The Snares of Death (21 page)

Toby flushed painfully. ‘I can assure you, sir . . .' he stammered.

‘Don't worry, my boy.' Dexter waved his hand as he took a seat at the end of the table opposite Noah Gates. ‘It's good for Becca to get out, especially with someone I can trust. I
can
trust you, can't I, Toby?'

‘Of course you can trust my son,' Noah Gates interposed in a steely voice. ‘I've brought him up properly. He knows right from wrong. Are you suggesting otherwise?'

‘Not at all, Noah. Not at all. But a father can't be too careful, can he?' Bob Dexter raised his eyebrows and regarded father and son with a bland smile.

Soon the other members of the ‘MISSION: Walsingham' steering committee had assembled, uniform in their white shirts and displaying their identical white-bread smiles, and it was time to begin the meeting. From the outset, it did not go according to Noah Gates's unwritten agenda.

‘Now that we're all here,' he began, ‘there are a few things –'

‘Don't you think,' Bob Dexter asked from the other end of the table, ‘that we should open with prayer? Commit our enterprise to the Lord?'

‘Yes, of course . . .'

With a smooth movement, Dexter rose to his feet. ‘Dear Lord Jesus,' he began in his sonorous baritone preacher-voice, before anyone else had a chance to react, ‘we gather here today in Your name, to seek Your will. We know that You will guide us, for we have called upon You. In Your Holy Scriptures You have promised us that he who seeks will surely find, and You have given us Your Holy Spirit in our hearts as a token of Your favour.'

His voice dropped, then gradually rose as he continued. ‘O Lord, You know that there are many who dwell in darkness. Their eyes are blinded by superstitious vanities. They call upon Your name, but they see you not. Help us, O Jesus, to help them. Give us the words to say, and the methods to reach them, so that they might be saved for all eternity, and escape from the everlasting damnation to which they have condemned themselves by their idolatrous practices. Help us, Jesus, to love the sinners even as we hate their sin. Give us wisdom, give us courage. And prepare their hearts even now to receive Your holy words, that they might see the error of their ways and turn to You. Make us Your instruments, O Jesus, so that all might follow You, and dwell one day with us in Your eternal kingdom.' For a fraction of a second, Dexter's eyes opened and flickered over the bowed heads around the table. ‘Guide us this day, and ever more. In the name of Jesus, Amen.'

‘And now,' said Bob Dexter, smoothly, ‘I'd like to tell you all a few of my experiences in dealing with the members of my parish. It could be helpful in trying to understand the Walsingham mentality.' All eyes swivelled to the far end of the table.

Noah Gates had lost control of the meeting, once and for all.

CHAPTER 27

    
And I said, O that I had wings like a dove: for then would I flee away, and be at rest.

Psalm 55.6

David was up early on Friday, and off to his offices. He had a great deal of work to get through that day, and he intended leaving as early as possible that afternoon for London and Lucy; the week without her had seemed interminable, and he could hardly wait to see her again. At this hour there was little traffic on the A11 – nothing to require his attention, and take his thoughts from Lucy. Once in Norwich, he threaded his way through the complicated one-way system and parked his car in the small private car park behind Princes Street, a narrow, picturesque street of converted Georgian houses, one of which held his offices. Early as he was, he let himself in with his key – not something that happened very often, he thought wryly – then, as he always did, automatically and unconsciously, he checked his tie in the mirror just inside the front door. But this time, something about the tie caught his attention, and he frowned. It was the one that his mother had given him for Christmas, the year before she died. He'd never liked it. Why had he worn it today, today when he was going to see Lucy? He made a mental note to change it before he left for London – to throw it away, even.

He was not the first one in the offices, David found as he passed through the typists' room. A girl was sitting at a typewriter – a small, childish-looking blonde girl, Karen. But she wasn't typing, and there was something different about her appearance. David, who was fairly observant, realised that it was her hair. It was fine-textured blonde hair: the last time he remembered seeing her it had fallen limply to her shoulders; now it was a bit shorter and had been permed into a thousand tiny corkscrews. She glanced around. ‘Good morning, Mr Middleton-Brown,' she whispered over her shoulder.

‘Karen?' he said tentatively. ‘Your hair . . .'

‘I've had a perm.'

‘Very nice, too.' He stopped as she swivelled in her chair and turned her face up to him; her brown eyes were swimming with unshed tears. ‘Why, Karen, what's the matter?'

‘Oh, Mr Middleton-Brown!' She ended on a half-sob. ‘I'm sorry . . . I don't want to trouble you . . .'

Oh, Lord, he thought, now what? But he conquered his impulse to flee and sat down on her desk, leaning towards her. He felt that he should take her hand, to reassure and comfort her, but decided at the last minute that she might interpret it the wrong way. ‘Karen, tell me what's wrong. Is it the job? Are we giving you too much work? Is that why you're here so early?'

Looking away, she shook her head and the multitudinous corkscrews bobbed madly, but it was a moment before she spoke. ‘No, it's not that. I just needed . . . to get away from my family, to be alone for a little while.'

‘Would it help to talk about it?' He paused. ‘That is, if you don't mind talking to an old man like me.'

She smiled a watery smile, and David realised with a fairly unpleasant pang that she
did
think of him as an old man, and he needn't have worried about her misinterpreting his kindly gesture. She
was
very young, after all – perhaps not even eighteen; he was probably older than her father. He took her hand. It was a very small hand, and cold; the tiny nails were cut short, for typing, and the pale pink polish on them was chipped. He gave it a reassuring squeeze and she returned the pressure gratefully. ‘Come on – tell me what's wrong. Boyfriend trouble?'

Again she shook her head, but this time she met his eyes. ‘I saw a programme on the telly last night,' she whispered at last, and one of the tears in her brimming eyes squeezed out and ran down her cheek. ‘It was about animals. About the awful things that they do to them.' She gulped. ‘There were these baby seals. They hit them with clubs. The men. There was blood – all over the snow. Oh, it was horrible. And badgers. The dogs – they ripped them apart.' One by one the tears escaped. ‘I couldn't sleep at all last night. And now . . . I just don't know what to do. How can people be so cruel? To poor little helpless animals, who never did them any harm? Oh, Mr Middleton-Brown, what can I do? What can anyone do?' Her soft, full lower lip trembled, and her babyish face looked as though it were ready to dissolve in tears.

Although it was clearly a rhetorical question, and she didn't really expect him to have any answers, David felt that he had to say something. For a moment he looked at her helplessly, then inspiration struck. ‘Karen, there are other people who feel the same way. Other people who love animals, and want to help them. I know someone that you could talk to.' She was still clinging to his hand, but with his free hand he felt in his pocket for his diary. He'd send her to see Rhys Morgan – maybe she'd enjoy his blooming tofu.

‘Darling, you've got to talk to Daphne.'

‘Hmm?' Though it was quite late on Saturday morning, David was barely awake.

‘You've got to talk to Daphne,' Lucy repeated, nuzzling his neck.

He opened his eyes. ‘Daphne?'

‘Daphne. You've got to tell her. About us.'

He reached for her, but she wriggled out of his grasp. ‘David, this is serious. You have to talk to her.'

‘Daphne. Yes, I know. Later. There's no hurry.' He reached for her again.

She resisted him. ‘David! Listen to me!'

‘Yes, I heard you. I have to talk to Daphne,' he acknowledged reluctantly.

‘You're putting it off, aren't you?'

‘I just don't see the great rush. She's not going anywhere.'

‘That's just it,' Lucy emphasised. ‘She's
not
going anywhere. She's probably sitting around her flat, waiting for you to show up.'

‘Surely that's a bit dramatic?'

Lucy shook her head. David had evidently never realised how fond Daphne was of him, though to her, an outsider, it was manifestly apparent. It would probably do no good to explain it to him at this late stage. ‘When was the last time you spoke to her?' she contented herself with asking.

‘A few weeks ago,' he shrugged. ‘Last weekend you came to Wymondham, the weekend before – Easter weekend – I stayed home, you remember, so it would have been the week before that, when I was last in London, meeting with those property developers.'

‘And did she know that you wouldn't be staying with her this weekend?'

‘No, of course not. It's not the sort of thing I'd want to put in a letter, is it?' he defended himself. ‘ “I'm sorry that I'll no longer be requiring your spare room – I've had a better offer”? But I never told her I
would
be staying with her this weekend.'

‘Darling, I'm sure she's wondering. She was probably expecting you last night.'

‘I always drop her a line when I'm coming,' David protested. ‘So she wouldn't have been expecting me. Come here, Lucy love. Surely it can wait a few more minutes! I'll go to see her this afternoon.'

‘All right, if you promise.' Mollified, she allowed herself to be drawn into his arms.

Daphne was out when David arrived at her flat, just before tea-time, but he let himself in with the key she'd insisted he keep for just such occasions. He browsed on her bookshelves, selected a promising-looking volume about ecclesiastical embroidery in the nineteenth century, and made himself comfortable on her shabby, over-stuffed sofa. He quickly became engrossed, and looked up abstractedly as she entered. ‘Oh, hello, Daphne. Hope you don't mind me making myself at home.'

She looked surprised to see him. ‘Of course not, David. You know you're always welcome here,' she said. ‘Tea?' She was already on her way to the kitchen to fill the kettle.

‘Yes, but you don't have to wait on me,' David protested, as he had done so many times before. Reluctantly, he put the book down and followed her to the tiny kitchen.

‘Just go back in the other room and sit down,' Daphne ordered. ‘There's not enough room in here for both of us. I'll be out in a tick.'

He obeyed her, resuming his seat on the sofa. But instead of picking the book up, he began to think about what he might say to her. Lucy was right – he
had
been putting it off, and had even avoided thinking about it. This wasn't going to be easy. But he and Daphne had weathered worse storms in their long friendship. And he didn't think that Daphne had any objections to Lucy. Undoubtedly, though, it would mean a major change in their relationship, logistically if nothing else: no longer would he be calling upon her hospitality, using her spare room on frequent weekend visits. There would be no more holidays together, no more cosy late-night chats over a bottle of whisky. He hoped that she wouldn't mind too much.

Daphne interrupted his reverie as she eased the tea tray on to the table and sat down. ‘David, I have to talk to you,' she said brusquely, running her hands through her bluntly cut grey hair.

He sat up in surprise. ‘There's something I have to talk to
you
about.'

‘Don't interrupt me.' Daphne had put on her half-moon reading glasses, and she looked at him now over the tops of them, pursing her mouth wryly. ‘This is difficult enough as it is. Just let me say what I have to say.'

‘All right.' He sat very still, trying to think what it might be.

Daphne took a deep breath, and plunged in. ‘I wanted you to be the first to know. I'm going to be married.'

‘Married?' He stared at her, thunderstruck.

She laughed self-consciously. ‘Yes, I know it must seem hard to believe.'

‘But . . . but . . . who?'

Daphne didn't look at him as she replied. ‘Cyril. Cyril Fitzjames.'

He sat silently for a moment, struggling to absorb this knowledge. ‘Cyril.'

‘Yes. I . . . we . . .' She twisted her hands together in her lap. ‘David, it's not easy to explain. There are reasons . . .'

‘You don't owe me any explanations,' he said quickly. ‘Cyril is a nice chap. If you love him . . .'

She looked squarely at David for a moment, then looked away. ‘It's rather more complicated than that.'

‘What do you mean?'

She busied herself pouring the tea as she explained. ‘The new Vicar of St Anne's. You know that it's been a difficult adjustment for me – for a lot of people.'

‘Yes . . .'

‘It's his first parish – he's very young. He's been insistent from the beginning on getting his own way. Cyril says that he's a spoiled brat.'

‘There must be more to it than that.' David found it hard to understand; he was unable to imagine anyone who couldn't get on with Daphne. She was always willing to give the benefit of the doubt, to see things from the other side.

Daphne shot him a look over her spectacles. ‘His churchmanship is very different from Gabriel's, from mine. Gabriel and I were on the same wavelength. This new chap . . . well, it's been difficult, as I say.'

‘MRP,' David encouraged her.