A Dead Man Out of Mind (5 page)

‘Why, that's perfect!' Topping exulted. ‘So he can start right away, then!'

‘Within a few weeks, I hope.'

Martin Bairstow was more sensitive than his colleague to the nuances of the Vicar's announcement. ‘There's a problem, though, isn't there? He's just a deacon, I suppose. That's fine for you, Father – he can help you with your parish duties with no problem. But it's not so good for us at St Margaret's, if he can't celebrate the Mass without using the Reserved Sacrament.'

Father Keble Smythe's expression was grave. ‘Yes, I'm afraid that's so. Our new curate – for I've talked to the candidate, and offered the post – is a deacon, not a priest, though that will be remedied as soon as priesting is possible, with any luck in a few months' time. I've explained the circumstances – I'm sorry, but it's the best I can do at the moment.'

‘Well, who is he?' Norman Topping demanded. ‘I don't suppose we'll know him, but what is his name?'

For the first time that afternoon, the Vicar was not able to meet the eyes of his churchwardens; strong as were his personal reasons for the decision he'd made, he knew that they would never understand. Looking down at his hands, he spoke softly. ‘Gentlemen, the name of our new curate is . . . Rachel Nightingale.'

A quarter of an hour later, after the explosion, the explanations, the threats, and the apologies, the two churchwardens stood outside on the pavement, looking at each other. At the end of the day, in spite of their protests and the Vicar's professed regrets about the matter, it was done, and it was too late to go back on it.

‘A woman!' Martin Bairstow said in a dangerously quiet voice. ‘I can't believe he's done this to us.'

‘He said he didn't have any choice, but—'

Bairstow thought aloud. ‘Someone put pressure on him, you can depend on it. Someone high up, who was trying to make a point, or do someone a favour.'

Norman Topping's concerns were closer to home. ‘Whatever is Dolly going to say about this?'

‘And not just Dolly, either. It might be all right at St Jude's, but St Margaret's will not stand for it!'

‘But Martin! What are we going to do? What
can
we do?'

Bairstow's face was set. ‘Oh, we'll do something, my friend,' he stated ominously. ‘Believe me, we're not going to sit still and let him do this to us!'

CHAPTER 3

    
I stretch forth my hands unto thee: my soul gaspeth unto thee as a thirsty land.

Psalm 143.6

Late on a Friday morning at the end of January, Lucy returned home from her weekly trip around the shops, laden with bulging carrier bags of food. As she put her key in the lock, she heard the telephone ringing inside the house; she dropped her bags inside the door and made a frantic dive for the phone.

‘Hello?' she gasped into the phone.

‘Oh, hello,' said a tentative female voice. ‘Is this Lucy Kingsley?'

‘Yes, it is. I'm sorry – I've just come in from shopping, and I'm a bit breathless, getting to the phone.'

‘I'm so sorry. If it's a bad time for you, I can ring back later.'

‘No, not at all.' Lucy had by this time caught her breath, and she consciously warmed up her voice. ‘What can I do for you?'

‘My name is Vanessa Bairstow,' the other woman said. ‘I'm interested in commissioning a painting, as an anniversary gift for my husband, and the Archdeacon's wife suggested that I ring you.'

For an instant, Lucy drew a blank, then remembered; even after over a year, she was unused to thinking of her friend Emily as the Archdeacon's wife. ‘Oh, yes. Emily.'

‘She said that you might be able to help me.'

‘Of course.' Lucy never had a shortage of commissions, but she was willing to do whatever was necessary to squeeze in a friend of Emily's. ‘Do you know my work at all?'

Mrs Bairstow was apologetic. ‘No, I'm afraid not. But I'm sure . . .'

‘Then perhaps the best thing would be for you to come by my studio and see the type of thing that I do. Before you commit yourself!' she added, laughing. ‘We can talk about what you're looking for, and all the rest of it. When would you like to come?'

‘Any time that's convenient for you, Miss Kingsley.' The other woman's voice had a curious yearning note. ‘I don't work, so I could come any time. I wouldn't want to disturb your painting or anything.'

Lucy thought for a moment. ‘Would this afternoon be too soon? I'm not actually doing any painting today, so it would be a good time for me.'

‘Yes, that would be fine.'

They agreed on a time, and Lucy gave her directions. ‘I'll look forward to seeing you this afternoon, Mrs Bairstow.'

‘Oh, yes. Thank you so much.'

Lucy put the phone down thoughtfully and went to retrieve her abandoned shopping. She wasn't sure why, but she was looking forward to meeting Mrs Bairstow: there was something intriguing about her voice, some elusive quality that piqued Lucy's curiosity. Perhaps a bit later she'd ring Emily and ask her what she knew about Vanessa Bairstow.

Emily, in a rush to collect the children from school, didn't tell her much. Vanessa Bairstow was the wife of a churchwarden at St Margaret's Church, Pimlico, in her forties, well off, and had no children. She was a nice woman, Emily said – Lucy should get on well with her.

The woman who rang Lucy's bell some time later was very much in keeping with Emily's description, though Emily hadn't begun to convey Vanessa Bairstow's attractiveness. She was a strikingly good-looking woman, Lucy discovered, although perhaps best described as handsome rather than beautiful, with the kind of looks that improve rather than fade with age. Her wheat-coloured hair was thick, wavy and beautifully cut, and her figure, clad elegantly and expensively in the latest sophisticated fashion, was full yet firm, heavy-breasted and curvaceous. But her voice, when she spoke, had that same almost wistful note that had so intrigued Lucy on the phone. ‘Hello, Miss Kingsley. It's so kind of you to see me on such short notice.'

‘Please, call me Lucy. And do come in.' Lucy took her cashmere coat and hung it up carefully in the cupboard under the stairs.

‘And I'd like it very much if you'd call me Vanessa.' She put a hand to her hair and took a surreptitious peek at herself in the hall mirror. ‘I do hope my hair looks all right. I've just been to a new hairdresser – my old one was inconsiderate enough to move to Brighton – and you just never know, do you?'

‘It looks lovely,' Lucy assured her. ‘And you're right – there's nothing worse than having to find a new hairdresser!'

That shared female confidence established them on a footing of empathy immediately; after a few additional pleasantries, Lucy led Vanessa Bairstow upstairs to her studio, a small room strewn about with artists' paraphernalia and paintings in various stages of completion.

‘Oh, I say, Lucy.' Vanessa looked around her with lively interest. ‘Emily Neville was right – your paintings are wonderful!'

Lucy smiled modestly. ‘I'm glad you think so. But Emily would say that in any case.'

‘Are all of these spoken for?'

‘Most of them, yes. And the ones that aren't done on commission get sent to various galleries. You said that you wanted a painting for your husband?'

‘Yes, that's right. To hang in his office – as a gift for our twentieth wedding anniversary.'

They spent a quarter of an hour discussing Lucy's techniques and theories of painting as well as various details of the commission before retiring downstairs for tea. Lucy settled Vanessa in the sitting room and went to the kitchen to boil the kettle; when she returned a few minutes later, carrying a tray, she found the other woman with a cat ensconced quite firmly in her lap, curled up and purring.

‘Oh, I'm sorry about Sophie,' Lucy apologised. ‘She can be a bit of a pest – throw her off if she's bothering you.'

‘Not at all!' Vanessa stroked the small marmalade cat lovingly, and the cat responded with a blissful yawn. ‘I love cats – I have one myself. Augustine is my pride and joy.'

Lucy pictured a sleek regal Siamese, a cat worthy of this elegant woman. ‘I'll look forward to meeting Augustine some time.'

‘Yes, you must come to my house soon.' Her voice was almost shy in its eagerness.

‘I'd like that.' Lucy poured the tea. ‘I didn't ask you – Earl Grey is all right, I hope?'

‘Oh, yes. My favourite.'

‘With lemon?'

‘Perfect.'

After a few minutes, over tea and cakes, they were chatting like old friends; Lucy's natural warmth, and the gift she always had for drawing people out, seemed to have overcome Vanessa's shyness. In short order Lucy learned that Mr Bairstow was called Martin, that he had something to do with investments in the City, that he was a churchwarden at St Margaret's, and that his wife had little more to occupy her time than volunteer work, maintaining her wardrobe, and overseeing the running of their home. All of this was elicited without the least semblance of nosiness on Lucy's part; she was a good listener, and genuinely interested in other people. On the other hand, she was herself a very private person, and rarely revealed very much personal information.

‘More tea?' Lucy lifted the pot invitingly.

‘No, I mustn't. I should get home soon. Martin will be home from work early tonight – he has some church meeting this evening – and I'd better be there when he gets home. After all, this painting is meant to be a surprise, and I don't want to have to make excuses for where I've been, if I come rushing in after he's home! I'm not a very good liar, I'm afraid.'

Lucy smiled. ‘He might think you were spending the afternoon with another man.'

Deposing Sophie, who departed with a displeased howl, Vanessa stood up abruptly. ‘Oh, no, he mustn't think that!' She flushed and moved towards the door.

The remark had been meant to be humorous; Lucy could see instantly that it had been ill-judged. She covered over the awkwardness as best she could, fetching the cashmere coat. ‘It's been such a pleasure meeting you, Vanessa. And I'll get to work on your painting as soon as I can.'

Vanessa seemed conscious that she had somehow spoiled the mood of friendly intimacy that had developed between them. At the door she turned and touched Lucy's arm. ‘Thank you so much for everything. For the tea, and for . . . everything.'

‘It was my pleasure.' Lucy spoke with such obvious sincerity that the other woman hesitated for a moment on the doorstep.

‘Lucy . . .'

‘Yes?'

‘I wondered if I might ask you a very big favour.'

‘Ask away.' She smiled. ‘After all, I can always say no.'

‘I just had an idea, that's all.'

‘Sounds ominous!'

Vanessa was reassured by the bantering tone. ‘It's just that we have this women's group – mostly women from church, from St Margaret's, and a few from St Jude's,' she explained. ‘We get together once a month, on a Wednesday afternoon, and have a speaker of some sort, then tea. Very informal.'

Lucy's heart sank. It sounded absolutely dire, she thought: a flock of well-heeled church women with nothing better to do than sit around gossiping, and listening to some boring speaker talking about gardening or some such subject of interest to the idle rich. But she supposed she'd have to grit her teeth and go. ‘And you wanted me to come?'

‘Well, not exactly.' Vanessa gave an apologetic half-laugh. ‘Actually, I was hoping that I could talk you into speaking to us next week – the meeting is at my house. We were meant to have a woman from the Royal Horticultural Society talking to us about “Preparing Your Garden for Spring”, but she's cancelled – had to go into hospital.'

Lucy was astonished. ‘But I'm no public speaker!'

‘Oh, but you know so much about art! I'm sure that the others would be as fascinated as I was today to hear about your paintings – where you get your ideas, how you execute them, and so forth – especially if you could bring a few examples.' Vanessa flushed with enthusiasm. ‘It would be so much more interesting than our usual speakers, I assure you!'

‘Oh, I don't think . . .' she protested feebly. ‘Surely you can find someone else?'

Vanessa shook her head. ‘Well, Dolly Topping – she's one of our members – has offered to step into the breach with a talk about the evils of abortion, but I don't think anyone wants to hear it. Anyway, she talked to us last month, about “Christmas in Other Lands”, so I think we've had enough of Dolly for a while.' She gave Lucy a beseeching look. ‘Won't you at least think about it? Emily Neville usually comes,' she added cunningly.

Poor Emily, thought Lucy. The things one has to endure as the Archdeacon's wife. ‘Oh, all right,' she capitulated, trying not to sound ungracious, and knowing that she would probably be sorry.

Vanessa's smile was radiant. ‘Thank you so much. I'll ring you on Monday with the details, if that's all right.'

‘See you next week, then.' Lucy shrugged philosophically as she closed the door, realising that in spite of everything she was rather looking forward to next week. She would enjoy seeing the Bairstows' house, and her curiosity about Vanessa Bairstow was intensified rather than assuaged by their face-to-face meeting.

Absently she returned to the sitting room to clear up the tea things; as she stacked the empty cups on the tray the phone in the hall rang.

It was David, at his most apologetic. ‘I hope you haven't started fixing supper, love – I'm going to be rather late. A last-minute meeting.'

‘I was just going to make a pot of soup, so it won't matter. Something urgent, is it?'

‘I'm not sure. I must admit that I'm rather intrigued – the chap who rang me to set up the meeting was quite mysterious about the whole thing. All I know is that the meeting is at St Margaret's, Pimlico. It was the churchwarden who rang me – a chap by the name of Martin Bairstow.'