Evil Angels Among Them (4 page)

In her agitation, Doris seized and consumed the forbidden biscuit. ‘A Welshman? I don't think that's really very much better than an Eyetie! Honestly, Enid! What is this village coming to?'

Enid judged that it was time to change the subject. ‘I've invited her to join the Mothers' Union,' she announced, adding unnecessarily, ‘Gillian, that is. And she's agreed.'

Her sister sputtered in indignation. ‘A divorced woman? And one who's living in sin? But we've never had anything like that in the Mothers' Union before! We're a respectable organisation – at least we always were in
my
time.' This was a barbed arrow and a direct hit. Her term of office expired, Doris had recently, and reluctantly, handed over the office of Enrolling Member to her sister; it was inevitably a sore point between them.

‘Yes,' Enid said with a smile of sweet malice. ‘But weren't you the one who was always trying to attract new, young members? Without any success, I might add. You're just jealous because I've managed to find a young woman to join – not to mention the Rector's wife, who is sure to agree as well, now that she won't be the only young one. Anyway,' she added, retreating to the high moral ground, ‘who are we to cast the first stone?'

CHAPTER 2

    
When I receive the congregation: I shall judge according unto right.

Psalm 75.3

It was unfortunate for Enid Bletsoe, firmly in possession of her new neighbours on Sunday morning, that their appearance at church, and indeed the entire day, was overshadowed by an event of even more momentousness than the arrival of newcomers in Walston.

They were met at the west door by Ernest Wrightman, whose good luck it was to be on duty as sidesman that day. He spared only a cursory glance for Gillian and Bryony before addressing himself to his sister-in-law as he handed her a hymn book and a service booklet. ‘Have you heard the news, then?' he asked, knowing full well that she hadn't, and delighting in the opportunity to tell her.

‘What's that?'

‘Roger Staines. Had a heart attack last night!'

‘What?!'

Wrightman shook his head with lugubrious relish. ‘Dreadful news, isn't it? He's in a bad way, they say.'

‘Then he's still alive?'

‘Oh, yes, it didn't kill him. The ambulance got to him in time, and got him to hospital.' He lowered his voice confidentially. ‘Who would have thought it? There didn't seem to be a thing wrong with him yesterday afternoon when I saw him. But that's the way these heart attacks work, isn't it? One minute you're fit as a fiddle, and the next you're flat on your back in a hospital bed. Or in a pine box. Just like what happened to me four years back. Doris didn't think I was going to make it, but here I still am!' His laugh was high-pitched and mirthless.

Gillian, realising that the man was Enid's brother-in-law, took the opportunity to observe him. He was short and rather slight, with thin gingery hair slicked to his skull and pinched features: a narrow nose with small dark eyes above and thin lips below a wisp of a ginger moustache. One might have described him as insignificant, had it not been for the aggressive set of his square jaw, and his unexpectedly deep and resonant voice.

Enid recollected herself enough to say, ‘Ernest, you haven't yet had the pleasure of meeting my new neighbours, Mrs English and her daughter Bryony.'

He gave them a perfunctory nod and a quick look of inspection before turning to perform his duties with the woman who followed them. ‘Marjorie! Have you heard the terrible news?'

Acknowledging defeat, at least in this encounter, Enid hurried them through the empty church and up into the chancel, where a number of chairs were arranged in rows. ‘We always have our services up here,' she explained. ‘It's cosier – we'd get lost in the nave, as few of us as there are.' Though she usually sat near the back, the better to see, on this occasion she decided to sit near the front, the better to be seen.

Seen they were in spite of the fuss over Roger Staines, and the newcomers were noted by the Rector when he entered from the vestry at the beginning of the service. Stephen Thorncroft was an intelligent young man who didn't miss much, even though on that morning his thoughts were somewhat distracted by concern about the stricken churchwarden. He'd seen Roger Staines the night before, in hospital, shortly after he'd been admitted, and he hadn't looked good at all – as far as Stephen had been able to determine, it had been touch-and-go, and the danger was not past. He wasn't sure how much he ought to say to the congregation about the churchwarden's condition. Realising that Ernest Wrightman was on duty that morning, Stephen had no doubt that the arriving parishioners had been fully informed about the incident; he decided not to make an announcement and instead to wait till the prayers of intercession to mention it. ‘The Lord be with you,' he said, raising his hands.

‘And also with you,' responded the congregation. Gillian English studied the fair-haired young priest, solemn-faced and looking rather sombre in his purple Lenten chasuble. He had a sensitive mouth, she noted, and his grey eyes, behind gold-rimmed spectacles, seemed intelligent.

That promise didn't disappoint. His homily, just the right length, displayed a quick mind and an articulate way of expressing himself, and he celebrated the Eucharist with reverence and care. Gillian was used to the elaborate ritual of London Anglo-Catholicism; she found the service, with old Harry Gaze as the only server, to be refreshing in its sincere simplicity. And, beyond all expectations, the music was amazingly good: the small choir, conducted by a darkly handsome man, was of a London standard, the unaccompanied voices soaring and resonating through the magnificent building, and the organ was tuneful and rich. She was going to like St Michael's, she decided. And Lou, who wasn't particularly churchy but appreciated good music, would approve as well.

Usually the women, at least, rushed off fairly quickly after the morning service, anxious to get back to their Sunday lunch preparations. But today there was a tendency to linger, possibly to observe or speak to the newcomer or to discuss the condition of Roger Staines and the ramifications of his misfortune.

As soon as decency would allow after the Dismissal and the departure of Father Stephen, Enid got to her feet, crossed the aisle to where Becca Thorncroft still knelt, and waited for her to finish her prayers. Enid scrutinised the Rector's wife with interest: there was something about the droop of her head over her clasped hands, about the dark circles under her closed eyes, that indicated to Enid that perhaps all was not well with the new Mrs Thorncroft. Maybe she was pregnant already, or perhaps Father Stephen wasn't quite what he should be as a husband. Becca would bear closer watching in future, she decided. ‘There's someone I want you to meet,' Enid stated as Becca rose.

Becca turned. ‘Yes?'

‘My new neighbour, Gillian English. And her daughter, Bryony.' She indicated them with a flourish of her arm. ‘They've just moved into Foxglove Cottage.'

‘How nice to meet you.' Becca's smile was genuine as she greeted the newcomers: there was a dearth of young women in Walston, and instantly she recognised a potential friend.

Gillian experienced a similar relief in discovering that there was at least one person near her own age in the village. She smiled up at Becca; the Rector's wife was even taller than she, and very slender, with silvery blonde hair worn in a short bob, enormous eyes of cornflower blue, and a face that just missed being classically beautiful by virtue of the one feature that actually gave her much of her charm – a rather short, tip-tilted nose.

‘Gillian is interested in joining the Mothers' Union,' Enid announced. ‘So there will be another young one to keep you company!'

Becca's smile faded. ‘I'm not really sure . . .'

‘Oh, you have plenty of time to decide – the enrolment isn't for a while yet. But I know you'll want to join,' said Enid brightly.

‘Do you have any children?' Bryony asked Becca.

Thankful at being rescued from Enid's probing, Becca turned to the little girl, smiling. ‘No, I'm afraid not. Not yet, anyway – I've only been married for about two months! So it will be a little while yet.'

‘But you don't have to be a mother to join the Mothers' Union,' Enid emphasised. ‘You only have to subscribe to its aims and objectives about the importance of marriage and family life.'

Meanwhile Doris Wrightman, torn between her curiosity about Gillian and her determination to ignore her, hovered nearby in conversation with Marjorie Talbot-Shaw, who was holding forth about the shortcomings of the new Rector. This was a favourite theme of Mrs Talbot-Shaw, PCC secretary and herself the widow of a Shropshire clergyman, a man who had by all accounts been nothing short of perfect. Mrs Talbot-Shaw, who had retired alone to Norfolk after her husband's death, was a rather formidable-looking woman, tall and buxom, with a solitary and dramatic streak of silver in her dark hair.

‘I just don't understand,' she was saying with a frown, ‘why he didn't even mention poor Roger's heart attack until the prayers. He might have made an announcement at the beginning of the service. My husband Godfrey certainly would have done.'

‘Yes,' Doris agreed, darting a glance at the adjoining party. ‘Everyone is so concerned about poor Roger. I can't think why Father Stephen didn't say anything.'

Harry Gaze, divested of his server's alb in record time, was expressing similar sentiments to Fred Purdy, a short distance away. ‘Wouldn't have happened in Father Fuller's day,' he stated.

‘No, indeed.' Fred's amiable smile didn't falter as he brought the conversation round to the question that really interested him. ‘Do you reckon that Roger will be able to continue as churchwarden?'

‘Don't know. Ernest had to give it up when he had his heart attack, didn't he? Darn near killed him to give it up, but the new doctor said as he had to.'

Fred nodded. ‘It's just that Roger hasn't seemed too keen on some of my ideas lately. Things might be easier around here with a new warden.'

‘Might be.' Harry was noncommittal; his attention had strayed to the group of women still chatting in the centre aisle. ‘Have you met that new lady as has just moved to Foxglove Cottage? Mrs English?'

‘Not yet,' Fred admitted. ‘But I don't imagine it will be long before she finds her way to the shop.' He chuckled. ‘Everyone does, sooner or later.'

‘She's a good looker, wouldn't you say?'

‘Not bad,' concurred Fred judiciously.

Unaware of the men's scrutiny, Gillian was asking Becca about the music. ‘I was really impressed by the choir,' she said.

‘They're good, aren't they?' Becca agreed. ‘Stephen is really pleased with them.'

‘I can't believe that you have so many good singers here in the village.'

‘We don't!' Enid interposed indignantly. ‘That is, we
do
, but you didn't hear them this morning!'

Gillian turned to her. ‘What do you mean?'

‘It's a disgrace! He sacked the choir, and a perfectly good choir it was, too, and brought in that lot. All his friends they are, people from Norwich. They just come in for the services, and they're actually
paid
! I can't imagine why ever Father Stephen lets him get away with it! To treat his loyal choir like that – Ernest was really cut up about it, I can tell you.'

Becca flushed at the implied criticism of her husband, and tried to explain. ‘Cyprian is a very fine musician – he's an internationally known composer. Stephen says that we're very fortunate to have him. He took on the job mainly because he likes living in the country – it's better for composing, he says – and Stephen was able to offer him a cottage near the church as part of his salary. And the church has an excellent old organ and wonderful acoustics, so those things made it attractive to him as well.'

‘A disgrace,' interjected Enid.

‘He's been able to negotiate several recording contracts using the church because of the acoustics,' Becca continued, doing her best to ignore the interruption. ‘And with the money he's made from that, he's been able to hire a professional choir.'

‘Father Fuller would never have allowed it,' Enid whispered to Gillian. ‘Letting a jumped-up organist like that Cyprian Lawrence sack the choir!'

‘Cyprian Lawrence?' Gillian echoed. ‘I'm sure I've heard of him.' She looked around, hoping to see the organist; he would be an interesting person to get to know, she reflected. Perhaps Walston was going to be more stimulating than she'd anticipated.

‘No use looking for him,' said Enid with a spiteful smile. ‘He runs off as soon as the service is over, back to his little cottage to hide. Not that I blame him – he's not exactly a popular person around here.'

But it was a choleric Ernest Wrightman who had the last word on the subject as he joined the women. ‘As far as I'm concerned, he can go back to London or wherever he came from and it won't be a minute too soon. Or better yet, he can go to the devil.'

CHAPTER 3

    
O spare me a little, that I may recover my strength: before I go hence, and be no more seen.

Psalm 39.15

Over lunch, Stephen Thorncroft made an effort to put aside his concern for Roger Staines, giving his full attention to his wife. She told him about her conversation with his new parishioners, in whom he was of course interested; his own contact with them, on their way out of church, had been necessarily brief. It was good, he reflected, to see Becca enthusiastic about something for a change. Her behaviour since their marriage, or more specifically since the return from their honeymoon, had been a bit puzzling: she often seemed distracted, or depressed, when everything he had known of her before had demonstrated a sunny good nature; what was more disturbing was that she continued to insist that nothing was bothering her. He supposed that it had to do with adjustment to the married state or possibly to life in a village where everyone knew your business and where the Rector's wife had even more restrictions and expectations laid upon her than other people. And he had to remember, Stephen told himself, that Becca, at just twenty-one, was very young for such responsibilities, in spite of her lifetime of training as a vicar's daughter.