Evil Angels Among Them (12 page)

Bryony was more of an indoor child. ‘But I'm watching this. You said I could.'

‘You can watch the rest of it later, darling. It's too nice to stay inside.'

‘But
you're
inside,' pointed out the pedantic child.

‘Just go,' ordered Lou.

Bryony went, with a martyred sigh.

‘Now tell me what's the matter.' Lou rose as Gill collapsed into the nearest chair.

‘Oh, Lou, it was awful.' Quickly she related the substance of her run-in with Enid.

‘She called you a pervert?' demanded Lou fiercely.

‘A twisted, evil pervert,' Gill amplified with a shaky laugh. ‘It was awful.'

‘The vicious old cow!' Lou stalked back and forth behind the sofa. ‘But honestly, Gill, what did you expect, for God's sake? I warned you before we came that this godforsaken village wasn't going to take kindly to a pair of dykes on their doorstep.'

‘But in London it didn't make any difference.'

‘London is London,' Lou stated unarguably. ‘Norfolk is a different bloody kettle of fish entirely.'

‘So I see.' Gill tried to smile. ‘But she was so nice to us before – inviting us for meals and offering to watch Bryony. I just don't understand it.'

While this discussion was taking place, Bryony was playing with her skipping rope in the front garden in a half-hearted way. Enid, in one of her periodic peeps from her front window, spotted her and lost no time in making her way across the road. ‘Hello there, young lady,' she said in the syrupy voice that she reserved for speaking to Bryony. ‘How are you today?'

‘Oh, all right.' Bryony stopped skipping. ‘But I'd rather be inside. I was watching a video – a really good one – but Mummy wanted to be alone with Lou, so she sent me out to play'

Enid's smile was triumphant: this was even better than she'd hoped. ‘Is that so?'

‘Yes, I can always tell when Mummy and Lou want to be left alone. They tell me to go away. And I'm thirsty.'

‘Well,' said Enid promptly, ‘you must come across the road to my house and have a nice drink of orange squash. And I've just bought some of those lovely choccy biscuits that you like so much.'

‘I don't think Mummy would like me to go without telling her,' Bryony demurred.

‘Oh, I'm sure Mummy won't even miss you for a few minutes.' Leading the girl across the road, Enid spared one look over her shoulder at the cottage where even at that moment, she was sure, some sort of deviant sex romp was taking place. How dare they leave this poor innocent child outside where any passer-by might snatch her away, she thought indignantly, while they were satisfying their unnatural lusts. People like that didn't deserve to have children.

Bryony was still a bit uncertain, but she followed Enid into her kitchen and soon forgot her unease when the chocolate biscuits and squash were produced.

‘So,' said Enid, ‘you should be starting your spring school holidays soon.'

‘Yes, at the end of this week.'

‘Will you be going to London to see your daddy?'

Bryony nibbled daintily on a biscuit. ‘No, I don't think so. At least Mummy hasn't said.' The little girl put her head on one side and lowered her voice. ‘I don't think Daddy knows where I am.'

‘You mean Mummy hasn't told him? That she's moved away without telling him where she was going?' Enid's voice was sharp with excitement.

‘I think so. At least, I haven't heard anything from Daddy since we came here.'

Enid was breathing heavily. ‘Wouldn't you like to see your daddy?'

‘Well, yes. He takes me to fun places like the zoo, and gives me nice treats – like ice creams,' she added slyly.

‘Oh, you poor little lamb – to be deprived of your father!' The woman was even more evil than she'd thought, Enid realised.

The ice-cream hint hadn't worked this time, so Bryony took another biscuit with a philosophical shrug. ‘I think I'd better be going now, Mrs Bletsoe. Thank you very much indeed for the squash and biscuits, but I don't want Mummy to worry about me.'

‘Yes, all right.' Enid ushered her to the door, her mind working furiously. ‘Just one other thing, Bryony,' she said in an innocent voice. ‘What is your daddy's name? And where does he live?'

A short time after that the phone call came. It was pure bad luck that Gillian was alone in the kitchen and picked up the phone; Lou would have put it straight down again. ‘Hello, Gill,' said a smooth voice that was stomach-lurchingly familiar.

Minutes later, for the second time that day, Gill blundered into the sitting room where Bryony had resumed watching her video and Lou was once again engrossed in the papers. ‘Oh, God!' she wailed. ‘It's happened – he's found us!'

‘What?' Lou dropped the paper. ‘What are you talking about, Gill?
Who's
found us?'

‘Adrian! He's just phoned! Oh, God, Lou, what are we going to do?'

Bryony looked up. ‘I'm not leaving this time,' she muttered rebelliously. ‘It's just getting to the good part.'

That seemed to help Gill to regain her self-control. Taking a deep breath, she turned to face her daughter and her voice was quiet and resolute. ‘No, you're not going anywhere, young lady. You have some explaining to do.'

Lou was on her feet. ‘What the hell is this all about?' she demanded.

Gill clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking. ‘Adrian has just phoned,' she repeated evenly.

‘That bastard! How did he find us?' The venom in Lou's voice was reinforced by the expression of pure loathing on her face.

‘He said that our neighbour Mrs Bletsoe had contacted him because she was concerned that Bryony missed her daddy.'

‘And how did the nosy old bitch know how to find him?' Lou rounded on Bryony accusingly.

Bryony had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘She asked me what his name was and where he lived,' she muttered. ‘A while ago, when you sent me out to play.'

It was a nightmare come true, reflected Gill, and her own daughter had conspired in it. ‘Listen to me, young lady,' she said in a tone that left no doubt as to her intentions. ‘I don't want you to speak to Mrs Bletsoe ever again. Not ever. Do you understand me?'

But Lou wasn't content with Bryony's sheepish promise. She stormed out of the house and across the road, banged on the door and stood with her arms akimbo until Enid opened it.

‘Listen to me, you interfering old bitch,' Lou shouted, waving an accusing finger within an inch of Enid's nose. ‘You leave us alone! Leave Bryony alone and leave Gill and me alone! Stay out of our lives or you'll have me to answer to!'

Enid stared at the apparition of fury, her mouth hanging open; for once in her life she was at a loss for words.

During that busy Holy Week, several meetings of note took place in and around Walston. The Rector found the time – and the courage – to meet Quentin Mansfield and to inform him of the decreasing likelihood of his becoming churchwarden. Ernest and Doris Wrightman spent an enjoyable day sailing on the Broads with the new multinational owners of Ingram's. The village shop being closed on Good Friday, Fred Purdy took advantage of the rare holiday to meet with the wardens of Walston St Mary Church in the afternoon after their respective services, to satisfy himself on the finer points of withholding Quota payments. And another significant meeting also occurred on Good Friday, as Flora Newall, also enjoying a day off from work, lunched at Walston Hall with Diana Mansfield.

When the invitation was issued, Flora objected to the timing: as a likely new churchwarden, she felt that she ought to attend the Liturgical Three Hours in its entirety. But Diana had been insistent not only about the importance of the luncheon but about the timing as well. ‘Quentin will be at church, and I need to see you privately,' she'd explained.

Diana reiterated the explanation, with an apology, over the smoked salmon first course. ‘I'm sorry to keep you from church on Good Friday,' she said, ‘but these days, since Quentin has retired, I don't ever seem to have any time to myself.'

‘It must be quite an adjustment for both of you,' Flora sympathised; in the course of her work she'd seen a fair amount of domestic violence with just such a triggering cause.

‘Yes, I'm just not used to having him around underfoot.' Diana gave a wry, apologetic smile and waved her hand at their splendid surroundings. ‘Not that he's always exactly underfoot in a place like Walston Hall where we both have plenty of places to hide from one another. I can't imagine what it would be like in a council flat.'

Flora looked around at the beautifully appointed dining room, observing her hostess out of the corner of her eye. Diana Mansfield, elegantly dressed and coiffed as usual, had the completely unconscious knack of making Flora feel more than usually plain and awkward by comparison. The uncomfortable sensation she always had in the presence of Diana had contributed to her reluctance to accept this invitation, Flora acknowledged to herself, and her hostess's inability to get to the point of the meeting increased her unease as well. Flora had no illusions that this luncheon had anything to do with friendship on a personal level, but she couldn't imagine what on earth a woman like Diana could want from her.

It took Diana three courses and two bottles of wine to get around to it. By that time, Flora, unused to drinking large quantities of alcohol at any time, or any alcohol at all during daylight hours, was beyond speculating. She shook her head in polite refusal at the offer of liqueur with her coffee, bringing out her supply of artificial sweetener instead, and watched bemused as Diana added a generous dollop of brandy to her own cup. ‘I suppose,' said Diana, after taking the first sip, ‘you're wondering why I wanted to talk to you.'

Flora inclined her head in acknowledgement.

‘Rumour has it that you're going to be the new churchwarden.'

Denial had become automatic. ‘It's by no means certain,' Flora temporised, adding modestly, ‘there are much more qualified and suitable people than me at St Michael's.'

‘But everyone says you're going to be elected,' Diana stated dismissively. ‘No one else is going to stand. Quentin was going to, but he's not prepared to have his name put forward if everyone wants you instead. He couldn't bear to be defeated. That's the way Quentin is – if he doesn't know he can win, he won't even play the game.'

Flora thought she could see, at last, what this was all about, and why it was necessary that this discussion should be held before the next week's Vestry meeting. ‘You want me to withdraw my name then,' she postulated, ‘so that Quentin will have a clear field.'

Diana's stare held amazement. ‘No, of course not! I don't
want
Quentin to be churchwarden!'

‘Then what . . . ?'

Diana looked into her coffee cup and spoke quietly. ‘As you're going to be warden, I just wanted to speak to you about something important to . . . a friend of mine. Cyprian Lawrence.' Now that she'd started, the words came out in an accelerating stream. ‘Everyone hates Cyprian – Mr Lawrence, that is, because he disbanded the choir. They think he's high-handed and arrogant. But he's raised the standard of music at St Michael's so much – now we can be really proud of our choir. They don't seem to realise how much prestige he's brought us in the music world and how much money those recording contracts bring in.'

‘But what can
I
do?' Flora interrupted her.

‘You can speak up for him and protect him. As churchwarden you'll have a great deal of power – much more than you realise. You'll be trustee of the almshouses and the educational trust, you'll be on all the committees. The Rector explained it all to Quentin. It's a position of enormous power and influence.' Diana continued rapidly, ‘Roger Staines was all in favour of everything that Cyprian – Mr Lawrence – has done to raise the standard of the music. Fred Purdy hates him, just like Ernest Wrightman, because he chucked them out of the choir. Quentin would have been against him as well, because he doesn't see any value in intangible things like music. But you – you're an intelligent, cultured woman. You can see how important it is that Mr Lawrence be allowed to continue here in Walston. Please – you must make sure that they don't manage to sack him!'

CHAPTER 9

    
Thine adversaries roar in the midst of thy congregations: and set up their banners for tokens.

Psalm 74.5

In the Church of England the day between Good Friday and Easter Sunday is traditionally a quiet one, save for the army of tireless workers, usually women, who transform their churches from sombre places of mourning to buildings fit for joyous celebration. The altars, stripped bare on Maundy Thursday, are, by Easter Sunday, bedecked with shining white frontals, the plain wooden crosses have given way to the best silver or silver gilt and, after a long flowerless Lent, lilies spill in profligate splendour from pedestals and are crammed into every nook and cranny. For the average churchgoer the transformation seems nothing short of a miracle, but for those to whom the performance of the miracle is entrusted it involves a great deal of hard work and careful planning.

St Michael's Church, Walston was no exception; Enid and her team of flower arrangers had an early start on the Saturday morning, armed with chunks of Oasis, pails of water and every spare receptacle on which they could lay their collective hands. It was one time during the year when no expense was spared: the garden flowers and modest sprays of florists' carnations with which they made do at other times gave way to exuberant displays of lilies and other expensive cut blooms, supplemented with daffodils, tulips and potted hyacinths.

In the ordinary course of things, Enid would have been there first, but on this Holy Saturday she timed her entrance very carefully. Her sister Doris had arrived, as had Marjorie Talbot-Shaw and Flora Newall; they stood about waiting for their orders like an army waiting for its general. Doris monopolised the conversation, describing in some detail her day on the Broads. ‘And the weather was just perfect – sunny and warm,' she rhapsodised, sticking out a scrawny leg for their inspection. ‘Just look at my suntan.'