A Dead Man Out of Mind (17 page)

‘Hm.' That information was enough to satisfy his perfunctory curiosity on the subject; he put down his fork for a moment and picked up the copy of the
Financial Times
from the table to scrutinise a story on the front page which had caught his eye.

Desperate to retain her husband's attention, Vanessa went on, ‘It's at Joan Everitt's house this month. Rachel Nightingale is the speaker – she's going to give a sort of travelogue about Cambridge, I believe.'

She had succeeded in capturing his attention. He looked up quickly, frowning. ‘You weren't planning to go, were you?'

‘Why, yes. Until Augustine went missing, anyway. Now I don't know.'

Martin Bairstow put his newspaper on the table for emphasis and leaned across the table to look his wife in the eye. ‘I'd really rather you didn't. The more that woman is encouraged . . . well, let's just say I don't think it's a good idea. Surely Dolly isn't going?'

‘Well, no,' Vanessa admitted. ‘Dolly said that under no circumstances would she have any social contact with her.'

‘Very wise, too. I certainly hope that you'll follow her example.'

Vanessa didn't dare tell him that in her limited contact she had found Rachel Nightingale to be a warm and sympathetic person, and was looking forward to seeing her that afternoon, and possibly even intended to encourage further meetings. ‘Well, we'll see,' she prevaricated.

Her husband merely raised his heavy eyebrows in a way that conveyed his disapproval more clearly than words. Rolling up his napkin and restoring it to its silver ring, he rose from the table. ‘I'll be a bit late tonight,' he announced. ‘Norman and I have a meeting with the Vicar at six. So I should be home shortly after seven.'

‘I'll ring you if there's any news about Augustine,' Vanessa promised to his indifferent back. ‘I'm sure he's all right,' she added, more to herself than to him. ‘He
must
be all right.'

‘It's dead boring,' Ruth protested to David. ‘Nothing but photocopying. Why can't you give me something interesting to do?'

He didn't try very hard to conceal his irritation. ‘If you'd rather, you can collate and staple those reports. Or make me a cup of tea,' he added, knowing that the suggestion would infuriate her.

‘I didn't come all this way to spend three weeks running the photocopier, or making tea!' she flared. ‘I want to learn to be a solicitor, not a secretary!'

David took a deep breath, on the verge of retorting, ‘Then I suggest that you begin acting less like a spoiled brat and more like the bright young lady that everyone tells me you are,' but he caught himself in time. It was only the third morning of the first week, and already he'd had ample cause, both personal and professional, to regret giving in to Lucy in the matter of Ruth's work experience. He'd tried, several times, to explain to the girl that client confidentiality prevented her becoming involved in any meaningful way in his work, but she seemed unable to accept the limitations, and resented the menial work to which she was relegated. He had known it would happen, and he had been right. Looking down at his desk in an effort to control himself, he saw the notes he'd been making during his last telephone conversation, and had an inspiration. ‘Then you can go downstairs to the library, and see what you can find out about Canon Law and Consistory Courts,' he said in a mild voice. ‘Take as long as you like.'

‘Oh.' He had caught her by surprise, and it took her a little while to recover. ‘All right. But don't forget that you said I could have the afternoon off,' she added. She was going to hear Rachel Nightingale speaking to the women's club. Lucy had been invited by Vanessa Bairstow, and had reluctantly agreed to go, along with Emily, to support Rachel; when Ruth had found out about it, she had insisted on going along, and David was only too willing to accede to her request for a few hours off.

‘I haven't forgotten.'

‘Well, I'm off to the library, then.'

As soon as she had gone, David picked up the phone and dialled Martin Bairstow's business number, passing through several layers of secretaries before reaching the man himself. ‘I have some news about the silver,' he told Bairstow.

The other man's voice was eager. ‘Yes?'

‘It's not good news, I'm afraid,' David cautioned belatedly. ‘I've just been talking to the secretary of the Diocesan Advisory Committee. He says that the DAC have turned down our application for permission to sell it. In view of its singular importance and great value, he said.'

‘Oh.' Bairstow was silent for a moment, assimilating the information. ‘What recourse do we have?'

‘Well, Mr Bairstow, there's the Consistory Court, but as I explained to you before, that will take time and cost money. Counsel will have to be briefed, and it might take months.' He scanned his notes. ‘And, to be perfectly honest, the DAC secretary said that he didn't think we stood a chance of overturning the DAC's decision. In similar matters, the Consistory Court has always backed the DAC – they're the experts, after all. Of course, it's up to you,' he added. ‘And Mr Topping and Father Keble Smythe. I'm prepared to fight it, if that's what you decide you want to do.'

There was another, shorter silence. ‘Thank you, Mr Middleton-Brown,' Bairstow said at last. ‘I'll have to get back to you. As it happens, I'm meeting this evening with the Vicar and Norman Topping, and I promise you that this will be top of the agenda. I'll ring you as soon as I can.'

‘No hurry,' said David. ‘And I'm awfully sorry to have been the bearer of bad news.' As he put the phone down, he realised that in fact he was quite cheerful: the DAC's decision had affirmed his faith in the system. He had been uneasy all along about the sale of the silver, especially after the Vicar's veiled hints about the churchwardens' hidden agenda. In consequence he'd been feeling faintly guilty about his own role in doing something he didn't believe in, though he never would have admitted it even to Lucy. Now he hoped that the churchwardens and the Vicar would have the good sense to leave it, even if it meant that his fees would be considerably less than they might have been if it went to Consistory Court.

The Everitts' house was, compared to Vanessa Bairstow's mansion, a modest dwelling, perhaps a bit too near Victoria to be strictly considered Pimlico. But Joan had spared no trouble, or at least expense, in preparing for the meeting, offering her guests an impressive array of delicacies that had obviously come from the food hall of a famous Knightsbridge emporium.

For Rachel's sake, if not her hostess's, Lucy was glad she'd come: the turnout was embarrassingly small. She and Emily and Ruth made up nearly half the audience for Rachel's talk, in the absence of both churchwardens' wives as well as quite a number of the other women who had been at the previous month's meeting. Lucy could only assume that the snub was deliberate and possibly even organised, and hoped that Rachel didn't realise it.

Joan Everitt had no such compunction, as she circulated after the talk with cups of tea for her guests, looking more than ever like an ingenuous schoolgirl. ‘I'm sorry about the poor turnout,' she said to Rachel, who had been cornered by an enraptured Ruth as soon as she'd finished speaking. ‘We usually have loads more than this. Dolly wouldn't come, of course, and Vanessa rang earlier to say that her cat had gone missing, and she wanted to stay home in case he turned up.'

‘Oh, dear. That will have upset her. Perhaps I should call by her house later to make sure everything is all right,' Rachel thought aloud.

‘And Vera Bright had wanted to come,' Joan went on, ‘but she didn't feel that she should leave her father alone. Then, of course, there are the rest of Dolly's crowd, who wouldn't come because of you.' Seemingly oblivious to the possible hurt she had caused, she passed on to her other guests, leaving Rachel bemused and Ruth indignant.

‘Of all the insensitive . . . !' Ruth spluttered furiously.

Rachel, undecided whether it had been deliberate or merely naïve, gave her a philosophic smile. ‘Don't worry, my dear. I'm used to it.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I'm afraid that there are still quite a few people who haven't accepted the reality of women clergy in the Church of England – that's the problem with being the first generation. I don't consider myself a trailblazer, but somehow it's ended up that way. By the time that
you're
grown up, no one will think anything about it.'

‘I'd like to be a priest,' Ruth confided on impulse.

Rachel was surprised. ‘I thought you wanted to be a solicitor.'

The girl's face flamed, but she set her mouth in a determined line. ‘I thought I did, but I'm not so sure any more,' she admitted. ‘My work experience so far has been boring – dead boring. Your job seems
much
more interesting, even if there are people who don't appreciate you. I wish that I could do my work experience with
you
.'

Recognising the elements of hero-worship, and the unrealistic expectations that were driving the girl's new, as well as her former, career aspirations, Rachel had an idea. ‘I wouldn't want to interfere with what you're doing with Mr Middleton-Brown. But you're free in the evenings, aren't you?'

Ruth looked at her eagerly. ‘Yes.'

‘Perhaps you'd like to come out with me one evening when I'm on duty, as it were.' That would disabuse her of any notions of glamour in the quickest possible way.

The prospect beckoned, infinitely more appealing than yet another endless evening of telly and Cluedo with Aunt Lucy and her awful boyfriend. ‘Oh, yes, please.'

‘Well, then . . .'

‘Can't it be tonight?' Ruth suggested, unwilling to wait any longer than necessary. Her mind leapt ahead: perhaps it could even become a regular thing, for what was left of the three weeks.

Rachel took a sip of her tea and considered the idea. She had already decided to call on Vera Bright that evening, in view of her non-appearance at the meeting. Perhaps it would do both Vera and Ruth good to meet, across the generations. ‘All right,' she said. ‘But I'm afraid that it will have to be on foot – I don't have a car, and I don't think you'll fit on the back of my bicycle!'

‘I don't mind,' Ruth assured her. ‘Honestly, I don't.' For Rachel, no inconvenience was too great.

CHAPTER 13

    
Who say, Let us take to ourselves: the houses of God in possession.

Psalm 83.12

The Vicar hadn't yet returned home from saying Evensong, for which Martin Bairstow was grateful: it gave him an opportunity to discuss matters with his fellow warden before Father Keble Smythe became involved, as they waited in the vicarage study.

‘Middleton-Brown says that the DAC have turned us down,' he stated baldly. ‘And that he doesn't think a Consistory Court would take a more . . . liberal view of our request to sell the silver.'

Norman Topping thought of what Dolly would say, and he frowned. Though perhaps, he reflected, with all this business about Nicola to occupy her, Dolly wouldn't be so bothered. ‘Then what can we do? Is there anything else we can flog off?' He began taking a mental inventory of the church's treasures.

‘I've thought about that, and I don't think there's anything else that would raise the sort of ready cash that we'd need.'

‘To refurbish Magdalen House, you mean?' Topping whispered. ‘But how else will we manage when we go over to Rome? We've got to have a place to hold services, and since we can't take the building with us . . .'

Looking at his watch, Bairstow spoke urgently. ‘Listen, Norman, there's not much time. Father Keble Smythe will be here any minute. I've been thinking about this all afternoon, and I'll tell you what I think we should do.'

‘I'm all ears.'

‘I think that we should forget about our original idea of going over to Rome, and consider opting out of the diocese instead. They've made some rather generous provisions for congregations that remain in the Anglican Communion with alternative episcopal oversight, you know. Then we could keep our building – no compromises like Magdalen House.'

‘But that was such a brilliant idea of yours, Martin – to fix up Magdalen House, and then as trustees to hand it over to Rome, so we could use it as our church when we went over. Dolly thought that it was a wonderful idea.'

Bairstow fought to keep his impatience out of his voice. ‘I'm telling you, Norman, it isn't going to work. Without the cash from the silver to refurbish it, Magdalen House is just a house. It's not suitable for use as a church. Rome wouldn't want it.'

Dolly's not going to be happy about this, thought Norman Topping. ‘But how can we opt out of the diocese over the ordination of women, when we've got . . . her? The curate? She rather buggers things up, doesn't she?'

The door opened and Bairstow gave the other man a warning look. It was Mrs Goode, bringing in the drinks tray. ‘Are you gentlemen all right?' she asked, ostensibly addressing both of them but fixing her attention on Bairstow. ‘Father should be home any minute. But I'm sure he'd want you to help yourself to a drink.'

Bairstow favoured her with one of his patented charming smiles. ‘Thank you so much, Mrs Goode. It's so kind of you to bother with us.' He was glad of the interruption: Topping had raised a point for which he had no easy answer. The existence of Rachel Nightingale as their curate was rather a challenge to their claim of doctrinal purity, even if she had not yet been ordained as a priest. If only the Vicar hadn't been conned into having her, he reflected, they would have so many more options. If only there were a tidy way of getting rid of her . . .

As Mrs Goode set the tray down, the phone rang; having been well trained not to pick up the extension in the study, she hurried off into the hall to answer it. Bairstow busied himself pouring drinks to avoid addressing Topping's question, and within a moment Mrs Goode was back. ‘It was a message for you,' she said to Bairstow. ‘Your wife. She said to tell you that the cat has just come home – she thought you'd want to know.'