Evil Angels Among Them (9 page)

‘Churchwarden?' She stared at him, astonished. ‘Me?'

‘Someone has to do it, now that Roger Staines is out of action. Why not you?'

‘But I don't know anything about being churchwarden. I've only been in Walston for a few years – I don't even know everyone in the congregation.'

He waved a hand, brushing away her arguments like a troublesome fly. ‘No matter. You'd have plenty of people – like me, for instance – to help you. To tell you what you needed to know and what you needed to do.'

She sat silently for a moment, absorbing it, getting used to the idea. ‘Why me?' she said at last. ‘There are other more qualified people, surely.'

‘But no one with your talents,' Ernest stated glibly; he'd had several days to prepare his case. ‘You're good with people – Doris has told me so. That's very important. And I can tell that you're intelligent.'

Flushing to the roots of her hair, she murmured, ‘Oh, Doris is too kind. And you too, of course.'

‘And I think it's high time we had a woman as warden, don't you?' He produced a jovial smile. ‘After all, this is the end of the twentieth century. We've got to move with the times.'

‘But what,' she asked, ‘does Father Thorncroft say? Does he think I'd make a good churchwarden?'

Ernest Wrightman's smile never faltered. ‘Father Thorncroft doesn't count,' he said dismissively. ‘He'll do what I tell him to.'

The dinner party on Saturday night was a great success. Becca's meal was pronounced delicious, to her enormous satisfaction, and the company was a pleasant one. Gillian and Lou, whom Becca found even more delightful on further acquaintance, hit it off very well with Cyprian Lawrence, and they talked about music, life in London and other subjects of mutual interest until well after midnight. Even Flora Newall seemed to enjoy herself, though she didn't have much to contribute to the general conversation. During dinner she was seated next to the Rector; their private chat included, on her part, a number of arcane questions about church policy and government, to which he gave his full and considered attention though their point escaped him.

In the meantime, Bryony was having a most satisfactory, by her standards, evening with Enid Bletsoe. The meal of beefburgers and chips, not allowed at home, was followed by an unlimited quantity of chocolate biscuits and the promise of television programmes that were usually forbidden to her.

But during the chocolate biscuits, and before
You've Been Framed
, Enid sat down with her for a little chat.

‘How do you like your new school?' she began.

‘Oh, it's very nice. I've made some new friends.'

‘Didn't you hate to leave London, and your old school, and your friends?'

‘Well,' Bryony considered the question, ‘I didn't really want to leave in the middle of the term, but Mummy said it was important, because of her herbs – if we waited until the term was over, it would have been too late to plant them.'

Yes, I see.' Enid offered her another biscuit. ‘What, exactly, does your mummy do with her herbs?'

‘She sells them to restaurants, to cook with. And, of course,' the girl added, ‘she grows some special ones for when you're sick.'

‘Sick?'

‘You know – for headaches or tummyaches or things like that. When I don't feel well she puts some herbs in boiling water and makes me drink them.'

‘Ah.' Enid sat up straighter. ‘Just you, or do other people drink Mummy's herbs as well?'

‘Mostly just me,' Bryony admitted. ‘And Mummy too. But Lou doesn't like them. She says that Mummy might poison her.'

Enid leaned forward. ‘Poison her?'

‘I think she's just teasing. But she takes other tablets instead.'

‘Tablets?' She tried to keep the eagerness out of her voice. Drug use! She wasn't a bit surprised; she wouldn't put any sort of depravity past those two.

‘Yes, she takes them all the time.'

‘And do you know where she keeps them?'

Bryony hoped Enid wouldn't notice her hand sneaking towards another biscuit. ‘Of course. She usually sends me to fetch them for her – they're in a drawer by the bed. Could I please have some more squash?'

‘Of course, darling. I'll get it for you.' While Enid was in the kitchen, Bryony secreted three chocolate biscuits in her pocket.

‘Daddy gives me ice creams,' she announced on Enid's return. ‘Do
you
have any ice creams, Mrs Bletsoe?'

‘Well,' Enid said coyly, ‘we'll just have to see. In a bit, after we've finished our little chat.' She put the refilled glass on the table and continued. ‘Do you miss your daddy, Bryony?'

‘Sometimes.'

‘You don't see him very often, do you?'

‘No,' Bryony admitted. ‘And I won't see him very much at all now that we've left London. Mummy and Daddy don't like each other any more. And Lou hates Daddy,' she added.

Yes, thought Enid. I'll bet she does. ‘How long has Mummy been living with Lou instead of with Daddy?' she probed.

The girl considered. ‘A while.'

‘What do Mummy and Lou call each other?'

Bryony looked at her pityingly. ‘Gill and Lou. Those are their names,' she explained, as if to a younger child. ‘Gill, short for Gillian, and Lou, short for Louise.'

With a delicate finger Enid edged the plate of biscuits, now almost empty, towards the girl. ‘What I mean is, sweetie, do they have any private names for each other? Like “honey” or “darling”?'

‘Oh, that!' Bryony took the bait, eating a biscuit. ‘Mummy calls Lou “lovey” sometimes, and Lou calls Mummy “angelface”. Is that what you meant?' Daintily she licked the chocolate from her fingers.

She was working her way up to the ultimate questions. ‘Does Mummy ever kiss Lou?'

‘Well, of
course
,' Bryony said scornfully. ‘We all kiss each other. Mummy kisses me, and I kiss Mummy, and I kiss Lou, and Lou kisses me, and Mummy kisses Lou, and Lou kisses Mummy. We're a family.'

There was one chocolate biscuit left. Enid indicated it with her head and watched the girl devour it, then asked, ‘Do Mummy and Lou sleep in the same bed, Bryony?'

‘Of course.'

‘And do you sleep in the same bed with them?'

‘Not always. Just sometimes, when I've got a tummyache or have a bad dream or something like that.' She looked at Enid expectantly.

‘I see the biscuits are all gone,' Enid said brightly. ‘Do I know a little girl who would like an ice cream?' She got up. ‘And haven't we had a nice chat?'

CHAPTER 6

    
Which have said, With our tongue will we prevail: we are they that ought to speak, who is lord over us?

Psalm 12.4

On the following Monday afternoon, Becca went to Roger Staines's cottage; he had been discharged from hospital and was eager to get started putting his notes in order. She returned home a few hours later, full of enthusiasm.

‘Mr Staines is such an interesting person,' she told Stephen over supper. ‘He knows so much about the history of the village. And the church as well. Did you know that this was once a very important area for wool, and that rich wool merchants paid to build the church?'

Stephen was pleased to see her so ebullient for a change. ‘Oh, yes?' he encouraged her.

‘And did he ever tell you about the Lovelidges? How they were always called John or Thomas? The first son, that is. And how they always managed to back the winning side?'

‘What do you mean, the winning side?'

‘Well,' Becca explained, ‘the first one, Sir John Lovelidge, got to be a noble because he supported Henry VIII just in time, just when Cardinal Wolsey fell out of favour. And he got even richer during the Reformation, when the King gave him the church endowments and rectorial tithes – that meant that the Rector could always be one of the younger Lovelidge sons. Then in the Civil War the Lovelidge of the time – he was a Sir Thomas Lovelidge – changed sides and threw his lot in with the Parliamentarians, just when it looked like they were going to win. That way he got to keep Walston Hall, and he saved the east window of the church from getting destroyed by taking it out and moving it to the Hall. And later on, at the Restoration, his son was a great supporter of Charles II – one of the Gentlemen of the Bedchamber.'

‘I think that's called being pragmatic,' observed Stephen. ‘That family had a real talent for holding on to power.'

‘But it didn't help them in the end. The last Sir John Lovelidge only had one son, called Thomas, and he was killed in France in 1915 when he was just nineteen. Mr Staines said his father died of a broken heart,' she finished, frowning. ‘Isn't that sad? And since there were no more Lovelidges, the estate was sold.'

‘It sounds as if you got quite an education this afternoon, sweetheart.' He reached across the table and stroked her hair. ‘I'm glad you enjoyed it.'

‘I didn't ever like history at school,' Becca admitted. ‘But Mr Staines makes it all come alive. The Lovelidges seem like real people to me now.'

Stephen was sufficiently interested in what Becca had told him to spend some time inspecting the Lovelidge tombs in the church when he had a few minutes to spare after lunch on Wednesday afternoon. There was no sign of Harry Gaze, so he was able to wander about undisturbed.

The first Sir John, confidant of Henry VIII, shared an elaborate tomb chest in the chancel with his wife Anne; the full-sized effigies, still bearing traces of their original paintwork, were in remarkably good condition and reminded Stephen of the Larkin poem about the Arundel tomb, and the survival of love.

Subsequent Lovelidges had taken over the Lady Chapel for their family monuments and Stephen strolled there next to take a closer look at them. The Elizabethan Sir Thomas and his wife Lettice, sporting enormous ruffs, knelt in a curious position, half in and half out of the south wall, hands tented prayerfully in front of them. The Sir John who had been Gentleman of the Bedchamber to Charles II, as proclaimed on his monument, had also evidently spent a fair amount of time in his own bedchamber: he'd had three wives, all of them, confusingly, named Sarah, who had presented him with a total of twenty-three children, most of whom had died at birth or in infancy. The monument showed them all in half-relief, Sir John at the centre, flanked by three women and a bevy of tiny shrouded babies. The matter-of-factness of it was startling.

The monuments became ever more elaborate as succeeding generations of Lovelidges tried to outdo their ancestors at self-commemoration. An eighteenth-century Sir John, reproduced life size in marble, reclined voluptuously, his bewigged head propped up on his hand, while a cloaked allegorical figure of Grief knelt at his feet, head bowed in mourning. According to the florid inscription, he had been nothing short of perfect: liberal, kind-hearted, civic-minded and a wonderful husband and father, as proclaimed by his relict Augusta, daughter of Lord Hollingsworth of the county of Shropshire. Later, Victorian Lovelidges preferred weeping angels to allegorical figures and there were quantities of them in evidence. But as far as Stephen was concerned, the simplest monument was the most moving. It was a small tablet set into the wall; the dignified block lettering said ‘Captain Thomas Lovelidge, only son of Sir John Lovelidge and his wife Alice, 1896–1915. His body lies in France, his soul is with God, but he lives in our hearts for ever.'

‘Wholly interesting, them monuments,' said Harry Gaze conversationally, materialising behind the Rector. ‘Shame the family died out like that.'

‘Very sad.' Stephen turned to face the verger.

‘Sorry I wasn't here to show them to you, but I popped off home for my dinner. Did you see the one with the three wives?' Harry pointed to the Gentleman of the Bedchamber. ‘Didn't have very good luck, did he? I reckon he must have wore them out, one after another, with all them babies.'

‘I'm sure you're right.'

Harry seemed, as usual, in the mood for a chat. ‘Back in them days that was all women was good for – having babies, and other such related activities in the bedroom. And cooking and cleaning the house, of course.' His tone implied that he considered that a good thing.

‘Fortunately we've come a long way from that,' Stephen said reprovingly.

The verger gave Stephen a sly wink. ‘I hear your missus has got herself a job of sorts.'

‘Only for a few hours a week.' As he said it, Stephen wondered why he sounded so defensive.

‘That's how it always starts. Next thing you know you'll be ironing your own albs and cooking your own dinner.'

Stephen forced himself to laugh. ‘That wouldn't be the end of the world – I've done it before and it wouldn't kill me to do it again. There are a lot of priests who aren't married, Harry, who don't have wives to cook and iron for them. I've only just got married myself, remember?'

‘Yes, but most of them have housekeepers or other women to look after them. Father Fuller had a housekeeper. You wouldn't have caught him ironing his own albs.'

Stephen couldn't help himself. ‘The sainted Father Fuller,' he muttered, rolling his eyes. ‘Deliver me from Father Fuller.'

‘He were a wholly good man,' Harry said severely. ‘None better.'

‘I'm sure.' The Rector's voice had not a trace of irony.

‘I wonder,' Harry meditated, flicking an imaginary speck of dust off the kneeling figure of Grief, ‘what Father Fuller would have made of this new scheme of Fred's?'

‘What scheme is that?' Stephen asked, knowing the answer.

The verger shot him a speculative look. ‘Fred reckons as we shouldn't give any more of our money to the diocese. He says as it's wicked the way they take our money and squander it away and don't give us nothing in return.'