Evil Angels Among Them (7 page)

‘I've had enough,' she announced, waving her hands dramatically. ‘That damned hard disk has decided to pack up. It was working fine yesterday, before I moved it. Do you suppose it's trying to tell me something?'

Gillian smiled. ‘Like you shouldn't have left London, you mean?'

‘Exactly.' Lou flopped into a chair, put her elbows on the pine table and her head in her hands. ‘Whose idea was it to move to Norfolk, anyway?'

‘I think it was Mummy's,' said Bryony, who was seated at the table, methodically colouring a picture. ‘But you thought it was a good idea too, Lou. I remember you said so.'

‘More fool me – this place is the pits. Rainy and cold and horrible. I'm sure the sun must be shining in London.' Lou rubbed her forehead. ‘I've got a splitting head, Gill.'

‘Oh, poor you.' Gill came behind her and massaged the back of her neck with cool, deft fingers. ‘Shall I brew you up some marjoram infusion? Or some wood betony?'

Lou relaxed and leaned back into the massage. ‘Ugh. You know I don't trust that stuff. You might try to poison me,' she added with a grin.

‘Shall I get your tablets?' offered Bryony.

‘In the drawer of the bedside table,' Lou directed her, gesturing towards the stairs with her expressive hands.

The girl brought them back a moment later, handing her mother the small flat packet of soluble pain-reliever tablets. Gill filled a glass with water and decanted the tablets into it, watching their dervish dance of self-destruction as they whirled and fizzed themselves into nonexistence. ‘Here, lovey,' she said, handing the glass to Lou. ‘Drink it all down and you'll be better before you know it.'

Lou took it in one gulp, grimacing at the taste. But she smiled at Gill and gave her hand a quick caress as she relieved her of the empty glass. ‘Thanks, angelface. You
do
take good care of me.'

At the Rectory, Stephen finished his lunch and looked out at the steady rain without enthusiasm. ‘Not much of a day to go out,' he said. ‘But I suppose I must.'

‘Surely you can wait till the weather's better,' Becca urged.

‘No, I'd better go. But I shouldn't be gone long. I've got to pop up to Walston Hall and have a word with Quentin Mansfield, to sound him out about standing for churchwarden. He's expecting me.'

Becca stifled a sigh. ‘All right. But hurry back.'

On a fine day, Stephen would have gone to the Hall on foot, taking the ancient path connecting the manor house and the church which the Lovelidge family had utilised for centuries. But the rain was coming down harder than ever and the path was likely to be muddy, so he opted to take the car round via the roads. Mrs Mansfield, he knew, was a rather finicky woman who would view with horror a Rector who tracked muddy footprints into her house.

Walston Hall, even in the rain, was an impressive sight. It was by no means among the largest or grandest of the stately homes of England, but in its compact, all-of-a-piece perfection there was great charm. It was an early Tudor house, built all of small red bricks, with two symmetrical side wings thrusting forward to embrace a courtyard and presided over by majestic zigzagged chimneys. According to Roger Staines, Walston Hall had been built by Cardinal Wolsey, who had acquired the patronage of St Michael's Church, with a view to using its rich revenues to fund his new Ipswich College. John Lovelidge, a man no more high-born than his master Wolsey, had been his local agent in the area, overseeing the collection of tithes. But the first Lovelidge had perceived the way the wind was blowing, and had transferred his allegiance to Henry VIII before Wolsey's downfall. As a reward for his loyalty the newly ennobled Sir John Lovelidge had received Walston Hall, with its surrounding estate, and there he had founded the dynasty that had dominated Walston for nearly four centuries.

Now, of course, it belonged to Quentin Mansfield and his wife. Mansfield had toyed with the whim, when he'd bought the house, of changing its name to Mansfield Park, but the local outcry had been great, and the idea had been abandoned; Walston Hall it remained, and would as long as it stood.

The Mansfields employed no live-in servants, relying on part-time help from the village to keep the house running smoothly. Stephen was met at the door by Diana Mansfield, who took his wet umbrella gingerly, depositing it in an elaborate brass rack in the entrance hall. ‘Come in, Rector,' she said, standing aside. ‘Quentin is waiting for you in the library.'

Stephen never knew quite what to make of Diana Mansfield. She was an attractive woman of around fifty, thin as a reed, with champagne-coloured hair, beautifully cut to frame her taut-skinned face. At her age, the village concurred, that smooth skin was either a miracle of genetic good fortune or a marvel of the plastic surgeon's art, but the latter seemed far more likely. Her clothes were clearly expensive, but were much more suitable for wear in and around Sloane Square than for the Norfolk countryside: today, for example, she was wearing a creamy silk shirt above fawn-coloured trousers of some drapey fabric which emphasised her thinness, and a heavy gold chain encircled her neck. Even the Barbour jacket which she occasionally wore around the village, in an attempt to look as if she belonged there, was pristine and unscarred, all too clearly bought in Knightsbridge.

It wasn't as if, Stephen reflected, Diana Mansfield hadn't made the effort to fit in: the Barbour jacket was evidence that she valued the opinion of the village. From the beginning she had proved herself to be a tireless church worker, joining the Mothers' Union and volunteering to organise the annual summer fête. But somehow it hadn't worked; she was never accepted as one of them. She always seemed to be somewhere on the fringes of any group, yearning to belong but never quite making it.

Part of her problem, realised Stephen, was that she had been so much on her own in Walston, her husband living in London during the week and returning to Norfolk only at weekends. Her children had left home before the move to Walston Hall; it was the classic empty-nest syndrome of the middle-aged woman with too much time on her hands, exacerbated by the move to strange surroundings. Stephen felt sorry for Diana Mansfield, but so far had been unable to think of a way to help her.

Quentin Mansfield, who ushered him into the library and offered him a drink, was a different matter. He had always seemed to Stephen to be entirely self-sufficient and self-possessed. A large man with a businessman's paunch, he was conscientious in his church attendance but he seemed uninterested in assuming the role of the village squire.

A fire had been lit against the chill of the day, and Stephen sank gratefully into a comfortable leather chair as he accepted his drink.

His host remained standing, leaning against the carved wooden mantelpiece. ‘Well, Rector?' he said. ‘What's this all about? I'm not flattering myself that this is a social call.'

‘Well, no, not exactly.'

‘Money, is it?' he asked bluntly. ‘Is the roof leaking? It's no good asking me for money for vestments or any of that High Church rubbish – you know very well that I don't approve of such nonsense.'

Stephen was caught off balance, but recovered quickly. ‘No, Mr Mansfield. It's not about money. Not directly, anyway.' He smiled. ‘And I do know that you don't share my churchmanship, but I don't think that should prevent us working together.' He took a sip of his drink, deciding that the direct approach would be most effective. ‘I'll come to the point. Roger Staines has been told by Dr McNair that he can't continue as churchwarden. That means there will be a vacancy to be filled at the Easter Vestry, and I was wondering whether you might be interested in the job.'

‘Churchwarden, eh? You do surprise me.' Mansfield turned and scrutinised the young priest. ‘Doesn't one have to be born in Walston, or at least in Norfolk, to be considered for such an honour?'

‘I don't know about honour,' Stephen demurred. ‘It's a great deal of work, and quite a responsibility – legally as well as practically.'

‘Then why, I wonder,' the other man mused with a cynical smile, ‘does no one ever want to give the job up? Fred Purdy has been churchwarden for so many years that even he has lost count, and from what I hear Ernest Wrightman would have held on for ever if it hadn't been for his health. That probably goes for Roger Staines as well.'

Stephen looked thoughtful. ‘There's something in that,' he admitted. ‘I suppose it is a very powerful position, and there are people who thrive on power. I wouldn't put Roger in that category, though.'

‘And what about me?' Mansfield posed bluntly. ‘Is that why you're asking me? Because you think that I thrive on power?'

A question like that, Stephen recognised, deserved an equally straightforward answer. ‘I'm asking you because I think you have the financial acumen that we need, and because I believe that I can trust you to act for the good of St Michael's, and for the good of the Church of England. I believe, Mr Mansfield, that you are a man of sense and judgment, all questions of churchmanship aside.'

‘Ah.' Mansfield abandoned his position at the mantelpiece and sat down opposite Stephen in a matching leather chair. ‘Now we're talking. So it
is
to do with money.'

‘Indirectly. As you must know, Mr Mansfield, the Church of England is not in an enviable financial position at the moment.' Stephen smiled wryly. ‘The Church Commissioners haven't done us any favours, losing all that money, and the result is that the burden is falling, and will increasingly fall, on the parishes themselves.'

‘Obviously.'

‘And there are those who, for various reasons, believe that the congregations should owe no allegiance – and send no money – to the diocese, whom they see as money wasters.'

‘I've heard that argument,' Mansfield acknowledged. ‘There's some merit in it.'

Stephen leaned forward and spoke earnestly. ‘Yes,' he said, ‘but this is the Church of England we're talking about. The national Church. Not a congregationalist confederation, but the national, established Church. The only direction this sort of argument will lead is to the breakdown of the parish system, and ultimately the disestablishment of the Church of England. If that's what you want, then fair enough. Tell me now, and we have nothing else to discuss. But if the survival of the Church of England is important to you, as it is to me, then I think you're the man we need as our next churchwarden.'

Back at the Rectory, Becca's nightmare continued. Stephen hadn't been gone more than ten minutes before the phone rang. She picked it up, dreading what was to come, hoping she was wrong.

She wasn't wrong. The call began and continued as all the others, leaving her trembling and sickened. But before he had finished, she put the phone down. Immediately it began ringing again.

Becca covered her face with her hands. She couldn't bear it – not this afternoon. Escape was all she could think about. Escape.

She willed herself to calm down and think clearly about where she might go. The village grapevine had provided her with the information that Gillian English's partner had been due to arrive on the Friday: that would provide her with an excuse, if she needed one, to pay a call of welcome. She'd been meaning all week to call on Gillian, and now she would do it.

But what could she take with her? Becca was well aware that when the Rector's wife went to call she was expected to take along a pot of home-made jam or something fresh from the oven, a fragrant fruitcake or a plate of delicate golden shortbread. Her own shortcomings in that area were all too well known to her. She would just have to make do with something from the village shop – flowers, perhaps.

The phone was still ringing. She plucked up the receiver and laid it down beside the phone, grabbed her coat from the hall stand, snatched up an umbrella and let herself out of the house, breathing deeply.

The rain was a shock, but not an unwelcome one: she found it bracing and strode down the lane with it in her face, not bothering to raise the umbrella. Past Cyprian Lawrence's cottage and Harry Gaze's, then past the church and into the main road through the village.

Fred Purdy was, as usual, behind the counter in the shop. There were no other customers, so he gave her his full attention as she came in.

‘Nice day for ducks,' he chuckled. ‘But not for village shopkeepers. Not much business today, so I'm glad to see you. But it looks like you've got a bit damp, young lady.'

Becca summoned up a smile. ‘Yes, it's rather wet out there.'

‘Has your brolly sprung a leak, then? It hasn't done you much good.' He looked at her streaming hair, then at the umbrella in her hand, laughing at the sight.

‘I just forgot to put it up,' she explained lamely.

‘Well, what can I do for you today? Something nice for the Rector's supper, perhaps?'

‘Do you have any flowers, Mr Purdy?'

He gestured to a pail behind him. ‘Daffs, of course. And some irises, but they're a bit dearer.'

‘I'll have the irises,' she decided, reaching for her handbag and realising that she didn't have it. ‘Oh! I've left my handbag at home!'

Fred chuckled. ‘That's all right, my dear. I'll trust you for it till the next time. If you can't trust the Rector's wife, who can you trust?'

‘Thanks awfully,' she said with real gratitude, realising that she couldn't face the thought of going back into the Rectory.

He wrapped the stems of the flowers. ‘Having a dinner party, are you?'

‘Oh, no. I just thought I'd call at Foxglove Cottage.'

‘Ah!' Fred handed the irises across the counter. ‘You've heard the news, then? Going to have a look for yourself, are you?'

Becca looked at him blankly. ‘I knew that what's-his-name – Lou – was arriving yesterday, but I haven't heard anything else.'