A Dead Man Out of Mind (4 page)

‘But you will,' Lucy interrupted him urgently. ‘You said that you would be able to. And then Sir Crispin will be in your debt.'

David gave her a questioning look. ‘What are you getting at?'

Unable to meet his eyes, she looked first up at the ceiling and then down at their clasped hands; with her free hand she pushed back her hair. ‘Well, it's just that . . .' She took a deep breath and plunged into the story of her brother's letter and her niece's proposed visit.

For a moment David just stared at her. ‘You want me to ask Fosdyke if a fourteen-year-old girl can follow me around for three weeks?' he exploded at last. ‘Do you have any idea what you're asking?'

‘Yes, I know it's asking a lot, but you just said that he'd owe you a favour . . .'

‘A favour, perhaps, but this . . . !'

Lucy's head drooped despondently, her long curly red-gold hair falling forward to shadow her face, and David's heart melted. ‘Oh, all right. I'll ask him,' he relented, with much misgiving. ‘I can't promise that he'll say yes, though.'

‘Oh, David darling, thank you.' Her smile was radiant. ‘I know that you'll do your best to convince him. And why should he object, after all? She might even be able to help you.'

‘You don't know Sir Crispin Fosdyke,' he retorted darkly. ‘And I very much doubt that she'd do anything but get in the way. There are issues of client confidentiality to consider – I'd have to spend all my time finding fiddly little things to keep her busy.' After a moment he had another thought. ‘And she's supposed to stay here with us? In this house? Where would we put her?'

‘On the sofa bed, of course.'

David frowned. ‘For three weeks? It would be all right for a night or two, I'm sure, but for three weeks? Rather in the way, I'd think. And she's bound to have great quantities of clothes, and other bits and pieces – teenage girls do, don't they? She'd probably leave her things all over the place. This house just isn't big enough for three people.' Lucy looked at him quizzically, and in an instant he saw the danger in that line of reasoning: it was after all
her
house, not his, and if he wasn't careful, he'd find himself the one without a place to stay for three weeks. ‘Oh, never mind,' he muttered, then effected a rapid change of subject. ‘More wine, Lucy love? The bottle's almost empty.'

CHAPTER 2

    
Nevertheless, when he saw their adversity: he heard their complaint.

Psalm 106.43

For the past several minutes, the only sound in the parlour of the clergy house had been the loud ticking of the longcase clock in the corner. Seated opposite each other on expensively upholstered chairs, the two churchwardens remained silent, regarding each other uneasily.

The two men had little in common, save their office – and their high churchmanship. Martin Bairstow, the younger of the two, was a wealthy man, having made his fortune in the City. Single-minded, he had early in life directed his energies to the amassing of wealth, and that accomplished most satisfactorily, he now devoted his time outside work to being the most conscientious and hard-working churchwarden that St Margaret's Church had ever known. He was still only in his mid-forties, and was possessed of looks that most women found handsome, if somewhat stolid: he was large and well-built, his thick dark hair was only slightly threaded with grey, and his features were pleasingly even, though dominated by a heavy jaw.

Norman Topping, on the other hand, looked the part of the amiable buffoon, with his peculiar bullet-shaped head and his comical jug ears; what little hair he had was in the form of colourless stubble. He was short and slightly flabby, and his deep, somewhat nasal voice betrayed his northern origins. Topping was good-natured and amiable, but completely without imagination. Nearly sixty, and approaching retirement from his career as a mid-level civil servant, he had been churchwarden of St Margaret's for a number of years.

The clock chimed four o'clock; Norman Topping jumped slightly, drawing a bemused and somewhat contemptuous look from his fellow warden. ‘Sorry,' he mumbled. ‘I thought he would have been here by now.'

Unnecessarily, Bairstow looked at his handsome gold watch. ‘He's thirty minutes late,' he confirmed. ‘It's not like the Vicar to be late.'

They turned expectantly as the door of the sitting room opened, but if they thought to see a contrite Father Keble Smythe, they were disappointed. Instead the housekeeper made a diffident entrance. ‘It's gone four,' she said. ‘I can't think what's keeping Father, but I thought that perhaps you might like some tea.'

Used to making decisions, Bairstow agreed instantly. ‘Yes, thank you, Mrs Goode. That would be very nice.'

‘Yes, a cup of tea would go down a treat,' Topping seconded.

‘If it's not too much trouble, Mrs Goode,' added Bairstow with his most winning smile. ‘It's most kind of you to offer.'

Martin Bairstow was a particular favourite with Mrs Goode, as he was with a great many middle-aged and older ladies in the parishes of St Margaret and St Jude: excellent and devout Anglican women every one, who appreciated his consideration and his various little kindnesses towards them, and who regularly confessed to Father Keble Smythe the unseemly – perhaps even sinful – envy they felt towards the fortunate Mrs Bairstow. Flustered now by his attention, Mrs Goode tried to cover it up with a show of efficiency. ‘No trouble at all, I'm sure. China or India?' she asked, backing out of the room.

‘China,' said Martin Bairstow.

‘India,' said Norman Topping simultaneously.

‘I shall make both,' Mrs Goode declared. ‘And I'm sure that Father will be here any minute.'

The tea, served in thin china cups, was delicious, and accompanied by buttery fingers of Mrs Goode's homemade shortbread. The Vicar had as yet failed to appear; over their tea the men made some effort at conversation.

‘Your family is well?' Bairstow enquired courteously. ‘Avoiding the bugs that have been going round?'

‘Oh, yes. Dolly is never ill – it's a point of pride with her. She says that she's never been ill a day in her life.'

Bairstow nodded. ‘What is Dolly doing with herself these days, now that Ladies Opposed to Women Priests have lost their
raison d'être
? Has she found another cause?'

Chuckling, Norman Topping helped himself to another shortbread finger. ‘They may have lost the vote, but they've by no means disbanded. Dolly will never give up hoping that some miracle will occur – that God will instantly strike dead all women who want to be priests, and any heretical bishop who's prepared to ordain them. But yes, she's looking to fresher pastures these days – she's getting involved with an anti-abortion campaign. And if I know Dolly, she'll be running the show within a few weeks.'

Martin Bairstow stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘The Church needs people like Dolly, who are prepared to stand up for what they believe. And she's absolutely right about women priests, of course. As we've often discussed before. Disaster for the Church of England, complete and utter disaster.'

‘But as long as we don't get any of them here . . .'

Bairstow got up and went to the window. Already the days were lengthening, and it was not yet dark; he could see the austere Victorian edifice of St Jude's across the street in the deepening gloom. ‘It would be out of the question – untenable,' he declared forcefully. ‘I can't see it happening, quite frankly. But if it did . . . well, I'd have to re-think my position about staying in the Church of England. All of us at St Margaret's would. Dolly would be the first to—' He broke off at the sight of the Vicar's car turning into the street. ‘Ah, here is Father Keble Smythe. At last. Now we can get on with this meeting.'

Father Keble Smythe, sweeping into the parlour in his great clerical cloak, was of course fulsome in his apologies for keeping his churchwardens waiting on a Saturday afternoon when they were sure to have other commitments. ‘It was unavoidable,' he assured them. ‘Even though I'm a bachelor myself, I am most conscious that you both have wives waiting for you at home, and I wouldn't have delayed you if it hadn't been of the utmost importance. But I'm so pleased to see that Mrs Goode has supplied you with tea. An excellent woman, Mrs Goode. The next best thing to a wife.' His voice was beautifully modulated, and his accent plummy in the extreme.

Accepting his apologies, they followed him into his study. Like the parlour, it was a well-appointed room, nicely proportioned and expensively furnished. Waving the churchwardens into chairs, the Vicar seated himself behind his desk and allowed himself a moment to glance at the silver-framed photo which had pride of place in front of him, then picked it up and handed it across the desk to Martin Bairstow. ‘Have you seen this? A new portrait of Miss McKenzie, my fiancée. She had it done for me, for Christmas. Uncommonly good, don't you think?'

Bairstow studied the representation of the rather horse-faced young woman with a noncommittal expression. ‘Very nice, Father.' An old-fashioned Anglo-Catholic, he disapproved of married clergy, and regretted the fact that St Margaret's affiliation with St Jude's in a united benefice had given it a vicar with rather different standards. St Margaret's had certainly never had a married vicar before, and although Miss Morag McKenzie – so often spoken of – had yet to be seen in the parish, that looked set to change at some time in the future. It was the thin end of the wedge, as far as Martin Bairstow was concerned.

Father William Keble Smythe smiled at his wardens across the desk. Dressed in his black cassock with its thirty-nine buttons, he was everything that a young, upwardly-mobile priest should be: good-looking, personable, well-educated and evidently well-connected. He had been Vicar of St Jude's for something over five years, and in that time he had slightly, yet perceptibly, raised the churchmanship of that staid parish without alienating any of his wealthy parishioners: no mean feat. Three years ago when the benefices had been combined he had also been named Priest-in-Charge of neighbouring St Margaret's, where the churchmanship was traditionally far higher than at St Jude's; there he was admired for his avowed adherence to Catholic practices, though in actuality he rarely took a service at St Margaret's. Within the diocese of London it was acknowledged that Father William Keble Smythe had never put a foot wrong, had never rocked the boat, and was undoubtedly destined for bigger things.

‘Do you know why we've asked for this meeting?' Martin Bairstow began.

The Vicar's cordial smile betrayed nothing. ‘Why don't you tell me?' he invited.

Ignoring his fellow warden, Bairstow addressed the Vicar. ‘You must know that the staffing situation at St Margaret's has become intolerable. To put not too fine a point on it, Father, we're absolutely desperate for a new curate.'

‘You promised us a month ago that you'd do something as soon as possible,' Norman Topping put in.

‘And things have got worse since then,' Bairstow continued. ‘We've just about managed on Sunday mornings, with the goodwill of curates from neighbouring parishes. But the weekday Masses have been a real problem – I don't know if you realise.'

‘I thought that Father Travis—'

‘Father Travis means well,' said Bairstow, frowning. ‘But he always was absent-minded, even when he was active. Now that he's retired – well, he just can't be relied upon. Last week he failed to turn up on three consecutive days. Three days without a Mass! You must agree, Father – that just isn't on!'

Father Keble Smythe put his fingertips together. ‘No, that's not acceptable. But you must realise that I'm just as inconvenienced as you are – this is a very large parish – two parishes! – to run without the help of a curate. I've—'

‘In January it's bad enough,' interrupted Norman Topping. ‘But with Lent coming up soon, and then Holy Week and Easter, we just can't go on like this. Something has to be done. We've got to have a new curate, as soon as possible.'

Inclining his head, the Vicar went on in a somewhat pained voice. ‘As I was about to say, gentlemen, I've made this my top priority. That is the reason I was late for this meeting – I've spent the afternoon seeing the Director of Ordinands, the Archdeacon, and then the Bishop.'

The two churchwardens' expressions changed in an instant to ones of hopeful expectation. ‘And?' prompted Martin Bairstow.

Father Keble Smythe shook his head. ‘I'm afraid it's all very difficult. As you would expect, curates are not that easy to come by at the moment. The next ordinations won't take place till Petertide, and we certainly can't wait until the middle of the year for a new curate.'

‘But we don't want a deacon in any case,' Bairstow protested. ‘We want a curate who's already been priested, one who can celebrate the Mass.'

‘A second curacy,' contributed Topping.

Again the Vicar shook his head. ‘Impossible, I'm afraid. There isn't anyone in the diocese who fits the bill. But as I said before, I just can't go on without a curate – I very badly need someone to help with the visiting, the sick communions, weddings, funerals, parish meetings . . .'

‘Then what are you suggesting?' Bairstow demanded. ‘You're not giving up so easily, are you?'

The Vicar waited a moment before replying, framing his words very carefully. ‘I didn't say that I had been unsuccessful, only that it had been difficult.'

‘You mean that you've found a curate?' The eagerness returned to Norman Topping's voice.

‘Well, yes.' Now he picked his words even more carefully. ‘The Director of Ordinands suggested a candidate – someone who has quite recently moved into the London diocese because of family circumstances, and who has been looking for a post.'