Evil Angels Among Them (41 page)

They were all in place well before the appointed hour, crouching quietly among the twilit shadows of the Lovelidge tombs. David waited at the opening between the chancel and the chapel, vigilant; he looked at his watch as, at precisely seven o'clock, the west door opened a crack and a lone figure slipped in and moved up the aisle of the nave. Under the Doom painting he passed, in through the screen and towards King John's chair.

He was exactly as Bryony had described him, David observed: small and ginger-haired, with little black eyes, a mean-looking pinched mouth and a wispy moustache. Ernest Wrightman's movements were furtive as he slid a thick manila envelope under the chair and turned to go.

David stepped out of the shadows. ‘Good evening, Mr Wrightman,' he said in a conversational tone.

The other man gasped in surprise, taking a step backwards, but he quickly recovered himself. ‘Oh – hello. I wasn't expecting to see anyone here.' He darted an involuntary covert look over his shoulder towards the chair. ‘I was just . . . ah . . . making sure that everything was all right. Sometimes the Rector forgets to lock up after Evensong – just as well that I checked.' He gave a high-pitched giggle and went on with more than a little of his customary pomposity. ‘Sometimes I wonder what the Rector would do without me. He often tells me that he couldn't run the church without me, and you can see why.'

Behind him, David heard a faint muffled sound which he correctly interpreted as a protest from Stephen; he hoped that Ernest hadn't heard and that the young priest would be able to control his indignation until the proper moment. ‘It looks as though you've dropped something, Mr Wrightman,' he said smoothly, moving into the chancel. Picking up the envelope, he turned it over and inspected it, then deliberately slipped it into his shirt pocket, smiling at Ernest all the while.

‘Oh!' Ernest took another step backwards and stared at him as realisation struck. ‘You! It was you!' He stood still for a moment, then gave an unpleasant laugh. ‘Very high-principled, aren't you? Just like every other lawyer I've ever met. Most of them aren't this obvious about it, though.'

The barb hurt, in spite of the injustice of it, but David betrayed nothing. ‘Every man has his price, they say,' he sneered, matching the other man's tone.

‘And your price is surprisingly low. I suppose, though, that you intend to make this a habit – that this is only the first instalment.'

‘No.' David's eyes didn't move from Ernest Wrightman's face. ‘This will be it. On one condition, Mr Wrightman.'

‘And that is?' Ernest's jaw went out pugnaciously.

‘That you tell me why you did it. For my own information.'

Ernest folded his arms across his chest. ‘You're so clever, Mr Lawyer-man. You tell
me
,' he challenged.

‘All right, I will.' David spoke clearly, watching the other man's expression. ‘You had it easy with Father Fuller, didn't you? He pretty much let you do as you pleased: choosing his churchwardens for him and running the trusts to suit yourself. As clerk of the trusts you had a great deal of clout. You didn't need to be churchwarden yourself – you had all the power without the title. Fred was no problem – you could handle him easily enough. And you thought Flora Newall would be a pushover. That's why you chose her: so that she would be your puppet, especially when it came to the trusts. It didn't matter that you weren't a voting member of the trustees, as long you could control the churchwardens. But Father Thorncroft wasn't going to roll over and play dead at your command like Father Fuller had done, so it was important that you found a churchwarden who would do your bidding.'

‘Very clever.'

‘But Flora wasn't a pushover,' David went on inexorably. ‘She was a strong-minded woman with her own opinions. And when it came to Ingram's, you couldn't get her to see it your way.'

There was a sharp intake of breath. ‘Stupid woman,' Ernest said. ‘She didn't understand how important it was.' He continued, as if he needed to explain himself. ‘I promised them, you see. I promised the owners of Ingram's that I'd fix it for them, that it was in the bag. They trust me – people do, you know. They know that if I promise something, I'll deliver. Ernest Wrightman is a man of his word – ask anyone. The people at Ingram's know that. They respect me. They took us for a cruise on the Broads, and they promised that in the summer we could have a holiday at their corporate villa in Spain. Doris was looking forward to that. And that woman, with her silly vegetarian scruples, tried to wreck it. Without even knowing what she was doing.'

‘You couldn't stand to lose face, could you?' David probed.

‘She was going to make a fool out of me with Ingram's, and nobody makes a fool out of Ernest Wrightman,' the little man said firmly.

‘And Enid?' David went on. ‘Was she going to make a fool out of you too?'

‘She made fun of me on Sunday morning, saying that I just couldn't wait to carry the churchwarden's wand. And
she
was threatening to stand for churchwarden,' Ernest acknowledged. ‘That would have been even worse than Flora Newall. But she asked for it, as well. She said she knew who had killed Flora, and I couldn't take the chance that she was just showing off, trying to wind Doris up.' He gave his curious high-pitched giggle. ‘It was very neat, wasn't it? I found out from Doris that your nosy lady friend was beginning to suspect Enid, and that gave me the idea. If she committed suicide and took the blame for Flora's death, then no one would ask any more awkward questions. So I went round to see her and offered to fix her a drink.' He giggled again, pleased with himself. ‘That was it for Enid. I never liked her, anyway.'

That was when Bryony appeared in the opening from the chapel, surprising both men. ‘You put pills in Mrs Bletsoe's drink!' she shrieked. ‘I saw you do it, you horrible man! And God saw you too, and he'll punish you!'

Ernest spun to face the girl; instinctively he lunged at her. David tried to intercept him but missed. At that moment Lou flew out of the chapel like an avenging angel and launched herself at Ernest Wrightman. ‘You lay one finger on her and I'll kill you!' she bawled, placing a well-aimed kick at a particularly tender portion of his anatomy. He went down, groaning in agony, and looked up to see a curious vision as the forms of the others who'd been concealed in the chapel came into sight above the dado, like the dead at the Last Judgment rising from their tombs. Gill rushed forward to embrace her daughter in a protective hug, while Lou sat on Ernest. ‘I've got him!' she announced triumphantly to David. ‘
Now
you can call the police!'

EPILOGUE

    
God is gone up with a merry noise: and the Lord with the sound of the trump.

Psalm 47.5

Thursday was the Feast of the Ascension, celebrated at St Michael's Church, Walston, in great style: at half past six in the morning the choir, under the direction of Cyprian Lawrence, sang Orlando Gibbons's setting of ‘O clap your hands' from the top of the soaring Perpendicular tower, the bells rang out and everyone proceeded into the church for the First Mass of the Ascension.

As the early morning sun streamed in through the medieval glass of the east window, Father Stephen Thorncroft celebrated the Mass in the traditional words of the Book of Common Prayer, eschewing for once the more modern version of the liturgy. He observed another archaic practice as well, quite deliberately, knowing that he would probably be criticised for failing to live up to Father Fuller's standard of liturgical correctness: he extinguished the Paschal candle in the old Catholic way immediately after the reading of the Gospel in which Christ was taken up into heaven, rather than leaving it burning until the day of Pentecost as the current practice decreed. But it seemed to him fitting that the Paschal candle – the visible sign of Christ's presence on earth from His Resurrection to His Ascension – should now be put out. So much had happened since the candle had been lit at Easter; now it was time for a fresh start and a new period in the life of St Michael's. With a full heart he watched the grey smoke from the dead flame spiral upwards towards the angel roof; the gilded angels looked down and sang their silent song as they had done for over five hundred years.

After Mass, all those who had been involved in the events of the previous evening were invited back to the Rectory for breakfast. Becca was observably and unusually, even for her, pale and quiet, so others stepped into the breach to help her with breakfast. Lucy saw to the eggs while Gill cooked the bacon and sausages, David made toast and Roger Staines brewed pots of strong coffee. Stephen laid the table, with Bryony's assistance, leaving Lou to comment on the whole procedure.

She was, not unnaturally, still fixated on the previous night's events. ‘Did anyone ever find out where Ernest Wrightman got the poison?' she queried.

‘That's an easy one,' said David, cutting the toast into neat triangles. ‘It was his own medication – he'd had a heart condition for years, and even had a heart attack several years back. That was why he'd had to stand down as churchwarden – just like Roger.'

Roger Staines turned at the sound of his name. ‘And that reminds me,' he interjected. ‘
Did
Ernest poison me with digoxin? I'm a bit curious about that!'

David laughed. ‘As a matter of fact, he admitted that he had done. It was on the spur of the moment, he said – he'd been helping you with some chore at church, and you'd been talking about the expansion of Ingram's.'

‘I remember.' Roger nodded. ‘That was when I told him that I'd never support it. We stopped for a cup of tea at his house afterwards – that must have been when he did it. Actually,' he recalled, pulling a face, ‘I seem to remember thinking that Doris didn't make a very good cup of tea! It
was
rather bitter!'

‘And because the digoxin was in the tea, which acted as an antidote,' David concluded, ‘and because he wasn't very scientific about the dosage, it didn't actually kill you.'

‘Though it came pretty close.'

‘But the next time, with Flora, he was luckier,' put in Gill.

Lucy caught David's eye. ‘It
was
luck, wasn't it?' she said. ‘Luck that the herbal tea came along. Otherwise it wouldn't have killed her either. He wasn't as clever as he thought he was – or as
we
thought he was.'

‘Ernest wasn't very clever at all.' David raised his eyebrows and his mouth twisted in a wry smile. ‘He
thought
he was clever, all right. Just look at the situation with Ingram's: he was so thrilled that he was important to them, that they trusted him to deliver the goods. But at the end of the day he was their pawn. That expansion, if it had gone through, would have brought them an enormous amount of money. And what was it costing them to buy Ernest? A day on the Broads and a bit of ego-stroking. Pretty good value, I'd say.'

Stephen, who had been quite silent up to that point, put in the last, apposite, word. ‘In other words, like Esau, our friend Ernest sold his birthright for a mess of pottage.'

‘What's pottage?' Bryony asked.

‘A sort of stew, I think,' Stephen explained. ‘Like a thick soup.'

Bryony wrinkled her nose. ‘I wouldn't eat any soup that was called pottage, especially “mess of pottage”. It sounds horrible and messy. Yucky. Like worms, or guts, or something rotten.'

‘That's enough, young lady,' her mother said in a firm voice. ‘We're just about to eat breakfast.'

Becca left the room suddenly; Lucy saw her go out of the corner of her eye and followed her, concerned. She caught up with her in the corridor.

‘Becca, love, are you all right?' Lucy asked anxiously as she got a look at the colour of the other woman's complexion. ‘You look terrible!'

‘Oh, Lucy.' Becca gulped and smiled, transforming her face from the inside to a vision of radiance in spite of her extraordinary pallor. ‘Lucy, I'm pregnant!'

‘Oh, Becca!' Lucy embraced her. ‘How wonderful for you! You
are
happy about it, aren't you?'

Becca blinked her eyes rapidly as tears of joy clung to her lashes, and her voice was half laughing, half crying. ‘Thrilled. Even though I feel like death at the moment. It was the pottage that finished me off.'

‘When did you find out?'

‘Just yesterday,' Becca said, admitting, ‘I went to see Dr McNair yesterday afternoon without telling anyone.'

‘Stephen knows?'

Becca smiled. ‘I told him this morning before Mass. You wouldn't believe how ecstatic he was.'

‘I thought he had a real glow about him during the service,' laughed Lucy, tongue in cheek, ‘but I attributed it to holiness.'

‘Oh, Lucy.' Becca squeezed her friend's hand. ‘I just wish that you didn't have to go. I know I've said it before, but now it's different. Dr McNair says I won't feel this awful for very long, but at the moment I can't even face the thought of food. I need you here to help me, to make sure that poor Stephen doesn't starve to death.'

‘Stephen is quite capable of looking after himself,' Lucy reminded her. ‘After all, he was on his own for a long time before you came along.' But her voice didn't sound very convincing, and she had to avert her eyes from the disappointment on her friend's face.

Some time later, after breakfast, in the general hilarity of the washing-up, David realised that Lucy wasn't in the kitchen. Assuming that she'd probably gone upstairs to pack, he waited for a few minutes, then went up to the guest room to find her. She wasn't there. He returned to the kitchen and asked if anyone had seen her, but no one seemed to know where she was. On a hunch, David slipped out of the Rectory and went to the church.

The west door was open a crack; silently he pushed it open and stepped inside. It would have been difficult to miss seeing Lucy: she was standing by the rood screen looking at the Paschal candle, and the morning sun which streamed through the east window struck sparks from her hair, turning it into a gilded halo of red gold. David's heart constricted within him.

She turned, sensing rather than hearing his presence, and he moved quickly to her side.

‘About ready to go, then?' David said in a hearty voice.

Lucy gave him a half-smile. ‘I've been talking to Roger Staines at breakfast,' she replied obliquely. ‘He wants me to do some charcoal sketches of the church to illustrate his book.'

‘That's nice.'

She looked away, not meeting his eyes. ‘I'm going to stay on here for a bit,' she said. ‘To do the sketches.'

‘But surely there's no hurry,' David pointed out. ‘That book has been years in the writing, from all I've heard. Surely a few more weeks won't make a difference – and we can come for the weekend soon.'

‘No.' Lucy moistened her lips with her tongue, still not looking at him. ‘Becca is pregnant, darling. She's feeling awful, and she's begged me to stay for a while longer to help her get things sorted.'

‘How nice for them,' he said, feeling inadequate – and beginning to panic. ‘But surely they'd be better on their own.'

‘Becca needs me,' Lucy stated.

David touched her hand; it was cold. ‘So do I,' he reminded her gently. ‘Remember me, Lucy? The man who loves you?'

She averted her face from him and spoke so softly that he could scarcely hear. ‘I don't deserve you, David.'

‘What are you saying, love?' He put a finger under her chin and turned her face towards him; her greeny-blue eyes were bright with unshed tears. ‘What on earth is the matter?'

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Lucy spoke in a low and passionate voice. ‘I was responsible for a woman's death. I can't just walk away from that, David.'

‘What are you talking about?'

‘Enid,' she choked. ‘You heard what that dreadful little man said last night – that I had given him the idea to kill Enid!'

Words were inadequate, and denial would be spurious; David put an arm round her shoulder. ‘Oh, poor love,' he murmured.

Lucy laid a hand on the Paschal candle, feeling its smooth waxiness under her fingers. ‘Can't you see, David? I've got to stay here, at least until Enid's funeral. I owe her that much.'

‘All right,' he said, thinking quickly. ‘I'll ring my secretary and tell her to jig things for a few more days. Or perhaps I could arrange to take a week of my annual leave.'

‘No.' Her voice was firm. ‘You've got to go back, David. Today, now. And I've got to stay.' She looked at the candle and went on softly. ‘You know what this means – the Paschal candle. Now that it's been extinguished, it's the period of darkness before the Comforter comes. This is my period of darkness, darling. I've got to get through it before I can come out on the other side.'

‘Let me stay with you,' he begged. ‘Let me help you through this.'

She shook her head. ‘It's my own purgatory. You can't go there with me – I've got to get through it alone. Please, darling,' she added. ‘Go now.'

‘You'll come back to me?' He took her icy hand from the candle and held it between his own. ‘Soon?'

‘As soon as I can.' She looked up at him, smiling in spite of herself at the stricken look on his face. ‘Don't worry, darling.' A tiny laugh bubbled up from the back of her throat, transforming her face and lifting David's heart. ‘I'm afraid you can't get rid of me that easily.'