The Mills of God (3 page)

‘They are some of mine, yes. You see I take inspiration from nature, from places I visit, from flora and fauna and forestry. I have founded a local group, here, in Lakehurst. We call ourselves the Pixie Poets.'

‘What an unusual name.'

‘Yes, but some of us believe in the wee folk. But enough of that. I hope that you will live long and prosper – as they say on
Star Trek
– in our village.' Ceinwen suddenly glanced at her watch – an old fashioned little gold one – and said, ‘Oh my, is that the time. I'm afraid I must fly. I'm meeting someone –' she blushed – ‘in ten minutes.'

Realizing he was dismissed Nick put down his mug and stood up. ‘Well, thank you so much for inviting me in, Miss Carruthers. It has been most interesting.'

‘Anytime, my dear Vicar. Please call again.'

‘Thank you.'

He gave her his odd little courtly bow and proceeded down the path.

Arrow Street bent round to the left, its junction marked by an ancient pub called The White Hart which was just opening its doors. Nick popped inside to answer a call from nature and then ordered an orange juice, having made a promise to himself not to drink till after six except in exceptional circumstances. The place was empty but there was a bored-looking barmaid with very long red fingernails and a short black skirt.

She plonked the glass down on the bar and said, ‘One pound, twenty-five, please,' in a pronounced south-east accent.

Nick fished in his pocket and produced the right change. The girl checked it in her hand. ‘Thank you,' she said, and banged it into the till.

‘A nice day,' ventured Nick.

‘Yeah.'

‘Can you tell me where this road leads to?'

‘It goes off to Speckled Wood.'

‘And the one ahead? Where does that go?'

The girl gave him a curious glance from kohl-ringed eyes. ‘You're the new vicar, aren't you?'

‘Yes. How did you know?'

‘Me gran told me you had arrived. Yesterday, wasn't it? And me brother saw you last night in The Great House.'

‘Gracious, I didn't realize I was so famous.'

The girl gave a sly grin and said, ‘Everybody knows everything that goes on in Lakehurst.'

‘I see. Well I'm just walking round the parish now so where does the road in front go?'

‘It's South Street. But off it on the right is the posh place.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘It's called The Maze. That's where all the rich people hang out. It's full of private houses. My gran calls it Nob's Row.'

Nick was just about to ask another question when a voice from the back bellowed, ‘Kylie, you're wanted,' and the barmaid vanished without another word.

Finishing his juice, Nick went outside and breathed in the morning. The air was quite literally scented by the many roses which bloomed in the tiny front gardens of South Street. And the view itself was crystal clear; he felt he could see a leaf drop a mile away. Deciding that to visit Nob's Row at this stage would take up too much of the morning, Nick turned around, crossed the road, and started the steep climb back to the vicarage.

The phone was ringing as he came through the front door. He hastily picked it up. It was a woman's voice that spoke.

‘Hello, is that the Reverend Lawrence?'

‘Speaking.'

‘Oh hello. My name is Olivia Beauchamp. I wondered if I could pop in and see you. It's about the recital.'

‘Of course you can come but I'm afraid you've lost me. I don't know anything about a recital.'

She laughed quietly, a warm and pleasing sound. ‘No, of course you don't. That's what I wanted to explain. I made a promise to the old vicar that I would play for him for charity and at last I've got a free slot. I'll explain when I see you. How's your diary?'

Nick laughed. ‘Blissfully free, till I get bogged down with parish affairs. When do you want to come?'

‘How about six o'clock? We can meet in The Great House if you're still in a mess. Or don't you go to places like that?'

‘I'm a modern vicar. I'll go anywhere.'

Olivia laughed again. ‘Six o'clock then. Goodbye.'

Nick put the phone down and wondered who the owner of such a delightful laugh could possibly be. He decided to tackle another box after snatching a sandwich and a cup of coffee and, in fact, was halfway through it when there was a ring at the front door. He opened it to find Mavis Cox standing there balancing a large cake on a plate.

‘Oh Father Nick, so glad to have caught you in. I've come to help.'

‘Thank you, but . . .'

But she had marched past him straight into the kitchen.

‘I've brought you a cake for your tea. Shall we get this room sorted out? I always think the kitchen is the worst job of all.'

And she had her coat off and her arms in a box before Nick could utter a word. He had to admit, though, that she was a terrific worker. Drawers were being opened and kitchen implements placed within them and what tins he had brought were put in a cupboard over the cooker.

He smiled at her. ‘Shall we not talk parish business until tomorrow?'

‘Not if you don't wish it, Father Nick.'

‘I'd rather you told me something about the village. About the people who live here.'

‘Well, I don't like to gossip but they're a very mixed bunch as you can imagine. They're the old villagers, the people born and bred here, though they're not so many of them left.'

‘I suppose commuters have taken their place.'

‘And you'd suppose right, Vicar. There are masses of those here – the gin and tonic set I call them.'

Her small eyes had a malicious gleam in them momentarily.

‘And who else do we have?'

‘The arty crowd and the horsey crowd. Like to live in the heart of the country, or at least be seen to do so.'

‘So who's in the horsey crowd?'

‘Oh, several of them. There's a livery stable out towards Speckled Wood. Owned by one Cheryl Hamilton-Harty. She rides up and down the High Street on a huge great stallion.' Mavis muttered something like, ‘Looking for one I shouldn't wonder.'

Nick thought this extremely naughty from one of his churchwardens but pretended he hadn't heard it and continued to unpack his box.

‘And tell me about the arty crowd.'

‘Well, you've already met one, my other half – in the churchwarden sense only. I lost my husband some while ago.'

Mavis looked downcast and Nick felt obliged to say, ‘I'm sorry.'

She sniffed a bit but answered bravely, ‘But life goes on. He's gone to a better place is how I look at it.'

‘Yes, indeed.'

‘Well I was saying, Richard Culpepper calls himself an actor but gets precious little work. He teaches drama at evening classes and has one or two private pupils to make ends meet. But it's his wife who's the moneyed one, believe me.'

‘And what does she do?'

‘Retired now. But used to be in films, I believe.'

‘Roseanna, isn't it?'

‘Yes. Then there's Gerrard Riddell. He's a costume designer and is awfully handy with his needle.'

She gave Nick a sly glance and he couldn't help but grin.

‘And Miss Olivia Beauchamp, of course.'

Nick knew at once by the tone of Mavis Cox's voice that she was jealous of the lady in question.

‘Tell me about her,' he said from deep within a box.

‘She lives in London a lot of the time. She's a violinist – professional, I mean. Anway, she has a weekend cottage here which used to belong to her parents. The village doesn't like weekenders but she's forgiven because she was brought up here.'

‘I see. And what about Ceinwen Carruthers?'

Mavis gave an audible snort. ‘That amateur and her fairy folklore. She pays to have her books published. Makes out that is genuine publishing but I know different. My Alf's brother was a printer so I do know what's what in that line.'

The vicar murmured something suitable like, ‘Quite so.'

‘Anyway, that's that box finished. What would you like me to do next, Father Nick?'

‘How about making a cup of tea and telling me something of the history of the vicarage.'

They sat down on the kitchen chairs while the kettle boiled and Mavis said, ‘Well, it's a Tudor house, like a lot of the others in Lakehurst.'

‘I knew it was very old.'

‘And it has belonged to the village vicar since the fifteen hundreds.'

‘Has it got a ghost?' Nick asked.

Mavis looked disapproving. ‘Surely you don't believe in such things.'

‘I like to keep an open mind.'

‘Well, there are rumours about it but I put those down to all the tales that people like that Carruthers woman spin.'

‘What are they?'

‘There's some old Elizabethan servant called William supposed to haunt the place. The story goes that he was so happy working here that he could never leave. Stuff and nonsense. I've never seen anything in the many times I've visited the vicarage.'

She stopped for breath and suddenly a chill little breeze swept through the kitchen making the unpacked mugs rattle on their newly screwed-in hooks.

‘William?' said the vicar, only half joking.

And from upstairs came the sound of a door banging shut.

THREE

T
he Great House had lit the first log fire of the autumn season. It roared redly up the huge chimney and threw a comforting glow on the many people who sat at tables close to it. Nick, who hadn't realized quite how cold it had got, thought of warming the vicarage and wondered about ordering logs and finding out about the central heating. He looked round the room and saw that Jack Boggis was sitting in his usual seat, back turned, hiding behind the
Daily Telegraph
, but that there was nobody else there that he recognized.

A very handsome man sat alone, puzzling over a crossword and totally ignoring the group of four young women – all uncannily alike, Nick thought – who sat near him, giggling and talking loudly. Other than for Jack Boggis there was nobody that the vicar had seen before. Despite that several rural types said, ‘Evening, Vicar,' and one even asked him how he was getting on in the vicarage.

‘Still unpacking,' Nick answered cheerfully. ‘But it's a wonderful house.'

‘It is that. Provided old William leaves you in peace.'

‘The ghost? What do you know about him?'

The man looked surprised. ‘I didn't even think he was real. I thought it was just a story.'

‘It probably is,' Nick answered enigmatically as he ordered himself a pint.

Somebody came up behind him and said, ‘Reverend Lawrence?'

He turned and gazed into a pair of eyes that were full of fun and could only belong to the owner of that lovely laugh.

‘Miss Beauchamp?' he responded.

‘Call me Olivia,' she said and held out her hand.

Nick took it and could hardly speak as he felt its warmth.

‘Call me Nick,' he managed, then recovered himself. ‘Shall we sit over there?' He motioned towards a table for two. ‘And what would you like to drink?'

‘I'll have a glass of rosé, please.'

‘You go and sit down and I'll bring it over.'

‘Whatever you say, Vicar.'

She was absolutely stunning, Nick thought, with her great tumbling mass of curling black hair, light green eyes and smiling mouth. In fact he was so knocked out by her presence that it took a great effort of self control to maintain his dignity and carry the glasses over to the table.

‘Well now, Olivia, it's nice to meet you.'

Her eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘And you, Nick. How are you getting on with the move?'

He winced. ‘Slowly, I think is the right answer.'

‘But do you like the vicarage?'

‘I love it. I'm very lucky to get such a delightful parish.'

He was longing to say with such delightful people in it but thought he would sound too smooth if he said any such thing. Instead he asked, ‘Now what about this recital?'

‘You know that I am a violinist?'

‘Yes, the churchwarden mentioned something.'

‘Well, the Reverend Simpkins was always asking when I would give a concert in aid of the steeple fund. And, as I told you on the phone, at last I've got a free slot. Do you still want me to go ahead?'

‘Of course. How kind of you. Where would you play?'

‘We thought in the church.'

‘I see. I believe it is used a great deal for that sort of thing?'

‘Yes, a great deal.' She laughed her captivating laugh. ‘Why, don't you approve?'

‘One doesn't have to pray to worship,' Nick answered solemnly. ‘One can do so in a million different ways.'

‘So you've no objection to the music festival taking place?'

‘None at all.'

Bishop Claude had mentioned to him at the time of his application that Lakehurst had a music festival that was quite famous and that some of the concerts were held in the church.

‘Tell me about you,' said Nick, who couldn't stop staring at her. ‘When did you start playing?'

‘When I was four. I had a toy violin I used to scrape on and then my parents bought me a miniature one for my fifth birthday. After that there was no holding me.'

‘Who do you most admire of the current players?'

‘I've got a bit of a thing for Joshua Bell,' Olivia answered, ‘and Anne-Sophie Mutter.'