The Snares of Death (6 page)

He rubbed his hands together. ‘Oh, yes please, Miss Barnes.'

‘Gwen, you can help me fetch the tea things in,' she commanded. It wouldn't be wise to leave Gwen alone with Father Mark – she'd probably tell him about Bob Dexter and spoil the dramatic impact of the story.

He wasn't alone long, but it was long enough to examine once again the contents of the mahogany whatnot in the corner – a few nice pieces of Victoriana, he thought – and to have another look at the large Staffordshire figures on the mantelpiece. The old dears had some lovely things. He told them as much when they returned, Alice bustling in with the tea tray and Gwen trailing behind with a cake stand. ‘You really do have some lovely antiques,' he said, resuming his seat.

Alice's shrug was dismissive. ‘Nothing special. Mostly Gwen's father's old rubbish.'

‘They're special to
me
,' Gwen said defensively.

‘Of course they are,' Father Mark soothed. ‘Family heirlooms.'

Alice poured the tea through an antique silver strainer.
Proper
tea, thought Father Mark approvingly. A plume of bergamot-scented smoke wafted from the cup she handed him. ‘Earl Grey. How nice.'

‘I didn't give you any milk. You like a slice of lemon with Earl Grey, don't you?' Alice proffered a plate.

‘How kind of you to remember.'

‘And you don't take sugar?'

‘No.' Having grown up on mugs of sweet tea, giving up sugar had been difficult initially, but he no longer missed it.

Gwen came forward with the cake stand. They'd been able to salvage a few of the cream cakes, and at the last minute Alice had whipped up a few scones.

‘Cream cakes! My favourites! And you've made some of your delicious scones. You ladies really do spoil me. I don't deserve such treatment.' Father Mark smiled modestly.

‘Another cup of tea, Father?'

‘That would be lovely.' He held out the empty cup.

‘One more scone?'

‘I couldn't eat another bite.'

Alice had managed, with forbidding looks, to prevent Gwen from spilling her news too soon. Now, she judged, it was time. ‘You know, do you, that we're getting a new priest?'

He was a bit wary, but decided that there was no harm in sharing what he knew. ‘The Archdeacon told me last week that an appointment would be announced quite soon. That's all I know, really.'

‘Well.' She paused significantly. ‘Gwen has met him!'

Father Mark sat up. ‘Met him?'

‘Yesterday, in church. Didn't you know that he was visiting?' Alice couldn't keep the satisfaction from her voice.

‘But who is he?' Father Mark turned towards Gwen, who was nibbling nervously on a few scone crumbs.

‘His name is Bob Dexter. That's what he said, anyway . . .'

The curate nearly dropped his tea cup. ‘Bob Dexter? Not
the
Bob Dexter?'

‘I don't know. I suppose so,' she faltered. ‘But who
is
Bob Dexter?'

‘Don't you know? He's one of the highest-profile Evangelicals in the Church of England! He's always shooting his mouth off in General Synod about something or other. And he's one of the loonies who organise the protests at Walsingham every year!'

‘Oh, no!' breathed Gwen and Alice in unison.

‘It couldn't be,' said Gwen.

‘It could be,' Alice countered ominously.

Once the initial shock had passed, and the subject of Bob Dexter had been exhausted, they got down to practicalities. ‘But Father Mark, what will
you
do?' Alice wanted to know. ‘If it's the same Bob Dexter? And even if it isn't. There won't be much for you to do at South Barsham once we have a full-time priest again. Your appointment here was really only temporary, wasn't it?'

‘Yes, but I do have my work at the Shrine,' he evaded.

‘That's only part time, isn't it? Saying masses for parties of pilgrims, and so forth?'

Father Mark looked at the women's concerned faces. ‘Well,' he said slowly, ‘I'm hoping that something else will come up. I've put my name forward for – well, for another post. With a bit of luck . . .'

‘What sort of post?' Alice was unrelenting in her curiosity.

He hesitated. ‘You mustn't tell anyone about this.' They both nodded. ‘Actually, it's for quite a nice living. I can't tell you where, but it's in the gift of the Guardians of the Shrine of Our Lady of Walsingham. They have the patronage for a number of livings all over the country, you know.'

‘I'm
sure
you'll get it, Father Mark,' Gwen asserted loyally. ‘After all, with your connections at the Shrine, and all you've done for them, they couldn't very well give it to anyone else, could they?'

‘Well, time will tell, Miss Vernon. Time will tell.'

CHAPTER 5

    
He giveth snow like wool: and scattereth the hoarfrost like ashes.

    
He casteth forth his ice like morsels: who is able to abide his frost?

Psalm 147.16–17

David and Lucy had had a quick meal before the concert, so it wasn't too late when he left her at her front door. ‘It was a marvellous concert, wasn't it? Don't you want to come in for a coffee or a brandy?' she urged.

‘I'll give it a miss tonight, I think. You've convinced me that I really have been neglecting Daphne lately, and this would be a good chance for me to have a chat with her. That is, if you don't mind.'

Lucy bit her lower lip, longing to put her arms around him, to kiss his generous, mobile mouth, to whisper, ‘Forget the coffee. Forget the brandy. Forget Daphne. I love you, David. Come up to bed with me.' Was it really so impossible? People could change. After all, he had come back to her. She'd lost him for a time – the hold of the past on him had been too strong then – and he'd come back. She knew that she was important to him, that there was no one else. But he'd never given the slightest indication that he wanted anything more than a platonic relationship with her, and it wasn't worth taking the risk of losing him again. She clenched her hands at her sides. ‘That sounds like a good idea,' was all she said. ‘Have a nice natter with Daphne. See you tomorrow?'

‘Of course. 'Night.'

He walked past the scaffolded Albert Memorial and through Kensington Gardens; though it was dark and deserted he knew his way well. He was in good spirits, partly because of Lucy and the felicity of her company, and partly with residual pleasure over an important court case he'd won the day before; he whistled a snatch of a theme from the Tchaikovsky symphony they'd just heard, his breath hanging frostily on the night air. Soon, surely, this cold weather would break and spring would make a belated appearance. The daffodils, spring's early harbingers, had struggled their way to the surface, and here and there one of them had even put forth a tentative bud, but they wouldn't be blooming for a while yet in the unsheltered park unless it warmed up. Tonight it even felt cold enough for snow, and the sky had that sort of crystalline feel that often precedes a sudden snowstorm.

Daphne. Lucy had mentioned again this evening that he'd been taking her for granted lately, and he knew that Lucy was right, but he was sure that Daphne didn't mind. They'd known each other long enough – over twenty years! – that he felt he didn't have to make excuses to her. And in spite of his neglect there was a new, or perhaps a renewed, closeness in their relationship since their holiday together last autumn. It had been a lovely holiday, exploring churches in the West Country. The weather had been glorious, the churches superb, and they'd come back from the week with their friendship almost where it had been twenty years earlier, before she'd suddenly cancelled the trip they'd planned to take together. Yes, David reflected, a friendship that lasted through the vicissitudes of over twenty years must have a rather special quality. He'd try to do more to nurture it. Before he got to the flat he stopped at an off-licence and bought a bottle of Daphne's favourite single-malt whisky; they could have a few drinks tonight, and a long chat.

When he emerged a few minutes later he discovered that it had indeed begun to snow; tiny ice flakes struck his upturned face like frosty pinpricks. David was exhilarated: what a splendid night it was to sit by the fire with a bottle of whisky.

Opening the door at his tap, Daphne looked surprised to see him. ‘I brought you a bottle,' he announced, handing it to her. ‘And it's snowing!'

‘Why, thank you, David. Do come in.'

Come in? What else did she think he was going to do? Before he could reflect further on Daphne's odd turn of phrase, he was through the door and realised that she was not alone; an elderly gentleman was lumbering to his feet and stretching out his hand.

‘David, you remember Cyril Fitzjames?' Daphne prompted.

‘Yes, of course I do. Wing Commander, how nice to see you again.' He shook the outstretched hand, dark with liver spots, and smiled into the jowled countenance.

‘David, my dear boy! It's been a long time! And it's Cyril to you, not Wing Commander! We've never stood on ceremony before, have we?'

‘I'm afraid I haven't been back to a service at St Anne's since . . . well, for a long time,' David admitted. ‘How have you been keeping?'

‘Oh, very well, dear boy. Still churchwarden. Still keeping my eye on things. Still keeping this dear lady and her sacristy budget under control.' He gave David an exaggerated wink with one drooping eyelid. ‘Of course, things at St Anne's just haven't been the same since . . .' He sighed gustily. ‘Still, never mind.'

David turned to Daphne. ‘I'm sorry, Daphne – I didn't mean to interrupt. I didn't realise. I'll just go into the other room.'

‘Don't be silly. Sit down and join us.'

‘Actually, my boy, it's time for me to be on my way. I must be up early in the morning – Sunday, you know! Daphne, thank you so much for your hospitality, and for the pleasure of your charming company.' Ever the gentleman, he took her hand and bowed.

David hadn't thought that there were very many things that could disturb the unflappable Daphne, but Cyril's courtly gesture seemed to agitate her. ‘Don't be so daft, Cyril,' she said, colouring. ‘You know you're always welcome here.'

‘Well, I'll be shoving off. It's snowing, you say? Bad luck. Never mind. My boy, it's a real pleasure to see you again. You must come round for tea sometime when you're in town, you and Daphne.' The old man struggled into his overcoat.

‘I'd like that.'

‘We'll fix up a time, then. Cheerio.'

When Cyril had gone, Daphne lost no time in fetching the glasses and opening the whisky bottle. ‘Sit down then, David.'

He complied, choosing a seat near the fire. ‘Mind if I take my tie off ?' Without waiting for her affirmative reply, he removed it and slung it over the back of a chair, then put his feet up. ‘I really do apologise for charging in like that. I hope I didn't interrupt anything important.'

She scowled. ‘No, of course not.'

‘Church business?'

‘Yes and no.' She handed David a glass, then settled down opposite him. ‘Cyril . . . well, he's a lonely man. And in the last few months, since Emily's been gone, he calls round occasionally, just for someone to talk to.' Cyril's hopeless attachment to the departed Vicar's wife was not a very well-kept secret in the parish. Daphne shrugged. ‘I don't mind. I've always been a good ear.'

David raised his glass in tribute to her and smiled affectionately. Yes, Daphne had always been a good ear: undemanding, understanding, undemonstrative Daphne. Impulsively he said, ‘You're a good friend, Daphne. I don't tell you that often enough.' For the second time already that evening he saw her blush, and wondered anew what was the impetus behind their strange, mismatched friendship. He didn't usually give it much thought, and it struck him now that it must appear very strange indeed to those on the outside, to people like Lucy and even Cyril: the plain, stout woman, never a beauty, over sixty now, and the reasonably attractive man, no longer young himself yet twenty years her junior. But then people tended not to understand relationships that didn't fit into neat, easily defined categories. David didn't really understand it either, but he valued it highly.

After a flustered moment, Daphne went on with her earlier train of thought. ‘Cyril actually did have some church business to discuss tonight – some last-minute changes in the plans for the new Vicar's induction service.'

‘Oh, that's right – he's arriving quite soon, isn't he?'

‘It's less than a fortnight now.'

Something in her tone of voice intrigued him, and he looked at her curiously. ‘Daphne, you don't sound too thrilled.'

‘Well . . .'

‘Come on, what is it?'

‘Everyone was really pleased when his appointment was announced – he sounded like just the man we needed. But now . . . well, I'm just not so sure, that's all.'

‘What's changed your mind?'

‘For one thing, he's caused some real problems over this service. The churchwardens had made all the plans, had the orders of service printed, and everything. And then at the last minute he's decided that some things need to be altered. Nothing major, mind you, just a few little things, a few matters of style . . .'

‘Don't tell me he's turned out to be a raving Evangelical!' David said facetiously.

‘Hardly likely,' was her dry reply. ‘Not at St Anne's. But I
am
beginning to wonder about his churchmanship.' She paused thoughtfully, regarding the whisky in her glass. ‘It's beginning to appear that we might have a Modern Roman trendie on our hands.'

David whistled. ‘Oh, boy. Lambswool ponchos, folk Masses and spider plants on the altar.'