Evil Angels Among Them (27 page)

‘Actually,' David replied, wishing now that he'd kept his mouth shut, ‘they've gone into the country. To collect things from the hedgerows and fields, she said.'

‘What!' Enid looked horrified. ‘I've never heard of such a thing in my life!'

‘Father Thorncroft seemed to think that it would be more appropriate than cut flowers from the florist,' David tried to explain.

‘How ridiculous!'

‘We'll just have to do our wreaths instead,' Doris intervened. ‘From the Mothers' Union, they'll be. Wreaths and crosses. Our own tribute to poor dear Flora, a faithful member of the Mothers' Union.'

‘If the Rector spurns our help,' added Marjorie. ‘And that wife of his.'

Harry frowned. ‘They're not going on my pall,' he warned. ‘Them wreaths leave stains on my pall. You can put them at the foot of the coffin, but not on my pall.'

‘We'll have to go to Upper Walston for the chrysanths,' said Doris. ‘And if they haven't got purple ones there we may have to go even farther. So we'd better get started.'

David could picture all too vividly what the women were proposing to make: purple chrysanthemum heads cut off and poked into polystyrene wreaths, the blooms tightly packed together in an opulent, extravagant display of bad taste.

Doris and Marjorie turned to go, but Enid wasn't quite finished yet. She confronted David yet again. ‘Since you seem to be in the Rector's confidence,' she sneered, ‘perhaps you might know what he and his wife have planned for the catering. For the funeral lunch. Since poor dear Flora didn't have any family here, I'm assuming that the funeral lunch will be at the Rectory.'

‘And we want to help, of course,' Marjorie added in a conciliatory tone.

‘
If
we're wanted, that is,' Enid concluded.

Now David really did wish that he'd never started the conversation; he knew that a truthful response would not be popular. The venue of the funeral lunch had been discussed over breakfast, and Becca for once had been adamant: she didn't want to have it at the Rectory. Her reason was simple: the phone caller would be among the mourners, and she didn't want him in her house under any circumstances. Stephen, sympathetic, had agreed that the food could be served at the back of the church instead. People wouldn't like it, Stephen admitted, but it was high time they got used to the idea of change. ‘Father Fuller is dead and buried,' Stephen had said. ‘And it's about time that Walston accepts that.'

David wasn't going to tell the women about that conversation, but they'd find out the results sooner rather than later. It was better to get it over with now, he decided, and spoke as firmly as possible. ‘I believe that it's all under control. The lunch will be here in the church.'

‘Food in church!' Harry was as horrified as the women. ‘But that's wicked! We wouldn't have had so much as a cup of tea in church in Father Fuller's time!'

Enid's face showed her astonishment. ‘Food in church!' she echoed. ‘I'm not having anything to do with such a thing!' The expression of astonishment gave way to one of smug cunning as she realised her position. ‘She can go down on her knees and beg me, and I shall still say no. Then she'll have to change her mind. She can't manage without our help – we all know that Becca Thorncroft is no cook!'

‘She's never even invited Ernest and I for a meal,' Doris interjected ungrammatically. ‘And after all that Ernest has done for this church.'

‘Perhaps Miss Kingsley will be helping her with the catering as well as the flowers,' suggested Marjorie.

David took a deep breath and plunged ahead. ‘Actually, she's asked Mrs English and her friend Miss Sutherland to do the food.'

For a moment it seemed that Enid was at last at a loss for words. Then she exploded. ‘Well! Now I've heard everything!' Turning on her heel, she stalked out of the sacristy, followed by her faithful minions.

After lunch, Stephen went to the church to see how the preparations were advancing.

‘It's all under control, Father,' Harry assured him. ‘That young fellow as is staying with you gave me a hand with the frontal, the candles is all fixed and the pall is pressed and good as new.'

Stephen looked at the high altar and frowned. ‘I wish you'd asked me before you changed the frontal, Harry,' he said mildly. ‘I don't like black altar hangings for funerals. I much prefer white – the Easter set. That symbolises the Resurrection and eternal life. Flora died in Christ, Harry. We must give thanks for her life, rather than concentrating on her death.'

‘White for funerals! Pardon me, Father, but I've never heard of such a thing!' Harry's voice was scornful.

Stephen responded with a conciliatory smile. ‘I'm sorry to put you to the trouble, since you've already done it, but I'll be happy to give you a hand to get it changed back.'

The old man frowned. ‘It just won't do,' he said stubbornly. ‘Black it is, and black it will stay. Father Fuller would turn in his grave at the thought of white altar hangings for a funeral!'

Pressing his lips together, Stephen spoke firmly. ‘But Father Fuller isn't the Rector any longer.
I
am. And I want the white set.'

Harry sat down and folded his arms across his chest. ‘I'm an old man,' he said. ‘And I've worked hard today. Harder than many as is half my age. If you want that frontal changing, Father, you'll have to do it yourself!'

David spent the rest of the afternoon trying to stay out of the way of the various activities which occupied both the Rectory and the church. It was an almost summer-like day, so being out of doors was no hardship; he spent some time exploring the churchyard, deciphering the inscriptions on ancient lichen-encrusted gravestones and admiring the Victorian angels on several of the tomb chests, their marble wings outspread as they watched over the church with eternal vigilance.

Later, when all the people seemed to have gone from the church, and even Harry had been observed to slope off home for a cup of tea, David crept back in through the west door to survey the results of their labours. Becca and Lucy had been busy: the pedestals, overflowing with froths of cow parsley and wild flowers, adorned the chancel, artful and lovely in their innocent artlessness, and tables covered with snowy white cloths stood ready along the west wall. More cow parsley and flowers had been arranged on the tables, and the effect was a pleasing one. The afternoon sun slanted through the west window, irradiating the chancel with light; the white altar hangings and the foamy flowers spoke to David of a kind of divine purity, of hope and resurrection. But at the crossing, in the shadows where the sun didn't reach, huddled a small mound of hideous purple floral wreaths and crosses, like a malevolent cancer in their morbid ugliness. Involuntarily, his eyes went up to the Doom painting: the sheep and the goats. He shivered, as if the sun had gone behind a cloud suddenly, then turned and left the church. In the slanting afternoon light the marble angels who had seemed so friendly a few hours ago, guarding the churchyard, now looked sinister, their smooth faces ambiguous and the shadows of their wings exaggerated and elongated as they fell over the decaying vegetation and crumbling gravestones.

Shortly after David left, Ernest Wrightman crossed the churchyard and went in through the west door. His eyes flicked round the church: it seemed that all was in readiness for tomorrow's events. The bier candlesticks were in place, the flowers had been done and the purple wreaths and crosses were finished, waiting for the coffin. Harry had been busy, and so had a number of other people. Then Ernest noticed the white altar hangings and frowned. What was Harry thinking of? Was he that far past it that he'd forgotten to put up the black hangings? Or had he just not got round to it yet? ‘Harry?' he said enquiringly, but there was no answer.

‘Oh, well.' Ernest spoke to himself in the echoing silence of the ancient stone building. ‘Nothing to prevent me giving old Harry a helping hand. Won't be the first time I've put up a frontal, and probably won't be the last either.' He went back to the sacristy, hauled out the black frontal from the chest, and carried it to the sanctuary.

It was a difficult job for one man to accomplish on his own, but Ernest took satisfaction in doing it well, and in the feeling of importance it gave him to do Harry's job for him. Before he'd finished, though, a noise in the church alerted him that he wasn't alone. ‘Is that you, Harry?' he called.

‘No, it's me.' Stephen walked up the aisle into the chancel. ‘I've come to say Evensong. And what do you think you're doing?'

‘Putting up the black frontal. Harry seems to have forgot.' Ernest tapped his forehead. ‘I don't mean to say anything against him, but sometimes I wonder about old Harry.'

‘It wasn't Harry,' Stephen said. ‘I wanted the white hangings up – to symbolise the Resurrection.'

‘Oh, but that's not the way things are done here, Father.' Ernest spoke in a tone that was both pompous and condescending. ‘We always have black. Someone should have told you.'

‘Harry
did
tell me. I still want the white.' Stephen's smile was courteous, but his voice was firm. ‘And as I reminded you once before, I am the Rector here.'

Ernest stopped, gave him a measured look, then turned and deliberately continued putting up the black frontal.

CHAPTER 20

    
Thou hast loved to speak all words that may do hurt: O thou false tongue.

Psalm 52.5

The day after the funeral, things had a slow start at the Rectory. Stephen was as always up and about early, going off to church to celebrate the daily Mass, but Becca was in no hurry to get up, waiting until she heard their guests stirring before she went downstairs to attempt some breakfast.

‘Umm, bacon!' David sniffed appreciatively, appearing in the kitchen in his dressing gown. ‘You don't know what a treat it is for me to have bacon for breakfast.'

Lucy, coming in behind him, pulled a face of exaggerated pity. ‘Poor deprived darling. But I must admit it smells good.'

David ate his breakfast with evident enjoyment. ‘Thanks, Becca,' he said. ‘The bacon is splendid. I'll patronise this restaurant any time.'

‘But I'm such a terrible cook,' Becca protested. ‘And Lucy is such a wonderful cook.'

He grinned. ‘As long as you don't miss bacon. Which I do, occasionally.' With a sigh he went on, ‘Tomorrow it will be back to toast and cereal. I feel like a condemned man eating his last meal.'

‘Very funny.' Lucy kicked him under the table and spoke tartly. ‘You know the answer to that one, mate. You've got your own house now – if you don't like the catering at my house, you're quite free to make other arrangements.'

‘Ouch.' He reached across the table for her hand. ‘Literally and metaphorically speaking. You know that's not what I want, love.'

Lucy disengaged her hand. She was feeling somewhat prickly and unsettled that morning, and David's jibes about her vegetarianism had worn a bit thin. Mortified by her reaction, David tried to think of something to say. Neither of them noticed that Becca had gone very quiet.

It wasn't until after David had gone back upstairs to shave and Lucy went to pour herself another cup of coffee that she took a proper look at Becca. Still standing by the cooker, Becca had turned her back to Lucy, but her head drooped and her shoulders were shaking. Lucy went to her instantly and put an arm round her, forgetting everything else in a rush of warm sympathy. ‘Becca, love, are you all right? Tell me what's the matter.'

Tears trickled from the corners of Becca's eyes, but she attempted a brave smile as she faced Lucy. ‘You're leaving today, then?' she whispered.

‘David has to get back to work,' Lucy explained gently. ‘He thinks that we've already outstayed our welcome here.'

‘Of course you haven't!' There could be no doubt of the sincerity of Becca's words.

‘We'll be back, love,' Lucy promised. ‘Before too long. And you must come to London to see us as well. David has enough room in his new house to put up the entire village of Walston.'

‘But I thought you'd stay until they've caught that . . . horrible man!' Becca's voice was anguished; she clung to Lucy's arm.

‘David says there's nothing more we can do here,' she reiterated. ‘And he really does need to get back to his office.'

Becca's head drooped. ‘I just wish you didn't have to go,' she gulped. ‘You promise you'll come back? Soon?'

‘Soon.' Lucy drew her over towards the calendar on the wall. ‘Let's look at this, shall we, and find a good weekend?' Studying the calendar, she suddenly gave a yelp of dismay. ‘Oh, Lord, that's not really the date today, is it?'

Becca pointed and nodded. ‘That's today.'

‘Oh, help. It's my father's birthday, and I haven't even sent him a card, let alone a present.' She ran her fingers through her hair in agitation. ‘I completely lost track of the days, being away from home like this.'

‘You must ring him right now,' Becca urged. ‘You can wish him a happy birthday on the phone, and explain what's happened.'

‘Thanks. I think I will.' Lucy went to the phone in the hall and dialled her father's number; in a moment he answered.

‘Happy birthday, Daddy.'

‘Lucy, my dear! How lovely to hear from you.' His voice was warmly sincere, not the least bit reproachful. ‘How are you, my dear, and how is David?'

‘Oh, we're both well.' Lucy launched into a contrite explanation. ‘I'm sorry I haven't sent you anything for your birthday. But we were called away to Norfolk last week, and haven't been able to get back to London yet.'

‘Nothing serious, I hope?'

‘It's a case of David's. Murder, I'm afraid – pretty serious for the woman who was murdered, as well as for David's client.' Suddenly she remembered Flora's connection with her father. ‘Actually, Daddy, I'd met the woman who was murdered, and she told me that she knew you. She was a social worker named Flora Newall.'

‘Social worker?' John Kingsley echoed. ‘Flora Newall? Oh, yes, I remember. It's been a few years ago, of course. But I remember her as a nice woman. Very conscientious – I had professional dealings with her a few times. She's been murdered?' he realised belatedly, distressed. ‘But how dreadful, my dear.'

‘Terrible,' she agreed. ‘I only met her once or twice, but I quite liked her.'

‘Murder – I just can't believe it.'

To take her father's mind off the stark fact of murder, Lucy went on, ‘It's quite a coincidence that you knew her. But as a matter of fact, I keep running across people with Shropshire connections, and they all seem to know you. There's another woman here in the parish: Mrs Talbot-Shaw, her name is. Her husband was a clergyman in the Malbury diocese.'

‘Oh, yes. Godfrey Talbot-Shaw. I knew him years ago,' John Kingsley recalled. ‘He had a parish next to mine for a while, before he moved on to the other end of the diocese. He was a great big tall chap, dark and very serious, and his wife was tiny and blonde and rather silly – Marjorie, she was called. They made a very strange couple – couldn't have been more different from one another.'

‘But Marjorie Talbot-Shaw isn't tiny and blonde,' Lucy protested. ‘She's tall and dark-haired. And very formidable. You must be thinking of someone else, Daddy.'

He laughed in a gentle, self-mocking way. ‘I know I can be a bit absent-minded at times, my dear, but I
do
remember faces quite well – it's a knack that clergymen develop. And I remember Marjorie Talbot-Shaw quite clearly. She was one of those women who never seem to have grown up – Godfrey treated her more like his child than his wife. I didn't mind her, myself, but I remember that your dear mother couldn't abide her. She used to say that no one could really be that naïve and dim.'

At the end of the conversation Lucy put the phone down, frowning in puzzlement. It didn't make sense: a woman could change her hair colour, she accepted, but how could she change her size and her personality?

* * *

Stephen came back from the church a few minutes later. ‘There's still a fair bit of clearing up that needs to be done,' he said ruefully to Becca. ‘Especially from the lunch. You and Lucy did the washing-up, of course, but everything needs to be put away, and the tables taken down. And Harry refuses to have anything to do with it. So that means it's down to us.'

Seeing a way to help, and to delay their departure, Lucy offered assistance. ‘David and I can give you a hand,' she proposed. ‘We don't have to leave for a bit, do we, darling?'

‘As long as I get back to the office by some time this afternoon,' assented David.

Becca hesitated. ‘Is anyone else in church? Besides Harry?'

‘Enid is around,' Stephen admitted. ‘Fiddling with the flowers. And Fred is being the interfering churchwarden, helping Harry to shift chairs. Out making a few deliveries, he said, and just thought he'd call into the church to see if Harry needed any help. I'm surprised that Ernest wasn't there as well.'

‘But why can't Fred help you with the tables, then?' Becca asked.

‘Not a churchwarden's job.' Stephen smiled wryly. He sensed Becca's reluctance to risk another run-in with Enid, who had been curt to the point of rudeness the day before. ‘You don't have to come, love. The three of us can manage just fine.'

‘You need a nice relaxing hot bubble bath,' Lucy prescribed. ‘Go up and take one right now. We'll be back in a bit for coffee.'

Becca didn't require much persuasion. ‘Yes, all right,' she assented.

‘But keep an ear out for the phone,' Stephen said as they left. ‘Gill called by the church to collect her serving dishes, and I told her that you'd brought them home to wash. She said she'd give you a ring later this morning.'

Becca relaxed in the hot bath, idly popping the bubbles and trying to keep her mind blank. It wasn't working very well: Stephen's remark about Gill reminded Becca of the events of the day before. Gill and Lou had worked terribly hard preparing and serving the food, and had been rewarded with out-and-out rudeness on the part of Enid and her cronies. There were mutterings of contamination, and even the word ‘poison' had been heard. In fact, Enid had started with the avowed – and loudly declared – intention not to eat anything, but the men had no such compunction, and their enjoyment of the food was so evident that Enid eventually relented. Though Gill and Lou had seemed to take it all in their stride, Becca was embarrassed on behalf of her friends, and wondered how she might make amends to them.

So when the phone rang, Becca was ready with words of commiseration and apology for Gill. Anxious not to miss the call, she hurried out of the bath, grabbed a towel, and rushed for the extension in the bedroom. ‘Sorry, Gill,' she gasped breathlessly into the phone. ‘You caught me in the bath. I'm dripping all over the bedroom floor.'

There was a brief pause, then a muffled voice chuckled. ‘What a charming picture, my dear. Sorry you thought I was your queer friend – I was hoping you were naked just for me.'

‘Oh!' Instinctively clutching her towel around her, Becca slammed the phone down without thinking, then collapsed on the bed in tears. When Stephen returned a short while later she was still there, damp and shivering, wailing into the pillow.

‘Becca, love!' Terrified, he covered the distance to the bed in a few long strides. ‘Whatever is wrong?'

‘The phone!' she howled. ‘It rang. It was . . . him. And I ruined it! That policewoman told me to keep him talking as long as I could, but I put the phone down straightaway. I'm sorry, Stephen. I ruined it. But it was so awful – I just couldn't bear it!'

Not long afterwards, Quentin Mansfield drove his Mercedes up the long lane leading to Walston Hall and pulled up in the circular drive in front of the house. Taking his overnight bag from the boot, he let himself in with his key. His wife, descending the stairs, looked surprised. ‘Oh – hello, Quentin,' she said uncertainly. ‘I wasn't expecting you back quite so early.'

‘No traffic at all,' Mansfield explained in a hearty voice. ‘I just zipped up the motorway and straight across to Walston.'

‘Did you have a good . . . meeting?' Diana asked dutifully.

‘Oh, you know.' He gave a dismissive laugh. ‘How was the funeral?' he added. ‘I was sorry to have had to miss it. A nuisance that the meeting should have been scheduled for that day.'

‘It was all right,' she shrugged. ‘Of course I didn't know Miss Newall very well. Sad what happened to her. But they gave her a good send-off. It wasn't just a funeral – it was a proper Requiem Mass.'

Mansfield snorted. ‘High church nonsense, in other words. Mincing about with incense and all that rot. And all that airy-fairy music instead of good old-fashioned hymns. “Crimond”, that's what's wanted, and “Abide with me”. Perhaps it's just as well that I missed it.'

‘The music was very good,' Diana said, flushing. ‘The choir sang a Latin Requiem.'

Quentin Mansfield lifted a sardonic eyebrow, but before he could comment on the Latin Requiem the doorbell rang. He swung round and opened the door to find two uniformed police officers. ‘What can I do for you?' he demanded in his most authoritative voice.

The younger of the two policemen gulped and looked over Mansfield's shoulder, awe-struck at the splendour of Walston Hall. ‘So sorry to bother you, sir,' he stammered.

The other policeman produced a warrant card. ‘Sergeant John Spring,' he introduced himself, ignoring his companion. ‘Are you the gentleman of the house?' he went on in an aggressive voice, designed to show that he was not at all intimidated.

‘Quentin Mansfield,' he confirmed, frowning. ‘What is this all about, Sergeant?'

Spring chose not to reply directly. ‘If you wouldn't mind, Mr Mansfield, we'd like you to come to the station with us and answer a few questions.'

‘I'm afraid I
do
mind, Sergeant.' Mansfield cast his mind back over the past couple of hours and the way he had exceeded the speed limit by a rather wide margin, but decided that it wasn't possible that such a minor infraction could have caught up with him in this way. ‘I'm a very busy man, and I've just returned home from a rather tiring trip. If you have anything you'd like to ask me, you can do it right here.'

‘Been on a trip, have you?' Sergeant Spring echoed, nodding significantly.

Quentin Mansfield's heart sank; perhaps there
had
been some sort of a speed trap in operation. He'd read about these new methods of photographing number plates, but he'd had no idea that such sophistication had reached rural Norfolk. ‘What of it?' he challenged belligerently, his voice still firm.

Spring decided to come to the point. ‘We're investigating a phone call made from this house within the past thirty minutes. A phone call of an obscene nature. And we'd like to ask you a few questions about it.'

‘An obscene phone call!' Mansfield's face showed utter bafflement. ‘From this house? Don't be daft, man!' He laughed and started to shut the door.