The Snares of Death (29 page)

‘So they left?'

‘They didn't go far, just to some common land nearby where they could set up the tents. I joined them later, after the gallery closed.'

‘Somehow I can't imagine you sleeping in a tent,' Lucy couldn't help interrupting, looking bemusedly at the other woman's designer dress.

Fiona laughed. ‘Ludicrous, isn't it? It shows you what love can do! I just can't bear for Rhys to be away from me, for even one night,' she confided sheepishly. ‘I hated it, but I went. Don't get me wrong,' she added. ‘I believe in BARC, and like to support them – I'm even going to Walsingham with them, to the National Pilgrimage, at the end of the month!'

‘And what happened later?' Lucy prompted, bringing her back to the subject. ‘They went back?'

‘Yes. It was Maggie's idea – she goes a bit over the top sometimes. She thought that they should go back and stick some bills up on the church noticeboards – some BARC posters, that sort of thing. As a protest, to let Dexter know that he hadn't really won. He'd hurt Bleddyn, you see. He kicked him. Maggie was livid, and so was Rhys.'

‘Is he all right now?' Lucy asked with concern.

‘Yes, still a bit sore, I think. Poor thing – one of his ribs was cracked. But he's on the mend.'

Lucy paused as she considered her next question. ‘So who went back to the church? Maggie?'

‘And the other two. Gary and Nicholas. You've met Nicholas, remember? And Gary is our resident American hippy.'

‘Not Rhys?'

‘No. Rhys didn't think it was a very good idea, and he wanted to stay with Bleddyn. And me.'

‘But he let them go?'

Fiona smiled whimsically. ‘Yes. It seemed like a good chance . . . for us to be alone. While they were away, we made love in the van.' Her face assumed a far-away look, remembering; Lucy finally had to prompt her to continue.

‘But what happened to them?'

‘Oh, they came back. Before we were quite finished, as a matter of fact,' Fiona added in her forthright away. ‘They'd stuck up a few posters on the big noticeboard outside the church, but then they were frightened away by this chap leaving, in a great rush. They didn't know that Dexter was actually in the church. But apparently the chap had just killed him, and came out in a real state.'

‘They actually saw Stephen Thorncroft come out of the church?'

‘They didn't know who he was then, of course, but they saw a young priest. They described him quite clearly.'

Lucy chose her words with care. ‘So none of them . . . actually went in the church.'

‘No. At least they said not.'

‘Did they tell anyone what they'd seen?'

‘They told
us
, of course. But they didn't know that Dexter was dead, so they didn't realise that what they'd seen was important. Not until much later, anyway.'

‘Then they went to the police?'

Fiona laughed. ‘Not a chance. Maggie's allergic to the police, I think. Gary, too – they've had too many unpleasant run-ins with what they call the fuzz. Rhys told them, later, when we'd found out about the murder, that they should go. But he couldn't force them.'

‘But the police found out?' Lucy asked carefully.

‘Yes. It was the posters, of course. They traced them through the posters.'

‘Of course.'

A young waiter interrupted them. ‘Would you ladies like any sweets, or coffee?'

Fiona looked at her watch. ‘Oh, blast! Look at the time, Lucy! We've been sitting here nattering away . . . I've got to get back and re-open the gallery!'

‘I didn't really learn that much from her,' Lucy explained to David later, in the car on the way home to Wymondham. ‘She wasn't actually there at the church at all, and Rhys didn't go with them in the evening when they saw Stephen.' She told him, quickly, what she'd found out. ‘So apparently your typist Karen wasn't with them,' she added. ‘Did you have a chance to talk to her about it?'

‘Yes, I did. When they went to South Barsham on Friday afternoon, she was working. She'd planned to join them later, after work. But no one thought to phone her, to tell her they'd moved.'

‘Did she go anyway? She has a car?'

‘Yes, she runs a little red Mini – she recently passed her driving test, I think. She went, but when she got to the church, and found that they were gone, she went back home.'

‘Hmm.' Lucy looked out of the window thoughtfully. ‘She didn't see them at all, then? And didn't see Stephen?'

‘No.'

‘Did the police question her about it?'

David laughed. ‘No, thank God. She was terrified enough talking to me – she would have had a nervous breakdown if she'd had to talk to the police! She's a funny, nervous little thing. She sat there with these great brown eyes on me, like some frightened rabbit, and it was “Yes, Mr Middleton-Brown” and “No, Mr Middleton-Brown”.' He mimicked her faint, tremulous whisper.

‘I wonder why the police didn't interview her? After all, she was at the scene of the crime at around the relevant time.'

‘I don't suppose her name ever came up. She wasn't with the others, and none of them probably even gave her a thought afterwards, or knew that she'd come.'

Lucy turned to face him. ‘Are you sure she didn't see
anything
? Is
she
sure?'

‘I don't know,' he admitted. ‘I only asked her if she'd seen the others, or Stephen. Like I said, it was damned hard work getting anything out of her at all,' he added defensively.

‘I wonder . . .' Lucy was lost in thought for the remainder of the journey home.

CHAPTER 39

    
He hath graven and digged up a pit: and is fallen himself into the destruction that he made for other.

Psalm 7.16

They called in at the church first; they'd left plenty of time to allow them to explore it at their leisure. Fortunately, it was unlocked – the policy of keeping St Mary's locked up had died with Bob Dexter.

David had brought his Pevsner, of course, and that was helpful for the exterior architectural detail, but once inside it was useless. He stood at the back and looked around with amazement.

‘I've been in this church before, on a church-crawl – a long time ago, admittedly. But I don't believe it's the same place!'

‘What was it like before?' Lucy wanted to know.

‘Very dark. Completely over-the-top with statues and bits of tat, but rather charming in a tacky sort of way. I mean, how many churches have you ever seen with a shrine to King Charles the Blessed Martyr?'

‘Probably none,' she admitted. ‘Is there one here?'

‘There
was
. I very much doubt that it's survived the depredations of the Reverend Bob Dexter. Not much else has.'

‘What about the famous statue? The one he was trying to get down?'

‘Ah.' David looked around. ‘I don't see it. Perhaps it's in the chapel.'

‘In here?' Lucy peered into the south porch. ‘No. There just seems to be some bits and pieces in here.'

He looked over her shoulder. ‘That's the English altar, presumably minus the lethal side bar. The chapel is at the east end, beyond that red curtain.'

In a moment they were gazing up at the statue in its little medieval niche. ‘It's lovely,' David declared. ‘A very rare survival. It would be a crime to destroy something like that.'

‘But another crime took place instead,' said Lucy slowly. ‘The hunter became the hunted.'

*

Lucy remained behind in the church while David drove the short distance to Monkey Puzzle Cottage. He would have liked to have her along, for moral support, but she quite reasonably argued that the two old women were more likely to open up to one person on his own; David did seem to have a gift for hitting just the right note with older women, Lucy stated, and didn't need her help.

Turning down the lane by the old blacksmith's, he found the house without difficulty, spotting it instantly where it lurked between the two monkey puzzle trees. David shivered involuntarily; he had a very strong, virtually phobic loathing for monkey puzzle trees. To him they seemed utterly evil, and he was sure that they were possessed of malevolent souls which would eternally haunt anyone who cut them down. He tried to avert his eyes from the long, tentacle-like branches which held the little house in an unholy embrace, but realised with horror that he would have to walk under one to gain entrance to the cottage; Nan had alerted him to go to the back door.

The day, though warm, was wet, and the money puzzles dripped with rain. David scuttled quickly between the mummified car and the sodden pink sofa which sat forlornly beneath the tree, breathing a sigh of relief as he reached the back of the house.

They were waiting for him at the back door: a short, capable-looking woman with fluffy white hair and a capacious bosom, with her taller, gaunt-faced companion hovering behind. ‘I'm Alice Barnes,' she announced before David had a chance to speak. ‘You must be the gentleman that Charlie's wife said was coming.'

‘David Middleton-Brown.' He tried not to wince at the firmness of her grip on his hand. ‘It's very kind of you to see me.'

‘My friend Gwen Vernon,' she introduced as an afterthought, leading them into the sitting room. Gwen bobbed in acknowledgement.

David took in the room with interest in a few seconds of appraisal. It was a tiny room, and seemed crowded with Victorian antiques – the desk against the wall, the table in the window, the whatnot in the corner, stuffed to bursting with rare and not-so-rare bits of Victoriana. The decorative items, too, were Victorian, from the shell pictures, the silhouettes and the insipid watercolours on the walls to the large Staffordshire figurines and the blue glass vases with their dangling lustres which adorned the mantelpiece, flanking the mahogany clock. Oddly out of keeping was the new carpet, garishly colourful with abstract, blobby flowers, and the brace of rose-pink dralon chairs on either side of the fireplace. David, invited to sit down, chose for himself the upholstered wing chair which reposed between them, exceedingly shabby but, he recognised, a very good piece of furniture in spite of its dilapidated condition.

‘Tea?' Alice offered.

‘I don't want to put you to any trouble.'

‘It's no trouble,' she asserted.

‘Then thank you, Miss Barnes.'

Everything must have been in readiness, and the kettle on the boil, for she was only gone for a moment, during which time Gwen fluttered silently to alight on one of the pink chairs, and to smile at him nervously.

The two dogs followed Alice into the room with baleful looks at the interloper who had usurped their chair. ‘Babs, Nell, back to the kitchen!' Alice ordered, but they ignored her and lay down on the floor at Gwen's feet. Alice poured the tea from the silver pot and proffered a cake-stand laden with cream cakes.

David felt at something of a disadvantage, burdened with a fragile teacup and a plate of things he really ought not to eat, flanked by the women. He swivelled his head back and forth between them as he spoke.

‘Nan told you why I wanted to talk to you?' he began, after sipping some tea, nibbling on an eclair, and making the appropriate noises of appreciation.

‘About Father Thorncroft, she said,' Alice responded. ‘You're representing him, I understand?'

‘Yes, that's right.'

‘But we don't really
know
Father Thorncroft,' Gwen piped.

Forestalled, Alice frowned in annoyance. ‘We don't really know Father Thorncroft,' she repeated. ‘We've met him, of course, at Walsingham. We know Father Mark very well, of course,' she emphasised with pride, ‘and Father Thorncroft is a friend of his. I don't know how we can help you.'

‘We've already talked to the police,' said Gwen. ‘We've told them everything we know.'

David nodded. ‘Yes. I don't expect you to tell me anything about Stephen Thorncroft. But,' he smiled at them ingratiatingly, ‘you can be a great help to me nonetheless. I think you're just the right people to fill me in on life in South Barsham, especially at the church. You must know everyone in the village . . .'

‘Yes,' admitted Alice with some pride. ‘We've been here for donkey's years, you know.'

‘And everyone in the church.'

‘Of course.'

‘So you see, Miss Barnes, Miss Vernon – I really do need your help.' He smiled again, pleadingly this time.

‘Well,' said Alice. ‘I'm sure if there's any way we can help you, we'll be more than happy to. Won't we, Gwen?' Gwen nodded fervently.

David took another bite of his eclair, careful lest the cream that squished out from the sides should disengage itself and fall into his lap. ‘I've been to the church,' he said, ‘and I must say that I find it absolutely appalling. I've never seen such a ghastly mess!'

‘Oh, yes!' Gwen breathed. ‘He wrecked it, our beautiful church! Violated it!' She closed her eyes, remembering it as it used to be, and a pair of desolate tears squeezed out from their corners. ‘You should have seen it!'

‘It's beyond belief that such a thing could be allowed to happen,' Alice added, her bosom quivering with indignation. ‘In just a few weeks – all of it gone! The statues, the paintings – everything!'

‘But what did he
do
with it?' David asked.

‘Scattered to the four winds!' Gwen announced melodramatically, waving her arms in demonstration and nearly upsetting her teacup.

Alice glared at her, but only said, ‘He flogged it all off. Every bit of it.'

‘Father Mark assures us that most of it has gone to good homes,' Gwen added, ‘but still . . .'

‘Bob Dexter,' Alice pronounced firmly, ‘was a very wicked man. And I'm not sorry that he's dead.'