousandth time. The last time, she thought with a little sob. ‘Baby Dexter. He is with Jesus for eternity', and the dates, so long ago now – nearly eighteen years past. So few the days he'd been with her, her little Bobby. Bob had refused to have him baptised – he didn't much agree with infant baptism anyway – so he didn't have an official name, her baby. Of course, he was always supposed to be Robert Dexter, after his father, during those months when they'd waited for his birth. Then when . . . things had gone wrong, Bob had forbidden her to name him. But Elayne always thought of him as Bobby, and that was how she addressed him now, as she said her farewells. ‘Goodbye, my darling little Bobby,' she whispered through her tears. ‘I have to go away now, but I'll never forget you.'

CHAPTER 8

    
When the people are gathered together: and the kingdoms also, to serve the Lord.

Psalm 102.22

Bob Dexter stood in the shadows at the back of the church, as inconspicuous as is possible for a handsome man over six feet tall. From his vantage point he'd been able to observe the congregation, as well as all that went on.

There weren't many people present – no more than twenty, he judged – but that was not bad for a small rural parish, and a week night. At his Richmond church he would have had two hundred, particularly if he had been speaking, but Bob Dexter realised that different standards now applied. No doubt by next year, under his leadership, the church would be bursting at the seams. He found his mind wandering from the speaker, mentally identifying places where extra chairs could be put in next year to accommodate the overflow. Perhaps it would even be a good idea to rip the pews out; old church pews fetched a good price on the antiques market, he knew, and it would certainly give them a lot more flexibility.

Many of the congregation seemed to be elderly, Dexter observed; grey and white heads predominated. He'd bring in young families and teenagers, the lifeblood of a parish church. If there wasn't a Pathfinders group he'd start one right away, and of course Elayne would take over the Sunday School.

He focused his attention again on the man in the pulpit. The poster on the noticeboard had said ‘Holy Week talks by Father Owen Osborne', but apart from the name Dexter had no idea who the man was. He was a small, rather stout – even rotund – man with a cherubic round face and a shiny bald head wreathed with white hair. His mobile, bushy eyebrows moved up and down rather disconcertingly to punctuate his words. He had a cultured, Oxbridge voice, and Dexter had to admit to himself that he could find no fault in what the man had said. He'd been preaching from Scripture, and speaking about Our Lord. His talk was learned rather than impassioned, but Dexter was an educated man himself, and though it was not his style he found the man's sermon acceptable. Perhaps this church was not as bad as he'd thought, not as far gone in idolatry and abominable practices.

When the address was over, he drew a bit further back into the shadows as the congregation trickled towards the north porch exit. Genuflecting as they left the pews, Dexter noted with a small shudder. He was not sufficiently well hidden, though; Gwen Vernon, a woolly cap over her golden wig, caught sight of him with a little squeak, and pulled Alice Barnes in his direction, whispering frantically. Fortunately they were among the last to leave, so he was able to escape general attention.

‘Alice, this is . . . this is . . .'

‘Bob Dexter,' he interposed. ‘And you must be Miss Barnes. Hello, Miss Vernon. How nice to see you again.'

Alice Barnes looked up at him, for once as tongue-tied as Gwen. He certainly was an impressive-looking man; perhaps Father Mark had been mistaken about his reputation. Finally she spoke. ‘We do hope that you and – Mrs Dexter – will come to tea with us. As soon as possible.'

Dexter considered. It might be a good thing to begin to get to know his parishioners right away. ‘Tomorrow?' he suggested.

The two women looked at each other and unspoken messages passed between them. It was Maundy Thursday tomorrow, and they had much to do to prepare the church for the evening service. But this was not an opportunity to be missed – to be the first in the parish to entertain the new priest. ‘That will be lovely,' Alice said firmly. ‘Monkey Puzzle Cottage. Anyone can tell you where that is. Half past three, if that's convenient.'

‘I shall look forward to it, my dear ladies.' And Dexter smiled.

A moment later he was again approached, this time by a dark-haired man in a cassock. The man was as tall as Dexter, but younger – mid-twenties, Dexter judged – and even more handsome than he in an almost film-star way. He looked Dexter in the eyes, and extended his hand. ‘Hello. I'm Mark Judd. I've been looking after this church in the interregnum.'

Dexter took his hand, approving of the firm grip. ‘I'm Bob Dexter.'

‘Yes, I know. I've seen you on television. Welcome to South Barsham.'

‘Thank you. It's good to be here. I'm looking forward to beginning work.'

Mark smiled. ‘What did you think of our little gathering tonight?'

‘Quite . . . acceptable. Who was the speaker?' Dexter asked.

‘Owen Osborne. He's a colleague of mine . . . at the Shrine.'

Dexter stiffened. So this young man was one of
them
. He seemed pleasant enough, but clearly he'd need watching. ‘What do you do at the . . . at that place?'

‘Oh, I take Mass for parties of pilgrims, do my turn on the rota for daily sprinklings at the Holy Well, that sort of thing.' Mark shrugged. ‘It's not very challenging. I much prefer parish work.'

‘You've been working in this parish for quite a few months, I think.'

‘Just about a year,' Mark explained. ‘Father Lyons died at Easter last year. My work at the Shrine only takes up a bit of my time, so it's been good to have the parish to look after as well.'

‘What is the congregation like?' Dexter asked. ‘Was tonight's crowd . . . representative?'

Mark looked amused. ‘You mean, don't you, are they all so old? I'm afraid it's largely a congregation of felt bundles. Sweet old dears, most of them, but not a lot of life in the place. We don't have very many young people – though I've attracted a few recently.'

Young ladies, no doubt, Dexter reflected. Unattached young ladies – or even attached ones, with looks like those. Too bad he couldn't be of any use to them: everyone knew that all the priests at Walsingham were poofs and perverts. Perhaps he'd attracted a few young men, too. That sort of thing couldn't be countenanced in his church. A Pathfinders group, that's what was needed here. Wholesome physical activity and lots of Bible study.

‘You've met Miss Barnes and Miss Vernon?' Mark asked.

‘Yes.'

‘Two lovely, devout women,' he declared piously. ‘Always engaged in good works on behalf of the church.'

‘I'm having tea with them tomorrow. Perhaps you could tell me something about them,' Dexter invited.

‘They've lived in the village, at Monkey Puzzle Cottage, for many years. Miss Barnes was the district nurse. Miss Vernon was the teacher at the village school until it closed down. They're both retired now.'

A horrible suspicion formed itself in Bob Dexter's mind. ‘They're not . . . unnatural, are they?'

Mark assumed a very severe and self-righteous expression. ‘There has been talk in the village, of course. There always is when two women live together for as many years as they have. But I think it's better not to speculate about such things, don't you?'

‘Of course,' Dexter said hastily, and changed the subject. ‘What sort of good works do they do? I know that they arrange the flowers, the ones by . . . that . . . statue in the chancel.'

‘Oh, Miss Vernon has been the Sunday School teacher for years. Miss Barnes cleans the silver. And now that they're retired, they devote their lives to producing and distributing religious tracts.' Mark smiled blandly.

‘Religious tracts!'

‘Yes. They spend a great deal of time cycling around the parish, as well as neighbouring parishes, and delivering their tracts to where they feel they might do the most good.'

Dexter began to think that he might have been hasty in dismissing the two women as idolaters. Teaching Sunday School, and religious tracts – perhaps in them he would find allies in his battle for the souls of his congregation. It was just as well that he was having tea with them tomorrow. He could enlist their aid from the beginning.

Mark interrupted his reverie. ‘I must be going now. But I do hope you'll be joining us tomorrow night for our Maundy Thursday observances. I think you'll find them . . . memorable.'

‘Bob Dexter will be there.'

CHAPTER 9

    
Then shall he speak unto them in his wrath: and vex them in his sore displeasure.

Psalm 2.5

Elayne looked out of the window at the fresh spring morning. She was tired of unpacking, and it seemed as if the job would never be done. Bob and Becca were upstairs, sorting out his office; she'd just taken them some coffee, so she didn't think she'd be missed if she slipped out for a few minutes. She grabbed an old cardigan and let herself out of the back door.

The church was only a few yards away. Elayne hadn't yet been inside, and was a bit curious after what Bob had told her about all the statues and the candles. The north porch door stood open invitingly, so she went down the steps and entered the building.

Though several of the windows were clear glass, the sunlight, so bright outside, made very little impact in here. She stood quietly for a moment as her eyes adjusted to the gloom. There were muffled voices coming from the chapel, although the red velvet curtain screened it from view, and she moved towards the voices, looking with amazement at each of the statues as she passed.

Elayne was light on her feet, and the occupants of the chapel were engrossed in what they were doing, so her arrival went unnoticed. The scene before her in the chapel was so unfamiliar that it took her a moment to assimilate what was happening. Two elderly women – from Bob's description she recognised them as Gwen Vernon and Alice Barnes – were in the process of creating a garden, right there in the chapel. There were bunches of daffodils, and frothy sprays of golden forsythia, and all manner of greenery, and the two women were arranging them with great care in front of the altar. Interspersed among the flora were a number of very large candlesticks; on the altar was a decorated box made of some sort of metal, its hinged door standing open. And high above the altar, in a little niche on the wall, she noticed a statue of a woman holding a baby. The draping of her garments, carved skilfully in stone, emphasised the fluid curve of her body as she leaned slightly, compensating for the weight of the child.

Elayne didn't understand it, but recognised that it was very beautiful. Something about the loving care with which the women handled the foliage made her think about that lonely grave – its daffodils would now be wilting – and tears sprang to her eyes. Elayne swallowed hard. She
mustn't
cry over Bobby. Not now. She moved forward and the women turned.

‘I'm . . . I'm so sorry to bother you,' she said softly, ‘but could you tell me what you're doing?'

The two women looked at her, then at each other. A lone stranger in the church – not likely that she was a tourist. Could she be . . . ?

Sensing their thoughts, she added, ‘I'm sorry. I should introduce myself. I'm Elayne Dexter.'

Gwen allowed herself a small glance of triumph at Alice – clearly
not
his mother after all! – as she scrambled to her feet. But Alice was the first to reach Elayne, with her hand outstretched. ‘Welcome to St Mary's, Mrs Dexter. I'm Alice Barnes.'

‘I thought that you must be. Bob has mentioned you, and Miss Vernon. How do you do?'

The formalities out of the way, they turned their attention to the flower-bedecked altar plinth. ‘Why are you doing this?' Elayne repeated.

‘It's the Garden of Repose,' Alice replied. ‘For the Vigil tonight.'

‘I'm afraid I don't understand. Would you mind explaining it to me?'