The Snares of Death (12 page)

The majestic tones of the organ met David at the door, and he recalled that the organist was engaged in a series of recitals in which he would play the complete organ works of Bach. Anxious not to disrupt the recital, he moved quietly up the wide north aisle of the church, which was in fact the Lady Chapel, lit a few candles before the exquisite painted and gilded statue of Our Lady, and said a prayer.

The church was in the curious state of disarray that exists between the sombre commemorations of Good Friday and the explosion of joy at the Resurrection. The altar frontals had not yet been changed, but several women were hard at work arranging the Easter flowers, great sheaves of snow-white lilies overhanging the pedestals. Tonight would be the Easter Vigil, with the Paschal Candle, the pure beauty of the Exsultet, and finally the joyous, heart-stopping cry of ‘The Lord is risen! He is risen indeed! Alleluia!' David found himself looking forward to it with anticipation.

Anticipation was hardly the operative word as he walked back towards Market Street. The street, like the supermarket car park, was thronged with people. You'd think, David reflected, that the shops were closing down for the next six months, rather than for just two days.

There was an old-fashioned butcher's shop at the foot of Market Street. David paused and looked in its window longingly. No meat for next weekend. It really was too bad, he thought, that Lucy had given up eating meat. What could he cook for her? He would have done a lovely boeuf bourguignon, but now he just didn't know. Lucy wouldn't care for this shop at all, he thought, with its deeply scarred, bloodstained chopping block, the careless heaps of innards, bones and feathers in the window, and the faint stench of meat near its best-before date. Being totally honest with himself, he had to admit that it was less than appealing, but for David familiarity had great charm, and it was with regret that he passed it by and headed up the street towards the health-food shop.

David had lived in Wymondham most of his life, with the exception of the ten or twelve years during which he'd been away at university, then working in London and Brighton. When his father had died, about ten years ago, he'd found a job at a firm in nearby Norwich and returned home to look after his mother, until her death the previous spring. In all of his years in Wymondham he'd never before darkened the door of the health-food shop, but today David was desperate. In its window was displayed an array of healthy-looking baked goods, replete with wholemeal flour and devoid of undesirable additives. And probably devoid of taste, he said to himself glumly. The shelves were full of things he'd never heard of – pulses and grains and protein substitutes. He looked in the refrigerated case at the tofu, and at the unappetising brown items labelled ‘pinto pie' and ‘aduki shepherd's pie'. He smiled to himself, then, at his own lack of adventurous spirit: he realised that he had a lot to learn. It was like a foreign language, one that Lucy would have to teach him some day. But Lucy was not here, and now was not the time.

He'd just have to leave it a few days, he decided, going home at last empty-handed. He'd have to stop at Somerfield one evening next week – they were open until eight, so he could go on his way home from work on Tuesday or Wednesday. That would give him time to think, to plan.

The next two days passed quickly for David, in a flurry of cleaning and church-going. On Sunday night he went to bed early, exhausted by his labours.

In the middle of the night he awoke with a start. Pleasure, embarrassment, and astonishment struggled in his mind as he tried to make sense of what had just happened to him.

She had come to him in his dream, here to this bed: Lucy, her face as radiant as her hair in the preternaturally bright moonlight that had streamed through his window. She had smiled at him, gravely and questioningly. Without conscious thought, almost without volition, he had held out his arms to her and she had come to him, into his bed, without a word. And then . . . His face was hot in the dark as he remembered the vividness of their passion. And he lay awake for hours afterwards, reliving the dream, reconstructing the whole of their relationship, trying to understand what it all meant.

David had known for a very long while that he loved Lucy, in his own way. But there had never before been a sexual dimension to his feelings for her – given his past history, he had frankly not imagined that there ever would, or even could, be. Now, however, he could scarcely deny what had happened, and somehow that changed everything. He loved her, and he wanted her: it was most disturbing. His love for her had been taken for granted, the sort of thing one didn't actually have to
do
anything about, and that had suited him very well; the sudden and unexpected introduction of this unfamiliar element into what had become a relatively comfortable, or at least predictable, relationship confused and frightened him. How could he go on as if nothing had changed? Those regular weekends in London – an art gallery or a concert, a meal together, the brotherly kiss on the cheek – what would happen now? How could he cope?

And on Friday she was coming to stay.

CHAPTER 13

    
Blessed is the man, whom thou choosest, and receivest unto thee: he shall dwell in thy court, and shall be satisfied with the pleasures of thy house, even of thy holy temple.

Psalm 65.4

Becca Dexter's weekend on the retreat with her father had been spent primarily in Bible study; on Monday morning she felt the need for some fresh air. She announced her intention to her mother over a late breakfast. ‘I think I'll walk into the village, Mum. Do you need anything?'

Elayne frowned, thinking. ‘Today's a bank holiday. The shops won't be open, will they?'

‘I don't know. They might be.'

‘I could do with a loaf of bread, if the bakery or that other little shop are open.'

‘Right, Mum. Anything else?'

‘I don't think so, dear. Tomorrow I shall have to do a big shop in Fakenham.' Elayne looked uncertainly at the remains of the loaf of bread, deliberating whether or not there was enough left for her to have a piece of toast, and finally decided against it. If Becca couldn't get any more bread today, it would be wanted for Bob's breakfast tomorrow. ‘Doesn't your father need you this morning?'

‘No, he said I could have the day off. He's got some things to do to get ready for the Institution tonight. He's going to Fakenham, I think.' Becca finished her tea. ‘I'll be off then, Mum. I'll see you in a bit.' Elayne watched her go, then started the washing-up.

It was a beautiful spring day, so mild that Becca's lightweight jumper was warm enough without a jacket. The kind of day, she thought, when anything could happen. She had a great sense of anticipation as she walked along the lane, past the church, and into the village, looking with interest at everything around her. She'd never lived in the country before – never even spent much time outside the Greater London area. But this was her new home, and she was eager to become a part of it.

The village pub, the Two Magpies, looked a nice spot, she thought. It was most picturesque, with its half-timbering and its thatch, and the creeper round the door. Daddy wasn't much of a one for drinking, to say the least, but perhaps he'd bring her here some evening for a soft drink. It would be a good way to meet some of the non-church-going residents of his parish, she'd tell him.

South Barsham was a middling-sized village, with several shops to its credit. There was a butcher's shop, a bakery, a post office-cum-grocery-cum-petrol station, and even a shop that sold clothing, though the things displayed in its window were not promising: some utilitarian-looking garb for men, children's school uniforms for the local comprehensive, and one or two ladies' garments that appeared several decades out of fashion. There was also a bank, open three mornings a week, and, incongruously, the old schoolhouse had been converted into a very posh restaurant with a French chef, nightly drawing crowds of
Good Food Guide
devotees from Norwich and even farther afield.

But on this Easter Monday morning, nothing looked open. Becca stopped in front of the bakery and peered at the ‘closed' sign which hung on the door.

‘Oh, they're not closed, are they?' A voice spoke at her side. Becca turned to see a tall, elderly woman in a golden wig, her face creased with dismay.

‘I'm afraid so. The sign says they won't be open until tomorrow. The bank holiday.'

‘Oh, dear! I'd forgotten about the bank holiday!'

Becca smiled at the woman. ‘It's not the end of the world, is it?'

‘Alice will be very upset if I come home without the cream cakes!'

‘Surely she won't blame you, if the bakery's not open?' Becca said sensibly.

‘Oh, you don't know Alice,' the woman replied darkly. Nell and Babs, secure on their leads, whimpered as if in agreement.

‘What lovely dogs!' Becca exclaimed, bending down to stroke them. ‘What are their names?'

‘This one's Nell, and that one is Babs,' said the woman, mollified slightly. ‘And I'm Gwen Vernon. Miss Vernon,' she added, looking with interest at the friendly young woman. The girl's face was completely obscured by a curtain of very long blonde hair as she crouched over the dogs, but Gwen could see that she was tall and extremely pretty.

Becca stood and offered her hand. ‘It's nice to meet you, Miss Vernon. I'm Rebecca Dexter, but everyone calls me Becca. I'm new in the village – you probably know that! My father is the new Vicar.'

Flustered, Gwen swapped the dog leads to her left hand with difficulty and shook the girl's hand. ‘I've met your father,' she said. ‘And your mother . . .' As soon as she'd said it, she wondered if perhaps she'd betrayed something, but the girl's face retained its friendly, interested smile.

‘How nice! And now you've met me, so you know us all!'

‘Yes . . .' Gwen was at a loss for words.

‘And who is Alice?' Becca asked in her open way. ‘The person who will blame you for the bakery being closed?'

‘Oh, Alice. Miss Barnes. She, that is, we, live in the village, at Monkey Puzzle Cottage.'

‘What a fun name for a house!'

‘We have two monkey puzzle trees. The only ones in the village,' Gwen explained with pride.

‘I don't think I've ever seen a monkey puzzle tree! What do they look like?'

‘Oh, they're splendid. Very exotic, I always think. You must come and see them some time.'

‘I'd love to!' Becca replied quickly. ‘I could come today, and meet Miss Barnes as well! I've got the day off, you see.'

‘Oh, well, yes,' Gwen fluttered. ‘You must come – for tea. Though of course we won't have any cream cakes. If you don't mind . . .'

Becca laughed. ‘I don't mind. Cream cakes are bad for my figure, anyway!' she said diplomatically; Becca, after a plump adolescence, could now eat anything she wanted without gaining an ounce. ‘I'll look forward to seeing you later, then. And you, too, Nell and Babs!'

Bob Dexter's chief priority for the day was the preparation of the church for the evening's ceremonies of Institution and Induction. Since he as yet had no official position at the church, he could not actually remove anything from it – all the offensive statues and pictures had to remain in place, at least until tomorrow, when he would well and truly be in charge. But he could certainly do his best to minimise them, and to draw attention elsewhere.

He'd been on the phone early to Noah Gates, and Noah had agreed to meet him at Gates of Heaven on that holiday as a special favour.

When Dexter arrived, on the dot of ten o'clock as arranged, both Noah and Toby Gates were waiting for him in the reception area. ‘Thank you for coming, Noah,' he greeted him. ‘And Toby, too. How nice to see you. Bob Dexter doesn't forget a favour.'

‘You said that it was important?' The shorter man looked up at him, a mixture of curiosity and impatience in his small black eyes.

‘A matter of utmost urgency,' he replied solemnly. ‘Something must be done about the church.'

‘Your church?' Gates asked.

‘That's just the problem. It's not my church –
yet
. Not until tonight, when the Archdeacon hands over the keys.' Dexter paused. ‘It's bad, Noah,' he said, shaking his head sorrowfully. ‘Very bad. Much worse than I'd even imagined. The idols! The images! Appalling!'

Gates was practical. ‘So what can you do, Bob? And how can I help?'

‘Posters!'

‘Posters?' echoed Toby.

‘Yes, posters. I want the biggest and the best posters you've got, Noah. I want to plaster the church with posters, cover the statues with them. Posters that will make people think, make people realise that Bob Dexter means business!'

Gates nodded with grudging admiration. ‘I can help you there, Bob.'

An hour later, they'd been through all the posters that Gates of Heaven had in stock. Dexter had selected a number of different designs, many with biblical texts and others with punchy sayings such as, ‘Jesus is Lord' or ‘God said it, I believe it, that settles it'.

‘These should do the job nicely.' Dexter smiled, well pleased. ‘Tonight Bob Dexter shall confront them with the Word of God!'

‘And tomorrow . . .' said Noah Gates.

‘Tomorrow I shall begin. Every bit of popery in that church shall be removed.'

‘Won't that be a very big job, sir?' asked Toby.

‘Yes, indeed. But Bob Dexter never shirks a challenge, young man. If necessary, I shall do it single-handed.'

‘If you need some help . . . that is, if you think another pair of hands might be useful,' Toby offered diffidently, ‘I could come.'

Dexter considered the offer. ‘Thank you very much indeed, Toby,' he said at last. ‘Yes, you might be very helpful. After all,' he added, with uncharacteristic self-deprecation, ‘Bob Dexter isn't as young as he used to be.'