The Snares of Death (8 page)

‘I can handle Maggie.'

‘She's coming tonight?'

‘Yes.' It was said neutrally, but then he added with more animation, ‘Someone else is coming along tonight as well. Someone new.'

‘Yeah? Who?'

‘Does the name Fielding mean anything to you?' Rhys replied elliptically.

‘Only that dude on the tube. The chicken dude. With the stuffed chicken thighs.'

‘That's right!' he said triumphantly. ‘Frank Fielding of Fielding Farms! One of the biggest battery farmers in south Norfolk, star of his own television adverts.'

‘
He's
coming tonight?' Gary looked distinctly sceptical. ‘Get real, man.'

‘No, not him, of course. It's his son, Nicholas.'

‘Frank Fielding's son is coming here?'

‘Yes. He saw a clip from the interview on the noon news today, and rang me this afternoon. I invited him to come along tonight.'

‘But why?'

Rhys smiled and proffered a bowl of crisps. ‘He believes in what we're doing and totally repudiates his father's way of life. But not his money, I believe,' he added. ‘He's got a fair chunk of money, and says he has a few ideas about how we might use it.'

‘Holy shit!'

‘Precisely.'

The dog showed more animation than he had all evening when the young woman – she would not appreciate being called a girl – entered the room. He lumbered to his feet and swished his long tail; the young woman greeted the dog before speaking to either of the men. ‘Hello, Bleddyn. How's my favourite boy tonight?' She scratched his ears and communicated silently with him for a moment, finally raising her head and regarding the men. ‘So. Now we're official. BARC has been formally launched.'

‘That's right, Maggie,' Rhys replied. ‘A little later we can have a toast. Fiona's bought us some sparkling grape juice. And we can watch the video of my interview, if you haven't seen it.'

‘How could I have seen it? You know that I just got off work.' Maggie glared at him, took her coat off and threw it on a chair, then flopped down on the floor beside the dog. She, too, was wearing a T-shirt, but hers bore the name of The Green Scene, the vegetarian restaurant where she worked. ‘And I've just eaten, so don't bother offering me any of those crisps.'

Maggie Harrison looked from Rhys to Gary, ready to begin. Everything about her spoke of a strong, uncompromising personality, from her long, straight brown hair to her determined jaw. She had round, horn-rimmed spectacles that collided with her poker-straight fringe, and she wore no make-up.

‘We won't start just yet,' Rhys said, then explained to her about Nicholas Fielding and his phone call.

Maggie was horrified. ‘Frank Fielding's son? Frank Fielding is a capitalist pig of the worst kind – one who's made his money from the dead bodies of another species. It's blood money. We should have nothing to do with his son, or his money. We'll tell Nicholas Fielding he can –'

‘We'll do nothing of the sort, Maggie.' Rhys spoke more severely than was his wont. ‘Nicholas Fielding seemed very sincere. He said that he's been thinking about all these issues for a long time, and when he saw the piece on telly he knew he had to join us. If he wants to atone for his father's sins –' The doorbell rang. ‘That must be Nicholas now.' With a last warning look at Maggie, he went to answer it.

The young man whom he ushered into the room a moment later was not quite what any of them had expected. He was younger than he had sounded on the phone, certainly not yet twenty. And he looked nothing like bluff, hearty Frank Fielding, the stereotypical florid-faced farmer, known to the entire television audience of the United Kingdom for his intrusive, ubiquitous advertisements for stuffed chicken thighs. Nicholas Fielding was tall and willowy, and his chestnut-coloured hair was worn in a shoulder-length bob. His features were delicate to a degree that could almost be described as pretty, and the few spots that marred his complexion were a natural condition of his extreme youth. He smiled, an open and friendly smile, and headed straight for the dog. ‘Hello, doggie. What's your name?'

The dog sniffed him in an interested way. ‘His name's Bleddyn,' Maggie said grudgingly.

‘Bleddyn?'

‘It's Welsh for wolf,' Rhys explained with a smile. ‘I reckon he's mostly wolfhound.'

‘He's your dog, then?'

‘Yes.'

Maggie unbent slightly, disarmed by the boy's interest in the dog. ‘Rhys rescued him,' she explained proudly. ‘Someone had been using him for hunting and had mistreated him. You should have seen him – he was so skinny. But Rhys saved him, and there's nothing Bleddyn wouldn't do for Rhys.'

Nicholas scratched the dog's ears as Rhys introduced him to the others. Then he spied the poster and went over to examine it. ‘I love this poster,' he said enthusiastically. ‘That's what really caught my attention when I saw it on the telly. It's by Lucy Kingsley, isn't it?'

‘Yes, that's right. You've heard of Lucy Kingsley?'

‘Oh, yes!' Nicholas turned. ‘My father . . . well, I suppose you know he's very rich. Rolling in it. He's got a smart investment counsellor who's got him started buying art – as an investment, you understand. My father doesn't know anything about art,' he said with a condescending sneer. ‘But this bloke reckons that Lucy Kingsley is undervalued at the moment, and will really go through the roof in the next few years. So my father's bought several of her paintings. He doesn't much care for them – as I said, he doesn't know anything about art – but I think they're smashing. This isn't much like her usual stuff, but it's brilliant, isn't it? Have you actually met her?'

Rhys smiled at the young man's fervour. ‘Yes, when I commissioned the poster. Fiona, my . . . the woman I live with, owns an art gallery, and she suggested that Lucy Kingsley would be just the right person to do the poster, so we went down to London to talk to her about it. And Fiona's arranged for an exhibition of her work at the gallery, opening at the end of the month.'

‘What's she like?'

Rhys thought for a minute. ‘Youngish, sort of mid-thirties. Very pretty, very intelligent, very articulate.
And
,' he added proudly, ‘I'm pleased to say that after I finished with her, she is now a vegetarian! I'm sure you can meet her when she comes for the opening, if you like.'

Nicholas grinned back at him. ‘Fantastic!'

Later, after they'd watched the video and toasted their launch, they got down to business. Far from being shy in the company of those who were senior to him in age and experience, Nicholas entered into their discussions as if he had always been a member of the steering committee of BARC.

‘I've been thinking about this all day,' he said, ‘and I've got a plan.'

Rhys raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes?'

‘Well, I think I told you that I had some money.' He turned to Maggie and Gary to explain. ‘I've been taking a year off before I go to university next September. My father thought that it would be good for me to travel, so he's given me twenty thousand pounds.'

‘Wow!' breathed Gary wonderingly, and even Maggie gasped a bit. Nicholas went on. ‘I haven't really got organised to go anywhere, so I just put it in the bank, and now there's even more. I reckon that I really should do something with it.' He paused, turning back to Rhys. ‘I want to buy a van – a great big van. We can have it painted with “BARC” on the side, and have it all fitted out. Then I can spend the rest of the year doing what my father wanted: travelling!' He smiled ironically. ‘I can go all over the country, handing out information and making people aware of their responsibilities to animals. Raising consciousness, giving advice! Taking BARC to the nation!'

‘Blood money,' Maggie muttered.

‘Groovy!' approved Gary.

But Rhys looked at the boy with respect. ‘Welcome to BARC, Nicholas,' he said softly. He raised his empty glass. ‘To a long and happy association.'

CHAPTER 7

    
I held my tongue, and spake nothing: I kept silence, yea, even from good words; but it was pain and grief to me.

Psalm 39.3

Spring had arrived in earnest by the middle of March, and the vicarage in Richmond, surrounded by spring flowers, had never looked more beautiful than on the day the removal men were due to arrive.

Bob Dexter rose early, as was his habit, and took one last walk around the church. He'd spent much of his career at this church. No one could accuse Bob Dexter of being ambitious for promotion, he thought with self-righteous satisfaction. Twenty years at one church! Becca had been only a baby when they'd come here.

He'd been right to time his departure so that Psalm Sunday had been his last appearance, he decided. It was a fitting moment to leave, at the height of the celebrations of Jesus's triumphal entry into Jerusalem, and before the sombre reflections of the later part of Holy Week. It was a pity in a way that he wouldn't be there for Easter, but in one sense he felt that it would be a good opportunity for the parishioners to realise the full extent of their loss. They would miss him at Easter, and perhaps that was no bad thing.

He certainly couldn't complain about the warmth of his send-off. The morning service had been sublime, with the stirring hymn ‘Ride on! ride on in majesty!' He felt that it was particularly appropriate, almost as if the ‘palms and scattered garments strowed' were in part for him. In the evening they'd had a big reception in the church hall, with all sorts of tasty refreshments, and speeches of appreciation, and the presentation of the many gifts. He'd been given a beautiful leather-bound Bible and a large reproduction of Holman Hunt's ‘The Light of the World' to hang in his new office. There were handmade presents, too: a carved representation of ‘The Praying Hands' from the Men's Bible Fellowship, and from the Mothers' Union a cushion embroidered with all his favourite texts. All very satisfactory. Sad, in a way, to be leaving after so many years, but Bob Dexter felt ready to tackle the challenge that God had prepared for him.

Returning to the vicarage, he went into the kitchen for a cup of coffee and found his wife in the midst of a sea of tea chests and stacks of crockery. She looked at him with a worried frown. ‘I don't know if I'll have enough newspapers to wrap it all, Bob.'

Dexter smiled. ‘The loft is full of old parish magazines. You can use those.'

Elayne Dexter smiled uncertainly, not sure whether his suggestion was a serious one. Probably so: Bob Dexter was not, on the whole, given to making jokes. ‘All right, then.'

‘Any chance of a coffee?'

‘Of course, Bob.' She instantly stopped her packing, switched on the kettle, and selected two mugs, one of which bore the inscription ‘Christians aren't perfect, just forgiven', and the other ‘Thank God for Jesus'.

Elayne Dexter had never been a great beauty, but in middle age her appearance could best be characterised as nondescript. She had the sort of anonymous face that one could pass in the street every day, speak to in the shops, and still fail to recognise when introduced. It might be fair to say that she had lived so long in the shadow of her handsome, self-confident husband that she cast scarcely any shadow herself, but this was a situation she had long since accepted. She was the perfect Vicar's wife: stalwart of the choir, Sunday School teacher, leader of the Pathfinders, faithful member of the Mothers' Union, and head of the Women's Bible Fellowship. And she regarded Bob Dexter as only a little lower than the triune God.

‘Where's Becca?' he asked. ‘Maybe she'd like a coffee, too.'

‘In your study, I think.' Elayne reached for Becca's old Bunnykins mug and spooned in some instant coffee granules.

‘I'll take it to her,' Dexter offered. He left Elayne with her solitary mug of coffee and her packing; with a steaming mug in each hand he went up the stairs to his study and pushed the door open with his foot.

‘Daddy!' Rebecca Dexter turned from his desk with a welcoming smile, and Dexter's heart turned over as it always did when he saw her. His Becca. He still couldn't believe that this exquisite creature was his daughter. It was really only recently that she'd lost her adolescent puppy fat and turned into a beautiful young woman. She had his colouring, but her blue eyes were huge and luminous, and her ash-blonde hair was shiny and straight and so long that she could sit on it. He loved her hair, especially when she wore it, as now, straight down her back with just a band to hold it back from her face. That lovely face! The feature that prevented her from being a classical beauty, but paradoxically that gave her face much of its charm, was her somewhat short, slightly tiptilted nose. She wrinkled that nose now, as she smelled the coffee. ‘Oh, Daddy, you've brought me some coffee! You must have read my mind.' She reached for the Bunnykins mug.

‘Good morning, Princess. How are you?'

‘Oh, fine, Daddy. I've got all of your books packed, and practically everything out of your desk.'

‘You don't really need to empty out the desk, you know. It's going with us.' He crossed the room and looked at the array of items spread out on the desk.

She moved beside him and linked her free arm through his. ‘I know, but I thought it was a good opportunity to have a clear-out. I don't think you've emptied out your desk for years! And look what I found in the back of a drawer. Do you remember this, Daddy?' Rebecca pointed to a plaster paperweight, painted garishly in primary colours and bearing the imprint of a small hand.

‘Of course I remember it, Princess. You made it for me for Christmas one year – it was one of the nicest presents I ever got.' He smiled down at her, then looked at her searchingly. ‘How do you feel about leaving here, Becca? Do you mind?' Almost as if he were thinking aloud, he added, ‘There's nothing in the world that matters more to Bob Dexter – aside from doing the Will of God, of course – than making his Princess happy.'