Evil Angels Among Them (5 page)

‘I did think she was ever so nice,' Becca said, passing him the gravy. ‘And her little girl is gorgeous.'

‘What about her husband? Isn't he a churchgoer?'

‘I don't think she's married,' she admitted. ‘She called him her “partner” rather than her husband. Apparently he's still in London and won't be getting here until next weekend.'

‘That won't go down very well in the village,' Stephen said, half to himself.

‘Enid seemed to be all right about it – she's already asked Gillian to join the Mothers' Union.'

Stephen shook his head. ‘There's never any telling. Anyway, sweetheart, we'll have to make an effort to welcome them to Walston. Invite them for a meal and that sort of thing.'

Ruefully Becca surveyed their Sunday lunch, adequate but unexciting; cooking had never been one of her interests and her marriage had not brought about any great change of heart on the subject. ‘She's probably a really good cook. I'd be embarrassed to invite them.'

‘Don't be silly.' He smiled at her fondly; it was fortunate, given Becca's lack of interest in cooking, that Stephen was a rather ascetic young man who didn't consider food to be particularly important. ‘It's the hospitality that matters.'

The phone in the hall jangled suddenly; Becca started, then, as her husband went to answer it, clenched her fists on the table and took several deep breaths. It couldn't be the man, she told herself: he had never rung while Stephen was at home. But almost inevitably whenever Stephen was away, the phone would ring and it would be that voice. Soft-spoken, relaxed and just beyond identification. It always began the same – he would ask after her welfare, a friendly and concerned parishioner. And then would come the unspeakable questions, the suggestions, the fantasies. The filth. There was no way to stop it: if she put the phone down, he would only ring again, with a mild, injured rebuke for her discourtesy and continue where he had left off. It wasn't possible to ignore the phone, either – what if it were someone in urgent need of the Rector?

The worst of it was that she couldn't tell Stephen. The first time it had happened, over a month ago, she had managed to convince herself that it was a one-off occurrence, that it couldn't happen again and that there was no reason to worry her husband. And as time had gone on and the calls had continued, she couldn't think of a way to explain to him why she hadn't mentioned it before. Besides, she couldn't possibly bring herself to repeat the foul words, especially not to Stephen. The knowledge of those words, and of her contamination, would come between them, and spoil for ever the beauty of their lovemaking. And it wouldn't be fair to cast such a cloud of suspicion over his relationship with his parishioners – the consciousness that one of them had done such a thing would inevitably colour his feelings towards all of them. So she had borne it on her own, turning aside his concerned enquiries with brave assurances, however unconvincing, that all was well.

‘That was Dr McNair,' Stephen said, coming back into the dining room. ‘He wanted to let me know that he's just back from Norwich, from hospital, and Roger wants me to bring him the Sacrament. I was thinking that I should go this afternoon in any case, so as soon as we've finished lunch, I'll be off.'

Stephen didn't miss the quickly suppressed look of panic which tensed the muscles of her face. ‘I suppose you must,' she agreed bravely. ‘If he's asked for the Sacrament.'

‘Becca, sweetheart, what's the matter?' He crossed to her and tipped her face up with a finger under her chin.

‘Nothing. I'd just – hoped for an afternoon together, that's all.' She forced a smile. ‘I mustn't be selfish.'

Stephen bent down and kissed her gently. ‘That's my girl. I'll be home in time for tea.'

She went out to the kitchen to fetch the pudding, fighting down the panic. Returning to the dining room, she clutched at an idea. ‘Stephen, could I come with you?' she suggested eagerly. ‘I'd like to see Mr Staines too.'

He considered the proposal for a moment. ‘I don't know why not, sweetheart. The doctor said that he's allowed to have visitors and it might do him some good to see your pretty face. And perhaps we might find a nice teashop somewhere on the way back.'

This time her smile was radiant, startling her husband with its intensity. ‘Oh, thank you, Stephen! That would be lovely!'

Stephen had seen him the night before, when he was looking much worse, but Roger Staines's appearance, in his hospital bed in the coronary care unit of the Norfolk and Norwich hospital, shocked Becca deeply. His face was grey, drained of colour, and sensors stuck to his bare chest connected him to the paraphernalia of electronic gadgetry which monitored the degree to which he clung to life, while an intravenous drip sustained that life. But he managed a smile when he saw them. ‘What a nice surprise, Rector. You've brought something to brighten my day – your lovely bride.'

Becca crossed to kiss his ashen cheek. ‘Hello, Mr Staines. You gave us a scare.'

‘It scared me a bit as well.' His smile held a shadow of his customary twinkle. ‘I thought for a while there that my number was up. But Fergus McNair tells me that I'm going to pull through.'

‘That's wonderful news.' Stephen came to the bedside and touched his hand gently. ‘He rang me and said that you wanted the Sacrament.'

‘I'm surprised that he passed on the message,' grinned Roger. ‘You know what a cynical old heathen he is.'

Becca withdrew to the corner of the room and watched quietly while Stephen administered the Sacrament. Her initial shock had abated, but she couldn't take her eyes off the man in the bed. The bones stood out on a face normally smooth and rounded, and the sickly pallor of his complexion accentuated the height of his forehead with its receding hairline. The normally tidy straight grey hair looked lank and lifeless, and his blue eyes, without their customary silver-rimmed spectacles, seemed smaller. His appearance was all the more startling for its contrast to his usual nattiness: Roger Staines always dressed impeccably if somewhat idiosyncratically in tweed suits with colourful bow ties and patterned silk waistcoats. In anyone else such a garb would have smacked of the
poseur
, but all who knew him were aware that he was incapable of deliberate affectation. He was an intelligent, educated man, trained as an historian; he could have gone far in the academic world, and had indeed been offered more than one Oxbridge fellowship, but he preferred to live in Walston and concentrate on his magnum opus: a comprehensive history of the village and St Michael's Church, a book which had been many years in the researching and the writing.

Roger Staines's interest in that particular Norfolk village was no accident. He was a descendant, in the female line, of the Lovelidge family, who as lords of the manor had dominated the village for centuries. The male line had died out shortly after the Great War; due to the peculiarities of the inheritance system, Walston Hall had been sold, and all that Roger Staines had to show for his illustrious family connection was a modest private income, just enough to enable him to carry out his self-appointed role of village historian without the necessity of earning a living. He lived alone in a cottage on the fringes of the former estate, involved with his research but taking his responsibilities as churchwarden very seriously.

Of all of her husband's parishioners, Becca had so far found Roger Staines to be the most pleasant. His manner towards her was invariably kind, marked with an old-fashioned courtliness; she knew, as well, that Stephen respected him both for his intellect and for his conscientious approach to his duties.

The mission on which he had come fulfilled, Stephen gave Roger a blessing. ‘Perhaps we should go now,' he concluded. ‘I don't want to tire you.'

‘Oh, no.' Roger's face registered disappointment. ‘Please stay for a bit and keep me company, both of you. The time passes so slowly – and I feel much better today. I'd really welcome a chat, Father.'

‘Yes, all right then.' Stephen pulled two chairs up close to the bed, helped Becca into one, and sat down on the other. ‘As long as the doctors don't mind, that is.'

‘I'm sure they don't mind. In fact, I'm doing so well that they're likely to send me home any minute.' His smile was wan but determinedly cheerful.

Stephen laughed. ‘I'm glad to hear it. I haven't forgotten that you'd promised to clean the church gutters this week and it's about time you got on with it. This malingering can't last for ever, you know.'

‘Actually, the gutters are done – Ernest helped me with them yesterday afternoon. But the malingering is what I need to talk to you about.' Roger's smile had faded into a look of pained regret. ‘I'm afraid it's going to have to last for ever.'

‘What do you mean?' The Rector's voice was sharp with alarm.

‘I'm going to pull through this time,' Roger assured him. ‘But Dr McNair says that this attack was a warning and that my heart is seriously damaged.' Plucking unconsciously at one of the monitors on his chest, he continued. ‘He says that I have to give up the wardenship – that it's too stressful, too much responsibility and too much work. He says that if I want to live for another year or two, you'll have to find another churchwarden. I'm frightfully sorry,' he added.

‘Ah.' Stephen exhaled the word on a sigh. ‘I see. Well, of course you must stand down immediately, Roger. We shall miss you very much, I don't have to tell you, and I don't know who could possibly replace you, but your health is all that really matters. And we want you around for a good few years yet.'

The man in the bed echoed the sigh. ‘So sorry,' he repeated. ‘It's a terrible time to leave you in the soup like this.'

Becca leaned forward, alarmed. ‘What do you mean?'

With an apologetic laugh, he explained. ‘I'd meant to see you this week, Father. I've known that something was afoot for a bit, but I hadn't wanted to alarm you before it was necessary. Now it rather looks as if I won't be able to be much help. It's Fred Purdy,' he amplified. ‘He's come up with some hare-brained ideas.'

‘About the expansion of Ingram's, you mean?' Stephen raised his eyebrows. ‘He's mentioned that to me already.'

‘What's this about?' queried Becca, looking back and forth between the two men.

Roger nodded at Stephen, who explained to his wife. ‘You know there's a small agricultural business in the village, on a parcel of land that used to belong to the estate? Ingram's?' She shook her head in the negative, so he continued. ‘At the moment they just have a few battery hens and sell a bit of seed, but they're looking to expand rather significantly to a proper poultry-packing business. It would make a difference to Walston in several ways, not least of which would be a big increase in traffic – heavy-goods lorries and that sort of thing. They'd need to build a new access road along by the almshouses. Fred thinks it's a good idea.'

‘He thinks it would be good for the village,' amplified Roger with a cynical grimace. ‘Not to mention good for Fred Purdy, though he doesn't quite put it like that. I think he sees it in terms of a symbiotic relationship between the village shop and a bigger and better Ingram's – he buys in fresh poultry and eggs from them, and all of their new employees help to increase his customer base. He wins both ways. Very neat.'

Becca's puzzlement grew. ‘But what does it have to do with you – with either one of you?'

‘The Rector and churchwardens are the trustees of the almshouses,' Stephen explained. ‘Which means that, in order for him to have a two-to-one majority, at least one of us has to agree with him to grant Ingram's the right-of-way through the almshouses' grounds.'

‘And he knows jolly well that I think it's a terrible idea,' put in Roger Staines. ‘I've told him so. All that traffic. Not to mention what it would do to the estate. But I'm afraid that's not Fred's only hare-brained scheme,' he went on. ‘He's decided that we should stop paying our Diocesan Quota.'

‘What!' The Rector's face showed his surprise and alarm. ‘This is the first I've heard of it!'

‘It's what I wanted to warn you about. He's rather serious about it, I'm afraid – says that there's no justification for sending all that money to Norwich when it's so badly needed in the village.'

Stephen shook his head. ‘Ridiculous. But Fred isn't exactly known as an original thinker. Where would he come up with an idea like that?'

Chuckling, the churchwarden explained. ‘You're right – he didn't think of it himself. He was talking to some of the other wardens in the Deanery at the induction of the new vicar of Upper Walston. That's the big Evangelical church,' he added for Becca's benefit. ‘Like many Evangelical congregations, they've got more money than they know what to do with, but their wardens have decided that they won't trust the diocese with it, especially after the Church Commissioners lost so much money. They said, according to Fred, “Why throw good money after bad?” So they're withholding their Quota and supporting their own missions instead. If the diocese tries to retaliate by refusing to fund their vicar's stipend, they can well afford to pick up the tab themselves. So they're in a pretty unassailable position. And to make matters worse, the wardens of Walston St Mary – the spikiest Anglo-Catholic church in the Deanery – have also decided not to pay the Quota, in protest at the ordination of women. The Church of England didn't have the authority to take that step, they claim, and so they have no further responsibility to pay their Quota. So, of course, not to be outdone, Fred has decided to follow suit.' He gave a short, cynical laugh.

‘But can't the diocese do something to us if we don't pay up?' asked Becca, frowning. ‘Can't they refuse to pay Stephen's stipend, or something like that?'