Evil Angels Among Them (10 page)

‘The money from the Quota helps to pay the clergy's stipends,' Stephen pointed out mildly. ‘You're getting
me
in return, Harry.'

‘But Fred says as your money comes out of some trust fund, all thanks to the Lovelidge family. Nothing to do with the diocese – you'd get it whether or no.'

‘That's not strictly true. And it's not really the point.'

‘The point is,' Harry went on stubbornly, ‘Fred says that we need that money here in Walston. We've got to look after our own. The Lovelidge family all them years ago made provision for us so as we'd always have a priest. So why should we go throwing good money after bad, sending it off to Norwich every year to pay for some other village's problems? Why can't we just tell them to get on with it and sort themselves out?'

Stephen took a deep breath and tried to be patient. ‘Because we're all part of the Church of England,' he explained. ‘That's what it's all about. We're all in it together.'

‘There's many here as will wholly disagree with you, Father.' Harry folded his arms across his chest. ‘Fred's been talking to a lot of folks. He reckons as he's got enough support to raise it at the next PCC meeting.'

‘Is that so?' Stephen's exasperation gave way to alarm.

‘And by then we'll have a new churchwarden, and she's bound to back Fred up.'

‘But—' Stephen began, before one word penetrated his consciousness. ‘She? Did you say “she”, Harry?'

Harry watched him with sly interest. ‘That I did. You don't approve of us having a female churchwarden, and you such a supporter of women and all?'

‘Who said we were going to have a female churchwarden?' He was genuinely baffled.

‘Everyone knows it by now, Father. Don't tell me you didn't know?'

Stephen frowned. ‘Is this another one of Fred's little schemes?'

‘Oh, no. This one is Ernest's,' Harry informed him with relish. ‘Ernest reckons as it's up to him to decide who ought to be churchwarden, him being so important and all.'

‘And who,' asked Stephen, ‘is this woman? Or hasn't Ernest decided yet?' he added sarcastically.

‘Oh, he's decided, all right. It's Flora Newall, that social worker woman. An interfering female, I reckon, but that's not for me to say. Ernest must know what he's doing.'

At the Rectory, Becca was not having a good afternoon. Stephen hadn't been gone more than a few minutes when the phone rang, and she picked it up with something approaching resignation. The calls were so inevitable, and by now their content was so predictable, that she supposed she was becoming inured to the horror – her revulsion remained unabated, but repetition had taken the edge off her more extreme reactions. But this time there was a difference. After the customary enquiries after her well-being, the soft voice took a new tack.

‘Does the parson know that he's married such a whore?'

‘What?' she gasped, almost as if she'd been physically struck.

‘One man isn't enough for you – now you're putting it all round the village. You must have developed a real taste for it, my dear.'

Becca felt herself blushing, though she knew there was no reason. ‘What do you mean?' she whispered.

‘Off to Roger Staines's cottage every day,' he chuckled. ‘Don't wear the poor man out or he'll have another heart attack.'

‘But I'm working for Mr Staines!'

The chuckle was repeated. ‘Yes, I'm sure you are. And I hope he appreciates it, and pays you well for it – I know I would.'

Becca whimpered, which seemed to encourage him. ‘And what about those two bitches at Foxglove Cottage?' he went on softly. ‘We all know what they are. And they're your friends, aren't they? Does that mean they've taught you to like it their way as well? Do you all do it together – three in a bed? Does your husband know? And if I promise not to tell him, will you let me watch?'

‘No – oh, no!' Her stomach churned; her fingers no longer had the strength to hold the receiver and it clattered to the floor.

* * *

The Reverend Stephen Thorncroft was not normally a man given to violent emotions, with a few notable exceptions in his past, but he came close to it that day. He went straight to Ernest Wrightman's house, and the expression on his face must have warned Doris, when she answered the door, that all was not well.

‘I'm afraid Ernest isn't here,' she replied to his query, her voice sounding nervous. ‘He's gone to a luncheon meeting with the people from Ingram's, and he's not back yet.'

‘I'll wait,' the Rector said tersely, ‘if you don't mind.'

‘Please come in, Father.' She ushered him into her immaculate sitting room. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea?'

He would have loved one, but decided it would weaken his position to accept hospitality. ‘No, thank you.'

‘Well, then.' Doris perched on a chair opposite him and regarded him with an unnerving stare.

‘Please,' said Stephen. ‘Don't let me keep you from whatever you were doing.'

She rose with alacrity. ‘I was hanging out some washing. If you don't mind . . .'

‘No, of course not. Do carry on.'

Her head swivelled at the faint sound of a key in the front-door lock. ‘That must be Ernest now. I'll tell him you're here, Father.'

‘Thank you.' Stephen rose, not wishing to be caught at a disadvantage.

A moment later Ernest Wrightman entered the room, rubbing his hands together and feeling quite pleased with himself; the lunch had been a great success. ‘Good afternoon, Father,' he said officiously. ‘What can I do for you?'

Stephen took a deep breath. ‘I've just seen Harry Gaze, and he's told me about your plans for the new churchwarden. I think you owe me an explanation.'

‘Well, Father.' Ernest didn't seem at all nonplussed by the Rector's tone; if anything, he sounded more pleased with himself than ever. ‘I've asked Miss Newall if she would consider standing as warden. And she has agreed.'

‘So Harry told me. And did you not think about discussing this with me before taking a step like that?'

Ernest raised his eyebrows; his voice was aggressive rather than conciliatory. ‘Churchwardens are elected by the parish – it has nothing to do with you, Father.'

Controlling his anger with an enormous effort, Stephen spoke coldly; his grey eyes glittered behind his spectacles. ‘Everything that happens in my parish has to do with me, not least of all the election of my churchwardens. I trust that you'll remember that in future.' The other man stroked his ginger moustache and looked thoughtful. ‘Might I ask, Father, if you happened to have anyone in mind for the vacancy?'

‘I did,' Stephen stated. ‘And still do. I feel that Quentin Mansfield would make an excellent warden, with his financial expertise and good business sense.'

‘Oh, no.' Ernest's response was immediate and authoritative. ‘He wouldn't do at all, Father. Not suitable – the parish wouldn't stand for it. I do hope you haven't mentioned the matter to him – that would be embarrassing for all of us. He simply won't do.'

Flora Newall had found already, to her great surprise, that she had never been more popular amongst the good folk of Walston than she now was. Over the past week, as news of her anointing as future churchwarden had spread through the village, she'd been the recipient of numerous phone calls comprising invitations, suggestions and requests, all offered with varying degrees of subtlety. Most of the invitations had been accepted, and the suggestions and requests had been duly noted, with the protest, ‘I'm not churchwarden yet, you know.'

The Mothers' Union meeting on Thursday evening was a case in point. Several women, stirred up by Fred Purdy on their visits to the village shop, made a point of mentioning to her the foolishness of sending money off to Norwich to be wasted, and lobbying had also begun on behalf of the sacked choir. ‘There must be something that can be done,' Doris Wrightman remarked to Flora in a confidential whisper over tea and biscuits at the conclusion of the meeting. ‘That man Cyprian Lawrence is no more than an employee of the church. Surely he can be stopped. Fred Purdy will back you up on it.'

‘I haven't been elected yet,' Flora demurred.

‘Oh, but you will be. Ernest has promised that you will, and he won't let you down.' Doris's voice was tinged with pride. ‘That's one thing about Ernest – he's a man of his word. You can be sure of that. When he says something is going to happen, it happens.'

‘But perhaps it's not in Ernest's control,' the other woman pointed out. ‘The whole parish has to want me.'

Doris looked smug, though her expression was tinged with pity at the other woman's naïvety. ‘The parish will, of course, be guided by Ernest. They always are. He has so many years of experience, and such wisdom. Father Fuller knew that – he would never have done anything without asking for Ernest's blessing.'

When Enid Bletsoe drew her aside for a private conversation a few minutes later, Flora was prepared for a similar approach and was ready with her disclaimer. It was a surprise, therefore, that Enid brushed it aside with a frown. ‘This has nothing to do with the parish – it's to do with your professional responsibilities. As a social worker.'

Flora blinked in surprise. ‘Yes?'

‘I wanted some advice.' Enid lowered her voice. ‘About child abuse.'

‘Child abuse?' She realised as she echoed Enid's words that she sounded dim-witted, but the subject was the last thing she would have expected the other woman to raise.

‘I don't want to name any names, but I just wanted to find out from you, strictly off the record, of course, what the procedure is for reporting cases of suspected child abuse.'

Flora rapidly assumed a professional manner, speaking with a brisk competence that Enid had never before seen her exhibit. ‘If there's any question of abuse,' she said in a firm voice, ‘then it must be reported immediately. There is no justification for delay when a child is at risk. Who is this child? You must tell me.'

Flustered by this direct reply, Enid retreated; it wouldn't do to show her hand just yet, before the time was right. ‘Oh, no one in particular. It was just a theoretical question,' she equivocated. ‘I was reading an article about child abuse in a magazine, and I just wondered.'

‘Well,' said Flora, no longer the mild spinster. ‘I trust that if you ever do hear of any such abuse, you will report it to me straightaway.'

Enid nodded. ‘You can be sure I will.' As Flora turned away, Enid smiled into her teacup.

CHAPTER 7

    
I poured out my complaints before him: and shewed him of my trouble.

Psalm 142.2

Subsequent events of that week did nothing to allay Stephen's fears for the future of his parish; everyone to whom he spoke seemed to regard Flora Newall's election as churchwarden as a foregone conclusion, and the withholding of Diocesan Quota payments as equally certain and equally acceptable. He had the unsettling sensation of being completely out of control, and nothing in his previous experience had prepared him for that.

On Friday night he scarcely slept, replaying all of the scenarios endlessly in his head through the night. Sunday would be Palm Sunday, the beginning of Holy Week, the most dramatic and significant week in the church's year. He should be preparing himself spiritually for it, but he was immobilised by his feeling of utter helplessness in the face of the machinations of Fred Purdy and Ernest Wrightman. How had it happened? he asked himself. How, without even knowing it was happening, had he lost control of his parish?

The question possessed him to such a degree that it eclipsed what otherwise would have been a matter of major concern: the fact that he and Becca had not made love for three days. When he had returned home from seeing Ernest Wrightman on Wednesday, he had been so incensed that he'd scarcely noticed how subdued his wife was. He'd had plenty to say on the subject of Wrightman's arrogance throughout that evening, and Becca had listened quietly. When bedtime had come, she had – for the first time ever – pleaded a headache, retreating to her side of the bed. That wasn't surprising, Stephen had thought – he had a headache himself, and no wonder. Her headache hadn't gone away on Thursday or Friday, but, if he noticed her shrinking from his touch, he attributed it to his own overworked imagination.

As the first light of morning filtered through the bedroom curtains, Stephen turned and looked at his sleeping wife. She was huddled against the edge of the bed, her back to him, but he could see the curve of her pale cheek. Becca
had
been very pale lately – he hoped this headache wasn't a portent of something more serious. Stephen leaned over and brushed the silvery hair back from her cheek with a gentle finger, letting his love for her refresh his troubled soul like a healing balm. How good it was to have a wife. ‘Oh, Becca,' he murmured. In her sleep she responded to his voice and turned towards him, dislodging the duvet to give him a tantalising glimpse of breast.

Instantly tenderness was transmuted into desire, fuelled by three days of abstinence. ‘Oh, Becca,' he repeated, bending to kiss her as his hand reached for her breast.

Her eyes flew open. ‘No!' she gasped, pulling back from him.

‘But, Becca sweetheart, what's the matter? I just want to make love to you.'

‘No!' Becca's voice was desperate. ‘No, I can't!'

It was too terrible – and too embarrassing – to talk about, so they didn't. Sitting at the kitchen table several hours later, after celebrating early Mass at St Michael's, Stephen talked about everything else but what had happened, while Becca prepared his breakfast.

‘I do like a fry-up on a Saturday morning,' he remarked as she turned the sausages. ‘I know it's not good for me, but I tell myself that it won't kill me if I just have it once a week. And after getting up early on a Saturday to say Mass, I feel I deserve it.'