The Snares of Death (17 page)

He was no mere poseur, though; the man undoubtedly knew about art. David was convinced of that after the most recent BBC series, twelve comprehensive programmes on ‘The Art of Italy'. But informative though the series had been, David hadn't made it beyond the programme on the Renaissance. He found Pickering's manner profoundly irritating – condescending, arrogant, pretentious – and he usually tried to avoid seeing him on television whenever possible. Without knowing anything of him but what he'd seen on the screen, David thoroughly disliked the man with a sort of unreasoning prejudice. To be confronted with him in person – and the man was talking to Lucy, besides! – was really quite irksome.

‘Isn't he cute?' Tiffani said fondly. It was vacuous, even for her.

‘Cute?'

‘Yeah. He's really just a big teddy bear. Don'tcha think?'

More like a grizzly bear, with teeth, David reflected.
I
wouldn't like to get in his way. All that smooth sophistication aside . . .

‘Did you see his TV shows? The ones on Italy?'

‘Some of them.'

‘They were good, weren't they?' Tiffani lowered her voice. ‘He's hoping that they'll get him his “K”. You know.'

‘Knighthood. Yes. Very likely, I should think.' Yes, David could see him as
Sir
Geoffrey Pickering.

‘He wants it real bad,' she confided. She giggled. ‘I didn't know what he meant, when he told me he wanted a “K”. I gave him a kiss!'

David smiled, amused in spite of himself. But he was less than amused to see Tiffani beckoning the great man over to their corner, when she'd caught his eye. ‘You must meet Geoffy,' she declared.

Geoffrey Pickering sauntered over, one sardonic silver eyebrow raised questioningly. ‘What is it, darling?'

‘Geoffy, sweetie-pie, you must meet Davey. Davey Middle-something. Isn't it just the funniest thing! I was talking to him, and found out that he and Lucy Kingsley are, ya know . . .'

Pickering turned to David with an appraising look that managed to be highly offensive as well. His voice was silky. ‘So . . . you're Lucy's latest! My, my. Congratulations are in order, I suppose. I was just talking to her, but she didn't mention that she'd acquired a new lover.' He extended his hand as his eyes travelled from David's head to his feet.

David ignored the scrutiny as well as the outstretched hand and replied, with as much civility as he could manage, ‘I don't see that it's any of your business, quite frankly. I don't know how you know Miss Kingsley, but her private life is surely –'

Pickering's hearty laugh cut across David's words. ‘Know Lucy Kingsley? How naughty of her not to have told you!
Know
her? I've known her in the biblical sense!' He paused and looked David squarely in the eye, scarcely concealing his amusement. ‘Of course I know Lucy Kingsley. My dear chap, I used to be married to her!'

CHAPTER 20

    
O God, the heathen are come into thine inheritance: thy holy temple have they defiled, and made Jerusalem an heap of stones.

Psalm 79.1

Although they didn't generally leave it so late, Alice and Gwen had been away all week, and Saturday afternoon was their first opportunity to do their flowers for Our Lady.

It was about three o'clock when they entered the church. They'd heard no intimation of the drastic changes that had taken place in the church since they'd been there for the Institution on Monday night. The posters had been bad enough, but this was desecration. Their first reaction on entering, naturally enough, was shock. Gwen sat down heavily in the back pew and burst into tears; Alice was made of sterner stuff, but even she reached in her pocket for her handkerchief.

‘Oh, our church! Our beautiful church!' Gwen wailed, inconsolable. ‘That monster! He's . . . he's
violated
our church!'

A figure in a black cassock glided out of the south porch, concern on his face. ‘Ladies!'

‘Father Mark!' Alice demanded. ‘What is the meaning of this . . . this
outrage
?'

‘Miss Barnes. Miss Vernon. I'm so sorry that you had to learn about it like this. I wanted to tell you myself, to prepare you for the shock.' His voice was soothing, sorrowful, as he patted Gwen's shoulder.

Gwen raised a tear-stained face. ‘Why didn't you stop him?' she sobbed.

‘He had no right!' Alice added fiercely.

‘Unfortunately, my dear ladies, he had every right.' Mark sat down next to Gwen and took her hand. ‘He has the freehold now. That means he can do whatever he likes.'

‘But what has he done with it all?' Alice wanted to know. ‘All of our beautiful statues? The pictures, the Stations of the Cross, the candles – where are they?'

Mark indicated the south porch. ‘In there. It's all in there.'

‘What will he do with it now?' Gwen's voice trembled. ‘Isn't there anything we can do?'

Shaking his head, Mark looked grave. ‘He's going to sell it all, I'm afraid. Every bit of it.'

‘But who will buy it?' Alice asked.

‘I can't stop him from selling it, ladies,' Mark explained. ‘But what I
can
do is to make sure that it all goes to good homes, so to speak, where it will be loved as we've loved it here. I've told him that I'd help him to find buyers for everything.'

‘And he's accepted your help?'

‘Yes. He needs my help – he doesn't know any of the right people himself.'

‘So what will you do, Father Mark?' Gwen squeezed his hand and he returned the pressure, comfortingly.

‘I'm making a list now. Some of the things may be worth a lot of money – I'll get professional help to sort those out. Then I'll circulate a list to the people who would be interested in the rest, the things that have sentimental value for all of us.'

‘You
are
good, Father Mark.'

He smiled, then frowned thoughtfully. ‘There's just one thing that really worries me, though. The monstrance.'

Alice looked at him sharply. ‘The monstrance?'

‘Yes. Father Dexter seems to have a special hatred for it, for what it represents. He says that Benediction is the tool of the Devil.'

‘That evil man!'

‘He says that no matter what it's worth – and I frankly don't think it's worth all that much – he won't sell it. He wants to destroy it. He wants to break it up himself. He says he never wants it used again, by anybody.'

‘Oh!' breathed Gwen. ‘The monstrance! How dreadful! How can we stop him?'

‘We could take it,' Alice said slowly. ‘If we hid it where he'd never find it . . .'

Father Mark nodded. ‘I can't encourage you, of course. That wouldn't be proper. But if you
did
take the monstrance, and confessed it to me, I would give you absolution. In fact, I would have to say that it wasn't a sin.'

Gwen and Alice looked at each other.

There was no point staying in the church – no statue of Our Lady to do the flowers for. ‘Won't you come home with us for a cup of tea, Father Mark?' Alice asked persuasively.

‘I believe that we could all use a good cup of tea right now,' he agreed.

Settled a short while later in the sitting room of Monkey Puzzle Cottage, Father Mark tried to take their minds off the terrible desecration of their church. ‘You've been away, I believe?'

‘Yes,' said Gwen. ‘We've been to stay with Alice's nephew, south of Norwich.'

‘School holidays,' Alice explained. ‘My nephew's wife works – so many women do these days, even married women, who don't need to – and they like us to come during the school holidays, to give them a hand with the children.'

‘But we're always back for Sunday,' Gwen added. ‘At least . . .' Her face crumbled again. ‘Now, I don't know . . .'

‘Pull yourself together, Gwen,' Alice ordered. ‘It doesn't do any good to feel sorry for yourself. We must think of a plan of action.'

‘And Father Mark!' Gwen exclaimed. ‘We've been awfully selfish. This is all terrible for us, but what about
you
? What are you going to do now? Have you heard anything about that other living that you've applied for?'

The young priest smiled, but they could see that it took some effort. ‘Yes,' he said at last. ‘I . . . I didn't get it. I just heard.'

Gwen was indignant. ‘Didn't get it? But that's terrible! After all you've done for them at Walsingham! They've given it to someone else?'

His hand gripped his tea cup. ‘Yes.' He forced a laugh. ‘But at least they've kept it in the family, so to speak. They've given the living to my friend Stephen Thorncroft. He'll be taking it up in the summer.'

‘Oh, Father Mark! I'm so sorry! Whatever will you do now?' Gwen's face was creased with misery.

‘Just try even harder for the next one that comes along,' he replied lightly. ‘And in the meantime, I'll continue with my part-time work at the Shrine, and of course continue to enjoy the company and the hospitality of my good friends here in South Barsham.'

‘You're
always
welcome here, Father Mark. You know that,' Alice assured him. Gwen nodded violently in agreement.

He smiled at them with gratitude. ‘Thank you, ladies. That means a great deal to me.'

‘If only Father Dexter would go. Then you could be here permanently,' Gwen said plaintively.

‘I don't think he's going anywhere, Miss Vernon.' Mark shook his head.

‘He's
got
to go!' Alice announced. ‘How do we get rid of him?'

‘As I said before, he's got the freehold. That means that the church, the churchyard and the vicarage belong to him, for as long as he wants to stay. Unless he wants to leave, there are only three ways to get rid of an incumbent –' Mark paused significantly. ‘Neglect of duty –'

‘That doesn't seem likely,' Alice muttered.

‘Or gross immorality –'

‘Not him.' Gwen shook her head.

‘Or . . . death.'

‘Oh,' said Gwen.

‘Ah,' said Alice.

CHAPTER 21

    
Thinkest thou that I will eat bulls' flesh: and drink the blood of goats?

Psalm 50.13

‘Just fancy you knowing Fiona Crawford,' Lucy said later, in the car on the way to Fiona's house. ‘Small world.'

‘Yes, but I honestly didn't recognise her. She's changed so much, Lucy.' David shook his head. ‘She used to be . . . almost dowdy. Smart, but very staid, very matronly. She always struck me as a model wife – devoted to her children and all that.'

‘She has children, then? I didn't realise.'

‘Oh, yes, two. They're almost grown, actually. James is at university, and Sarah – I think she's in her last year at some boarding school.'

‘She's never said much to me about her ex-husband. What's he like?' she asked, curious.

‘Oh, Graham. He's a nice chap,' David replied shortly. The one thing he did
not
wish to discuss at the moment was ex-husbands; he didn't trust himself on the subject. That horrible man! He'd been suggestive, offensive, downright rude. How could Lucy ever have . . . ? David couldn't bear even to think of it – of Lucy in that vile man's arms. ‘And what is this Rhys like?' he asked.

‘I think I'll let you judge that for yourself. He's probably not . . . quite what you'd expect.'

‘Hm. That's intriguing.'

‘But Fiona's mad about him.'

‘Really?'

‘Absolutely head-over-heels, from what I've seen. It's funny.' Lucy looked out of the window, smiling to herself. ‘Love, that is. You just never know what attracts people to each other. Sometimes the unlikeliest people get together, and people on the outside can never understand why. You can see why the ancients attributed it to Cupid's arrows – sometimes it seems as arbitrary, as random, as that.'

This, too, was treading on dangerous ground. David couldn't think of a more unlikely pair than Lucy and that appalling Geoffrey Pickering, yet once she'd cared for him enough to marry him. He scowled, casting his mind around for a less painful subject on more or less the same theme. ‘You seemed to have an admirer this afternoon – that young man with the long hair who followed you round like a little puppy-dog. Who was he?'

‘Nicholas Fielding, you mean?' Lucy laughed. ‘He was really quite sweet. One of Rhys's animal rights converts, apparently.'

‘What was he doing there?'

‘Oh, he's quite a fan of mine, it would seem. As I say, he was quite sweet. And he bought a painting!'

‘Come in, Lucy. And David. Any trouble finding the house?' Fiona greeted them.

‘None at all.'

‘I'll never forgive you two for the trick you played on me.' Fiona turned, laughing, and led them into the sitting room. ‘Rhys, darling, you'll never believe what they did to me. This is David,' she added. ‘And Lucy you know. David, I'd like you to meet Rhys Morgan.'

Lucy was right: Rhys Morgan was not at all what he would have expected. He was shorter than Fiona, for one thing, and not particularly attractive, with his thinning carroty hair. He certainly wasn't a fashionable dresser – he was wearing a T-shirt, jeans and trainers. David contrasted him mentally with Graham. Graham was tall, and good-looking in a boyish sort of way; he'd always had nice clothes, and he wore them well. Rhys couldn't have been more different. And of course there was the little matter of the difference in their ages . . .

Rhys shook his hand with a pleasant smile. ‘I hope you don't mind dogs.' He indicated the huge black animal which wagged its tail tentatively at the newcomers. ‘He may be big, but he's a real softie.' David noted that his voice was pleasant, with a hint of a Welsh lilt.

‘Have you fixed us something nice for dinner, darling?' Fiona asked, putting her arms around him.

‘Definitely, my love. I've had the kitchen to myself all day, you know.'

‘You didn't come to the gallery this afternoon?' David enquired.

Rhys shrugged. ‘Not my scene, I'm afraid. Can you imagine me in this kit among all those nobs? And I never go anywhere without Bleddyn.' The dog wagged his tail at the mention of his name.

‘Rhys is the head of the British Animal Rights Coalition,' Fiona said proudly, pointing to his T-shirt. ‘He founded it.'

‘I look forward to hearing all about your work.'

Rhys grinned, and for the next hour or so took him at his word.

*

David found Rhys intelligent and articulate, but by any standards it was a long evening. Dinner was a trial for David. The first course – seaweed soup – was bad enough, but the main course was stir-fried tofu and vegetables. David struggled through it somehow, even without the assistance of wine to dull the pain; Rhys made it clear that alcohol was never served in their home.

David found it difficult, too, to deal with his embarrassment at the open affection between Fiona and Rhys. In short, they were unable to keep their hands off one another, even during the meal. Perhaps he was only jealous, he reflected self-mockingly, but it hardly seemed proper.

At last it was time for coffee. Fiona, tearing herself away from Rhys, asked David for his help in the kitchen.

‘I'm surprised that you drink coffee,' he remarked, rising at her bidding. ‘Isn't caffeine a stimulant, like alcohol?'

‘Yes,' Rhys admitted. ‘But it's my one vice. Apart from Fiona, that is!' In response, she stroked his head as she passed him, and he grinned at her.

Fiona deliberately closed the door of the kitchen, and turned to face David. ‘Well?' she demanded. ‘What do you think?'

‘Very nice,' he said feebly. ‘I can't say that I've ever had tofu before, but –'

‘Not the meal, silly! Rhys! What do you think of him? Isn't he wonderful?'

‘He's very nice, Fiona. I'm glad that you've found someone who makes you so happy.'

She smiled, as if at something unseen over David's shoulder. ‘Oh, it's not just happy, David. It's so much more than that. For the first time in my life, I feel . . . complete. Alive. I never knew what I was missing with Graham. I loved Graham, in a certain way, but this is
different
.' She focused her eyes on David at last, looked at him intently. ‘Do you understand what I mean?'

‘Yes, I think so.'

‘And in bed,' she went on candidly, without embarrassment, ‘I just can't tell you how good it is. I can't get enough of him. We can't get enough of each other.' She looked away again. ‘Oh, I know that he's over ten years younger than I am – nearly fifteen years, in fact. But that doesn't matter, David. It doesn't matter at all. It may seem strange to other people, but I don't care. All that matters is that I love him, and he loves me.'