Evil Angels Among Them (33 page)

‘I'm afraid so,' David admitted.

‘And the police are no closer to catching him than they ever were,' added Lucy with a thoughtful frown.

The meal was characterised by periods of silence as each of them tried to absorb the implications of the day's happenings, punctuated with comments in the form of random observations and questions.

‘One thing I don't understand,' mused Stephen, ‘is how he always seemed to know when Becca was home alone.'

‘I suppose he could see you when you drove past the shop, going out,' David suggested. ‘Then he would know you weren't at home.'

Lucy smiled wryly. ‘I think there's a bit more to it than that. Didn't you confide in him a great deal as your churchwarden?'

Stephen stared at her for a moment as the truth of her question sank in. ‘Of course!' he said. ‘I used to go through my diary with him at least once a week and tell him what appointments I had! I started doing it, I suppose, because I was defensive – I wanted him to know that I was working as hard as Father Fuller ever did. Fred said to me one time that he wouldn't blame me if I never went out, if I just skived off home to be with my beautiful new wife. After that I made a point of telling him exactly where I was going, and when.'

‘And played right into his hands,' Lucy said ironically.

‘But how did you know that?' Stephen queried, baffled.

Lucy gave a short laugh. ‘Something his daughter said to me – she said you wouldn't go to the loo without asking Fred the way. On reflection, that didn't sound like you, but I suppose that's the interpretation Fred might put on it, especially if he were trying to impress people with his importance.'

After another silence, Stephen spoke again. ‘What I
really
don't understand is why he did it. Why did he make those horrible phone calls? And why did he pick on Becca?' They were rhetorical questions for which he expected no answers.

Lucy knew that Stephen deserved the truth, but she was constrained by Becca's presence; she settled for a watered-down version of a portion of the truth. ‘I think he was lonely and mixed up. A man who needed to feel important and in control of his life. It's about power, really – while he was making those calls, he could feel powerful and in control. And his wife has been sick,' she added.

Becca hadn't spoken for a long time; now she looked troubled. The euphoria that she'd felt earlier, the inexpressible relief at the end of a long ordeal, had been replaced by a more reflective mood. ‘What will happen to him?' she asked in a low voice.

Misunderstanding the intent of the question, David was heartily reassuring. ‘I'm sure he won't be bothering you again, Becca. They probably won't send him to prison, but they'll make sure that he gets treatment for his . . . problem.'

‘I feel sorry for Fred,' Becca said softly. ‘He couldn't help it, I suppose. And I feel guilty as well. I knew his wife was sick, was in the hospice, but since I never met her I didn't ever go to see her. It's partly my own fault what happened. Maybe if I'd been more sensitive, had been a better Rector's wife . . .' Her eyes filled with tears.

‘Oh, Becca!' Stephen's voice was laden with emotion. ‘How good you are! I wanted to kill him for what he'd done to you, and you've forgiven him already.' He went to her and embraced her. ‘I love you so much,' he murmured. ‘And I don't deserve you.'

‘Come on, David darling,' Lucy said quickly, with admirable discretion. ‘I think there's some washing-up waiting for us in the kitchen.'

‘I stopped in South Ken on my way to the office,' David told Lucy as they tackled the washing-up. ‘At home – at your house,' he amended conscientiously, ‘I picked up your sketchbook and a few other bits and pieces of your artistic kit – I thought you might like to have it with you. And a few extra clothes.'

‘Oh, darling, you read my mind!' Oblivious to the suds on her hands, she put her arms around him. ‘How thoughtful of you.'

David savoured the moment, resting his cheek on the top of her head. ‘That was before all this happened, of course,' he said. ‘Now I suppose we really ought to go, and leave Stephen and Becca to get on with their lives.'

Lucy pulled away with a frown. ‘But we still don't know who murdered Flora,' she reminded him.

Sighing, he drew Lucy back against his chest. ‘It's not our business, love. And Stephen and Becca don't need us any longer. They need some time on their own.'

She still didn't know why she was so reluctant to return to London. ‘One more day,' she insisted. ‘Let's stay just one more day, and we can go home tomorrow night.' With sudden inspiration she added, ‘I've got my sketchbook now, and I've been dying to make some sketches of those monuments in the church. I can do that tomorrow afternoon.'

‘All right,' David agreed. ‘One more day.' He kissed the top of her head.

‘I've been thinking . . .' said Lucy, still in his arms. ‘If it wasn't Fred Purdy who killed Flora, it was probably someone else with a secret that she discovered. Maybe a woman. You know poison is a woman's weapon – maybe we've been looking at this all wrong, assuming that it was a man.'

David laughed fondly and hugged her. ‘You're incorrigible, love.'

She detached herself from him with frosty dignity. ‘You may laugh. But I'm serious, David. Maybe it was a woman.' She plunged her hands back into the hot soapy water. ‘What about Marjorie Talbot-Shaw?'

‘Marjorie Talbot-Shaw?' David frowned, trying to remember something. ‘Oh! While I was home – at your house – I listened to the messages on your answerphone. Most of the messages didn't amount to anything, but there was one from Pat Willoughby. She said she had something she wanted to tell you about Marjorie Talbot-Shaw. She said to ring her back when you had a chance.'

‘Why didn't you tell me sooner?' Lucy demanded, indignant.

‘I didn't think it was that important.'

‘Oh, honestly!' She shook the suds from her hands, dried them quickly on a tea towel, and went into the hall to the telephone. Too impatient to search out a copy of Crockford or a
Church of England Year Book
, she rang Directory Enquiries and asked for the listing for the Bishop of Malbury; knowing George Willoughby, she was sure that it wouldn't be ex-directory.

David looked after her, shaking his head in bemusement.

The Honourable Patricia Willoughby, wife of the Bishop of Malbury, was well known for having her finger on the pulse of the diocese. One of her particular interests was the clergy wives of the diocese, whom she treated like the daughters she'd never had. Why, thought Lucy as she dialled Pat's number, hadn't she thought to ask Pat about Marjorie Talbot-Shaw?

It was Bishop George himself, long-time best friend of Canon John Kingsley, who answered. ‘Lucy!' he boomed in his hearty voice. ‘We haven't seen you in Malbury for months! Why don't you and David come down some weekend soon? You know there's always room for you – both of you – at the Bishop's House. Your father would love to see you, and of course Pat and I would as well.'

‘Thanks,' Lucy replied, knowing that the offer was made sincerely, and appreciating its kind intent. ‘We'll come soon, I promise. But could I speak to Pat, if it's convenient?'

‘I should have known that you didn't want to talk to me,' he grumbled good-naturedly. ‘No one ever does, unless they've got a problem. I'll get Pat.'

His wife came on the line a moment later. ‘Lucy, my dear! You got my message, then.'

‘You said to ring. About Marjorie Talbot-Shaw?'

‘That's right.' Pat laughed. ‘I saw your father yesterday, and he said that you'd mentioned her. There seemed to be some confusion and I thought I might be able to clear it up.'

‘I should have known that you'd be the person to ask,' Lucy said. ‘It doesn't make any sense. Daddy described her as small and blonde and rather silly. But the woman I've met who calls herself Marjorie Talbot-Shaw is nothing like that – she's dark-haired and tall and bossy. I know that Daddy can be a bit vague at times,' she added fondly, ‘but he was quite definite about it.'

Pat laughed again. ‘Your father is quite right,' she said in her customary brisk way. ‘And so are you.'

‘But how?'

‘Quite simple, really. Godfrey Talbot-Shaw's wife Marjorie, the one that your father knew years ago, died some time ago, not long after your dear mother. That's probably why your father didn't know about it, or didn't remember it – he had so much on his own mind at the time.' Pat Willoughby remembered that time very well: she had been a tower of strength for the bewildered widower John Kingsley and his four children, one of them a newborn baby.

‘And . . .'

‘And unlike your father, Godfrey Talbot-Shaw married again, after a suitable period of mourning. A woman as different as could be from his first wife. Except for one thing, my dear.'

‘Her name,' Lucy said, deflated.

‘Exactly,' Pat chuckled. ‘I suppose he liked the name Marjorie. It's as simple as that.'

CHAPTER 24

    
How long will ye give wrong judgement: and accept the persons of the ungodly?

Psalm 82.2

The following morning, for the first time since her marriage, indeed almost the first time she could remember, Becca Thorncroft decided to stay at home from church. She couldn't face the curious stares, she declared, in the wake of the sensational events of the past few days. By now everyone would know that Fred Purdy had been arrested and charged with making obscene telephone calls to her, and they would all be looking at her to see how she was taking it. ‘Just for today,' she said, looking to her husband for approval.

Stephen concurred with her decision. ‘There's no need for you to put yourself through that,' he said. ‘People's memories are short, and who knows what may happen by next Sunday to replace it in everyone's mind?' He smiled wryly. ‘God knows, I wish
I
didn't have to go! And God only knows what I'm going to say to them in my sermon. I'll have to rely on Him for this one.'

David, too, declared himself unequal to the ordeal, and opted to stay with Becca; he would give her a hand with lunch, he offered.

But curiosity drew Lucy to the service. Someone might just say or do something that would betray a guilty secret, she reasoned. So she sat at the back of the chancel on her own, and observed. She saw no guilty secrets betrayed, but there were a number of other things for her to take in. It wasn't a pretty sight, she admitted later: the jockeying for position, subtle and not-so-subtle, as Ernest Wrightman nabbed the vacant churchwarden's seat and wand; the craning of necks looking for Becca, and the disappointment at her non-appearance; the wagging of tongues before, after and occasionally during the service. No one was really expecting Fred Purdy to show his face though he was known to be out on bail, and no one could claim to have seen him since his arrest. Gill and Lou weren't there either, but they were now old news. Diana Mansfield had come; she sat at her husband's side and didn't once turn her head to look towards the organ. And Stephen preached a sermon which caught them all by surprise.

‘Today's theme on this last Sunday of Easter, the Sunday before the Feast of the Ascension, is “Going to the Father”,' he began. ‘I intended to preach on the New Testament lesson, that famous and wonderful passage from St Paul's letter to the Romans which tells us that we are “more than conquerors through him that loved us”. But I don't believe that we're ready for that message of hope. Instead I'd like to share with you a few words of Our Lord, from the Gospel according to St Matthew.' He opened his Bible and read, ‘“This people draweth nigh unto me with their mouth, and honoureth me with their lips; but their heart is far from me . . . Not that which goeth into the mouth defileth a man; but that which cometh out of the mouth, this defileth a man . . . Do not ye yet understand, that whatsoever entereth in at the mouth goeth into the belly, and is cast out into the draught? But those things which proceed out of the mouth come forth from the heart; and they defile the man. For out of the heart proceed evil thoughts, murders, adulteries, fornications, thefts, false witness, blasphemies.” I see you all looking at one another, and thinking perhaps of one or two who are not with us today. But Our Lord also said, “. . . why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye?”, and “. . . He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her”. Think about what I have read to you, about these words of Our Lord, and search your own hearts before you too readily condemn others. That is all I have to say.' Stephen sat down, leaving a stunned congregation.

‘It was brilliant,' Lucy congratulated him over lunch. ‘Just the right thing to say.'

Stephen, modest, was unwilling to take the credit. ‘They were Our Lord's words, not mine,' he asserted. ‘And I don't suppose they were listening anyway. It didn't seem to prevent them carrying on as if nothing had happened, after the service. Enid was giving Ernest a hard time about being so eager to take over as churchwarden, and Doris was needling Enid about the Mothers' Union. And then, of course, there was the fascinating topic of Fred Purdy.'

‘Natural enough, really,' said David. ‘I don't suppose it's very often that a churchwarden is jailed for making nuisance calls to the Rector's wife.'

‘That reminds me.' Stephen turned to Becca. ‘Now that, in effect, I'm down two churchwardens instead of one, you'll never guess who came up to me after the service to offer to stand for the vacancy.'

‘Not Quentin Mansfield?' Becca hazarded. ‘Or Ernest?'

‘Enid Bletsoe herself.'