The Snares of Death (37 page)

Nicholas considered the question carefully, sensing that his answer might be important. ‘After the young priest came out of the church,' he replied at last, ‘Gary and I thought we should leave right away. But Maggie didn't want to. She wanted to go into that church porch, to put up a poster right in the lion's den, she said.'

‘And did she?'

‘Yes, I think so. We wouldn't wait for her, Gary and I. We took off right away, and she stayed behind. She caught up with us a few minutes later.'

So Maggie could have killed Bob Dexter, Lucy reasoned to herself as she walked back towards Walsingham. It would have been possible for her to have slipped into the church and done it. She walked past the telephone with regret: no, she wouldn't be ringing David tonight. This changed things – this was something new. She was going to have to stay.

It wasn't until later in the evening, when Monica had gone off to the Bull to meet Mark Judd, that the other thing registered in Lucy's mind. The name Toby.

That was the name, she realised at last, that had been teasing the periphery of her mind for days. Toby. Someone had said that name, and it had been important. Who was Toby? Who had mentioned him? Had it been Fiona, that day they'd had lunch? She was pretty certain not – it had been after that that the name Toby had been brought up. Lucy squeezed her eyes shut and tried hard to remember. Elayne? No. Alice? No. Gwen? Yes! The scene came back to her, clearly. Alice was talking about Becca and her lover, about Elayne's reaction. And Gwen – Gwen, her face earnest and her golden wig askew, had said, ‘Elayne thought that it was Toby Gates.'

No, it couldn't be. It didn't make sense. Whoever this Toby was, the one she'd seen today, it didn't seem likely that anyone would have chosen him as a candidate for Becca Dexter's lover. Not anyone who knew him, at any rate. He couldn't be Toby Gates. And yet . . .

There was one way to find out. Lucy left the room and went quickly to the telephone, praying that there would be a reply. After a few rings, Rhys's voice answered. ‘Oh, hello, Lucy,' he greeted her. ‘I'm sorry that Fiona's not here. She's gone off to the gallery for a few hours, to get some paperwork done. She says that she can't work at home – I can't imagine why!' he laughed.

‘Actually, Rhys, I just had a quick question, and you can answer it as well as Fiona.'

‘Fire away, Lucy.'

‘I saw the BARC van today, outside Walsingham. Nicholas was there, and another young man. Could you tell me his name?'

Rhys replied readily. ‘Oh, you must mean Toby Gates.'

Monica snored away, intoxicated more by love than by the two sweet ciders that she'd consumed at the Bull. But Lucy was very much awake, and Monica was no longer her greatest worry.

Toby Gates. What could it mean? Rhys had told her that Toby and Becca had come to the meetings together, and that Toby's father was one of Bob Dexter's friends, one of the Evangelicals.

It didn't make sense. Unless . . . she thought. Unless Bob Dexter had found out something that no one, up to that point, had known. Did Becca know about Toby? What if she'd told her father that Toby was no danger to her virtue? Would that give Toby's father a motive to kill Bob Dexter? This, she thought, as she finally fell asleep, could be the breakthrough they'd been looking for. And tomorrow – tomorrow they would all be here, here at Walsingham.

CHAPTER 46

    
Why art thou so full of heaviness, O my soul: and why art thou so disquieted within me?

Psalm 42.6

David hadn't been able to concentrate on the Sunday papers; shortly after lunch he'd given up trying, and had driven into Norwich, determined to take his mind off Lucy. There were thirty-two medieval churches surviving in Norwich. David had decided that he'd try to see as many of them as he could in what remained of the day.

Some of them were locked, of course, and some were difficult to find. It had kept his body occupied, but only a small corner of his mind. Now, in the warm dusk of the evening, he was walking back through the heart of the city, back towards his car. He detoured up Bridewell Alley so that he could pass by the Bridewell Gallery. If he looked in the window, he thought, he might be able to see if Fiona had any of Lucy's paintings on display.

There was a light on at the back of the gallery. David peered through the glass of the window, then tapped lightly on the door. Fiona came to the door, surprised.

‘David! Come in!'

‘I'm sorry to bother you,' he apologised. ‘I saw a light and just thought I'd say hello.'

‘No bother at all,' she assured him with a smile. ‘I was just doing some paperwork. It was starting to get a bit much for me, actually. I'm ready for a break.'

‘Would you like to go somewhere for a drink?' he suggested. ‘Or a coffee?' he amended, belatedly remembering Rhys's prohibition on alcohol.

‘If you don't tell Rhys,' she grinned, ‘I'd love a drink.'

They found a pub nearby, one that David sometimes patronised at lunch-time. On a Sunday evening it was nearly deserted; they found a cosy table by the window.

‘Thanks, David.' Fiona raised her glass of white wine. ‘You have no idea how good this tastes, when it's forbidden fruit.'

‘Won't Rhys be able to smell it on your breath?'

‘Isn't that what mints are for?' she laughed. She regarded David shrewdly for a moment. ‘Lucy's not with you this weekend?'

‘No.' He took a sip of his whisky. ‘She's gone to Walsingham, as a matter of fact.'

‘Walsingham?' Fiona looked amazed. ‘Lucy never struck me as the Walsingham type, I must say.'

He knew that he'd never be able to explain. ‘She's not,' he said shortly.

‘Maybe I'll see her there. I'm going to Walsingham myself, tomorrow,' Fiona revealed. ‘BARC are going to be there to hand out literature at the National Pilgrimage. You know, hunting on church-owned land, battery farming, and all that.'

‘Rhys is going, too, then?'

‘Yes, of course.' Fiona paused thoughtfully, moving her glass around in circles on the table. ‘You know, it's a funny thing, but it seems that everyone is going to be at Walsingham tomorrow. Even Geoffrey Pickering.'

‘Geoffrey!'

‘Yes. He came into the gallery yesterday. It seems that he's in the area doing some research for his latest television series, tracing the whereabouts of Charles the First's private art collection, which has apparently ended up all over the world. He's staying at a stately home just outside Walsingham, he told me.'

‘Did he mention Lucy?' David asked sharply.

‘Well, he
did
ask me if I'd seen her lately.'

David frowned. Not only John Spring, but Geoffrey Pickering! At Walsingham, with Lucy. Lucy had been right about one thing, at any rate – everyone
was
going to be at Walsingham tomorrow.

Fiddling with his seat-belt, David accidentally dropped his keys into the pocket on the door of the car. He cursed and fished for them, and came up with not only his keys but also an old copy of the
Church Times
. Friday 3 May, he saw – over three weeks ago; he didn't remember having read it. He'd probably stuffed it in there, in a hurry to get to London on the Friday afternoon, thinking that he'd read it later. Ah well, he thought. Old church news is better than no church news. Most church news, he'd found, kept very well. He put it in his pocket to read later.

At home, he poured himself another drink. He knew he'd been drinking more than he should the last few days, since Lucy had gone. He didn't drink so much when she was around.

There was nothing even remotely interesting on television. The Sunday papers had bored him once; he tried having another go at them, with no better results. In the end he gave up and went to bed.

It was no good, of course. There was no way that he could sleep. He got up and found the old
Church Times
, switching on the bedside light. No, he most certainly hadn't read this. David had an idiosyncratic approach to reading the
Church Times
; he always started with the classified adverts at the back (lingering over the announcements of weekly services at various spiky London churches), followed by the appointments, resignations and deaths in the Gazette, and then he turned to the Letters page. There were a few letters about Walsingham, he noted: with quickening interest he saw that one of them had been written by Bob Dexter

‘
From the Revd. Bob Dexter
,' it was headed, and continued, ‘Sir, – At this time of year, many right-thinking Anglicans, as well as other Christians, begin to turn their thoughts to that hateful abomination, Walsingham's National Pilgrimage. I would like to inform your readership that this year a new organisation has been formed to combat this heresy. “MISSION: Walsingham” will be a forceful presence on 27 May this year. For further information, or for assistance with travel plans or accommodation, contact Noah Gates, Gates of Heaven Printing Company plc, Fakenham, Norfolk, or myself at the address below. BOB DEXTER, St Mary's Vicarage, South Barsham, Norfolk.'

David whistled soundlessly and read through the letter again, more slowly. Forceful? That sounded like trouble. He remembered, belatedly, that John Spring had told him that there could be violence.

The ingredients churned around in his head throughout the night: John Spring's police reports; the conversations with Miss Barnes and Miss Vernon, with Elayne and Becca Dexter, with Fiona Crawford; his interviews with Stephen Thorncroft; memories of their visit to Walsingham, two months earlier, and to South Barsham church, more recently. But the final element, like the last, crucial ingredient in a recipe, was the
Church Times
of Friday 3 May.

In the morning as he woke, with perfect clarity, David knew who had killed Bob Dexter, and why. There were still a few questions to be answered, but he knew the answer to the main one. Lucy had been right: the answer was at Walsingham. And in being right, she had put herself in great danger.

CHAPTER 47

    
Gather my saints together unto me: those that have made a covenant with me with sacrifice.

Psalm 50.5

Early on Monday morning, Monica hummed to herself as she once again tackled Father Clive's alb.

‘There's Mass again this morning?' Lucy murmured, waking.

‘Oh, yes!'

‘How soon?'

‘As soon as we can get there. Father Clive wants to be early – it's first come, first served for the chapels, and he especially wants the Chapel of the Ascension.'

‘Ah, yes. The feet.' Lucy smiled to herself, picturing those jaunty plaster appendages. ‘Will there be a lot of competition, do you think?'

‘I should jolly well think so,' Monica said earnestly. ‘Don't forget – there are thousands of people on their way here today!'

Due to Father Clive's determination to be among the first, however, they had their Mass in the Chapel of the Ascension, under the plaster feet. It was one of the shallowest of the chapels, and could not have accommodated many more than the four in their party. As it was, they were crowded up against the pilgrims in the adjoining Chapel of the Descent of the Holy Spirit, whose Mass had begun a few minutes earlier. Lucy found it rather confusing, as though she were participating in two services at once.

By the time they finished, however, the Shrine church was well and truly crowded with worshippers. The first wave of coach parties had arrived, and each chapel contained a knot of people with their priest, determinedly concentrating on their responses in spite of what was going on all around them.

‘Let's walk around and see,' Monica suggested in a whisper, and Lucy agreed. Monica, of course, wanted to have a look at the priests, each in his own sumptuous chasuble, most dripping with lace. They were old and young, tall and short, thin and fat, bald and hirsute. Later they would walk in the Procession as a group, all in their albs and their white stoles, and would concelebrate the Mass in the Abbey grounds. But for now they ignored each other and carried on independently, at the tops of their priestly voices: one was intoning the Gospel, simultaneously another was elevating the Host, while yet another was administering the chalice.

The overall effect was amazing, Lucy thought. As each party finished, another was waiting to take its place, and it all began again.

‘If the big Mass is later on, in the Abbey grounds, why does everyone have to have Mass now?' Lucy asked when they were back in the gardens.

Monica looked at her scornfully. ‘So they can eat, of course. We can go and have breakfast now, in the refectory. Come on – I'm hungry!'

After breakfast Monica had been very vague about her plans for the morning, and had wandered off in the direction of the Shrine church. Lucy was relieved – she had a few enquiries that she needed to make, and didn't really want to have to explain anything to Monica.

She went in the opposite direction, into the town. It was still only mid-morning, but already the streets were crowded with people. There were families with young children and dogs, groups of elderly spinsters and widows, people in wheelchairs, a few nuns, decorative young men in twos and threes, mixed groups of parish parties, and, everywhere, priests in black cassocks. Eccentrics peppered the crowd – within a few yards Lucy saw a sandalled and bearded man in a homespun brown monk's robe and a natty youth in an immaculate white suit with a scarlet bow tie, a matching silk handkerchief in his breast pocket, and a straw boater. To her surprise, outside the sanctified air of the Shrine, there was a festival atmosphere.

At the top end of the High Street, not far from the hospice, was the ancient pump which for the past several years had been the headquarters for the Evangelical protesters. Indeed, they were already out in force, with their new ‘MISSION: Walsingham' banner stretched between two tall poles behind the pump. In contrast to the colourful and varied character of the Catholic pilgrims, the Evangelicals, thought Lucy, were all much of a muchness: they were almost all men, with just a few women sprinkled in, and they were all dressed neatly in dark suits, white shirts, and sombre ties. To a man, their hair was short and neatly trimmed; most of them carried Bibles, and many bore posters emblazoned with Bible verses. She'd never be able to pick out Toby's father among these clean-cut clones without help, Lucy realised. She approached a young man who looked perhaps a little less forbidding than some of his fellows; immediately he thrust a folded slip of paper at her. ‘MISSION: Walsingham', it read on the front. ‘Mary, Idols, Saints: Stamp It Out Now!'