The Snares of Death (38 page)

‘Ma'am,' he addressed her earnestly, ‘if you will read this, I'm sure that God will convict you in your heart of the error of your ways. There is but one way to God, and that is through Our Lord Jesus Christ.'

‘Thank you,' Lucy replied automatically, taking the paper. ‘But I wondered if you could help me.'

‘I'd be happy to help you, ma'am. I'll tell you about how I met the Lord Jesus. If you are sincere in your desire to be saved . . .'

‘I'm looking for a Mr Gates,' she interrupted him.

‘Then you don't want to hear my testimony?' He was crestfallen.

‘Not just at the moment, thank you. Do you know Mr Gates?'

‘Why, yes, ma'am. Noah Gates is in charge, in fact.' He pointed to a small, dark-haired man standing directly under the ‘MISSION: Walsingham' banner.

‘Thank you,' she said, and walked towards Noah Gates. As she approached, she saw that he was thrusting his tracts belligerently at the passers-by, most of whom were ignoring him. Occasionally a curious pilgrim would take one, only to discard it contemptuously.

‘Mr Gates?' she said, hesitating. He turned. Noah Gates was a man to be reckoned with, she apprehended instantly – much as Bob Dexter must have been. He was like a coiled spring; the vitality of his personality more than compensated for his lack of stature.

‘Yes?'

‘Mr Gates, I wanted to ask you about your son. About Toby . . .'

Noah Gates's small black eyes blazed momentarily, then went dead. ‘I have no son,' he said in a soft, controlled voice, then turned his back on her and walked away.

David had left home just after eight, allowing more than adequate time to reach Walsingham by mid-morning – it was, after all, only about thirty miles away. But it was a bank holiday, and traffic was heavy; at that proximity to Walsingham the roads were virtually choked with coaches full of pilgrims and mini-vans overflowing with protesters. He found himself part of a crawling queue of cars. And then disaster struck: a mini-van emblazoned with ‘Jesus is the Way' collided with a farm vehicle, strewing Evangelicals and fertiliser across both lanes of the road, and traffic stopped altogether for more than an hour as the ambulances, then the recovery vehicles, and finally the men with shovels arrived.

Nicholas Fielding manoeuvred the BARC van through the crowded streets of Walsingham. ‘Where are you going to park it?' asked Toby nervously.

‘Rhys has been round to the Bull and chatted up the owners – slipped them a fiver, I wouldn't doubt,' he added. ‘They've said that we can put the van in the little square in front – near the outdoor beer stall.'

‘But that's just across from the pump.'

Nicholas shot a look at Toby. ‘Do you mind?'

‘My father . . .' The young man set his jaw determinedly. ‘No, I don't mind,' he said. ‘If my father doesn't like it, that's his problem.'

‘Have you talked to him at all, since . . . ?'

‘No.'

‘Do you think . . . ?'

‘No.'

Looking out of the corner of his eye at Toby's set profile, Nicholas didn't dare to ask any more questions.

The remainder of the BARC contingent was already waiting in front of the Bull: Rhys and Fiona, Maggie, Gary and Karen. All were dressed in BARC T-shirts – even Fiona, though she wore hers stylishly, belted and bloused out over an elegant skirt rather than with jeans like the others. In short order they set up their eye-catching display and began passing out leaflets to the pilgrims who were already flocking to the beer stall, well before noon.

‘It's a smashing location,' Nicholas congratulated Rhys. ‘Right across from the Bible-thumpers, and next to the beer stall! We can catch them coming and going!'

Some of the Evangelicals were beginning to call out slogans. Gary decided to retaliate. ‘Stop animal experimentation!' he shouted in his best Berkeley protest voice. ‘Ban blood sports!' He looked around for Maggie, expecting her to add her strident voice to his. But Maggie was nowhere to be seen.

Lucy saw the BARC van arrive, and watched them set up their display and begin handing out leaflets. After a few minutes she approached Fiona. ‘Hello!' Fiona greeted her. ‘David told me that you were going to be here. I wondered if I'd see you. Though with all these thousands of people . . .'

‘David?' The sound of his name made Lucy catch her breath with longing. ‘When did you see David?'

‘Last night.' Fiona laughed. ‘He was wandering around like a lost soul without you, if that makes you feel any better.'

Lucy smiled wryly. ‘It does, actually.'

‘He didn't really tell me what you were doing here. It doesn't seem like your scene, as Gary would say.'

‘It's a long story.' Lucy hesitated. ‘Fiona, could we talk – privately – for a few minutes? Can Rhys spare you?'

‘Of course. Where shall we go?'

Lucy thought quickly. ‘The Shrine garden.' It would be full of people, of course, following the Stations of the Cross, or just having a moment of rest, but they could sit on the grass and have a private chat.

When the two women had found a relatively quiet spot, Lucy turned to Fiona. ‘I wanted to ask you about Toby Gates,' she said.

‘What about him?'

‘Well, Rhys said that he'd started coming to the meetings with Becca Dexter.'

‘That's right.'

‘Were they . . . I mean, did it seem like there was anything going on between them?'

‘I never thought so – never picked up any vibes, if you know what I mean. Rhys wondered, but I didn't think so.' She gave Lucy a searching look. ‘Why are you asking me these questions?'

Lucy remembered, too late, that Fiona had been married to a solicitor for over twenty years; she decided to be honest. ‘Bob Dexter's murder,' she said. ‘David is acting for Stephen Thorncroft.'

‘The priest who's been charged with the murder,' Fiona concluded. ‘And you're helping him.'

‘Yes. Just a bit of information-gathering, really. There seem to be . . . quite a few people who had a much better motive to kill Bob Dexter than Stephen Thorncroft had.'

‘And you think that Toby Gates might be one of them?'

‘Or his father,' Lucy replied quickly. ‘How does he . . . get on with his father, do you know?'

‘I know that they're estranged at the moment.'

Lucy twisted a curl around her finger. ‘Estranged?'

‘Right after . . . after Dexter's death, as a matter of fact. Toby wasn't with us that night, as you know. But the next day he rang Rhys. He said that he'd had a terrible row with his father, and that his father had thrown him out of the house. He had nowhere to go. Rhys said that he could live in the van for a while, until he got himself sorted out. He was terribly grateful.'

‘And he's been staying in the van since then?'

‘Yes. Most of the time with Nicholas. They've been out on the road quite a bit in the last few weeks.'

Lucy plucked a blade of grass and split it in half with her fingernail. ‘Do you have any idea . . . why he and his father quarrelled?'

‘No,' Fiona replied definitely. ‘It wasn't my business. I didn't ask.'

‘I wonder if . . . if I might talk with Toby sometime.' That was the only way, Lucy realised. The timing fitted, and if it were true that Noah Gates had learned the truth about his son from Bob Dexter, it gave him a powerful motive for murder. But Toby Gates was the only one who could confirm her theory – Noah Gates certainly wouldn't tell her.

‘I envy you,' said Fiona suddenly. ‘You're so lucky that David trusts you to help him. Graham never even told me about his cases.'

‘I
am
lucky.' She wondered what David was doing at that moment.

And at that moment he was sitting on the B1146, wondering when the hell he was ever going to get to Walsingham.

Maggie was having a look around Walsingham. All these religious freaks, she thought: it was amazing. To get so heated up about something as irrelevant as religion. And there was a lot of money here, one way and another.

She walked down the street, skirting the Shrine grounds. They were completely enclosed, bordered on the south side by the hospice and walled the rest of the way. Impelled by curiosity, she poked her nose into the Shrine church to see what was going on. The scene within was so alien to her that it might have been taking place on another planet. Everywhere she looked, people were genuflecting, crossing themselves, kneeling in prayer, lighting candles. There was a long queue at the Holy Well, and another one waiting to get into the Holy House. Maggie squeezed past the pilgrims to stand for a moment before the gilded, coped and flower-bedecked figure of Our Lady of Walsingham, for this morning only moved out from her customary place in the Holy House to sit in the place of honour before the high altar. She shook her head: too weird, she thought. Totally bizarre. And all those stinky candles. She couldn't breathe – she had to get out. Pushing her way back out again, she continued her anticlockwise progress around the perimeter of the grounds.

On the north side was a large building, unmarked: the College. Maggie stopped in her tracks as she approached it; in front of the building sat a delivery van with the distinctive logo of Fielding Farms. Fielding Farms! The loathsome stuffed chicken thighs confronted her from the side of the van. She watched for a moment; a young chap was unloading tray after tray of chicken thighs and carrying them into the building.

After a minute Maggie followed. She was stopped by an officious man in a black cassock. ‘This is a private residence, young woman. I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to leave.' His voice was reedy, and rather petulant.

‘Maybe I'm staying here,' she blustered. ‘With friends.'

He looked inexpressibly shocked. ‘I should very much doubt it. No one but priests may stay at the College.'

Maggie laughed. ‘That's a lot of food for a few priests. All those stuffed chicken thighs.'

‘There are a good many priests here today, and that will be their supper. And now I must insist . . .'

‘Don't get your knickers in a twist,' she sneered. ‘I'm going.' But I'll be back, she said to herself as she went out past the Fielding Farms van. As soon as I can get by that self-righteous shit-head.

She would come back later and steal the chicken thighs. Liberate them, as she had liberated their live sisters at Fielding Farms a couple of months ago. And Rhys be damned – he'd gone absolutely spare when he'd found out what she'd done on that occasion, she remembered with perverse satisfaction. Maybe this time he'd realise that she was the guiding intelligence behind BARC.

CHAPTER 48

    
Their eyes swell with fatness: and they do even what they lust.

Psalm 73.7

Shortly before noon, the pilgrims, clutching their official blue National Pilgrimage booklets, were beginning to stream through the gates into the Abbey grounds, staking out prime seating spots for the Mass.

The ground sloped gently, forming a natural amphitheatre in the Abbey grounds, centring on the great arch that was nearly all that remained of the once-massive Abbey church. The platform was in place, canopied for the bishops who would be in attendance; an air of anticipation gathered momentum with the rapidly swelling crowd.

It was a perfect day; the sun was shining in a cloudless sky and the grass was warm. Cardigans were very quickly discarded as people sat in the sun for a few minutes; the hillside was dotted with their variegated hues, though there might have been a slight predominance of Marian blue. The clever ones had worn sun hats; others less forward-thinking shaded their faces with their blue programmes.

Rose Phillips and Florence Whittaker had arrived very early and had prudently found seats in the shade. They had even saved space for Monica and Lucy. ‘Though I don't know why we should, when they don't even have the courtesy to come with us,' Rose Phillips said sharply. Father Clive, of course, would be concelebrating the Mass with the other priests.

Florence Whittaker, settled in the shade, looked longingly at her walking frame. ‘I have to go to the toilet,' she announced.

Rose Phillips frowned. ‘Well, go on then,' she snapped. ‘I don't know why you didn't go before we came in!'

‘You'll save my spot?'

‘Of course!'

Lucy opened the door of their room; perhaps Monica would be waiting for her there. She hadn't seen Monica since just after breakfast. But the room was empty. It would be worth looking for her in the Sue Ryder café, she decided – she might be lingering over elevenses. Just outside the hospice, though, she found her. Monica was standing near the wall that enclosed the Shrine grounds, supporting a huge sign that seemed to be painted on to canvas on a wooden stretcher. ‘The Parish of St Mary the Virgin, South Barsham' the sign proclaimed; Lucy assumed that, like many others that she'd seen people transporting, it would be carried in the Procession back to the Shrine at the end of the Mass.

‘I've been looking for you,' she said.

Monica looked sheepish. ‘I'm keeping an eye on Father Mark's sign for him, while he gets ready for the Procession,' she explained. ‘Why don't you go on without me?'

Lucy looked at the sign. It was crudely painted – Miss Barnes and Miss Vernon, with their calligraphic expertise, would have done a better job of it than that. Why hadn't Father Mark asked them? ‘All right. I'll save you a spot, if you like.'

Before Lucy reached the Abbey gates, though, she saw a totally unexpected sight: Geoffrey Pickering strolling rather purposefully up the High Street. Lucy ducked into a doorway. What on earth was Geoffrey doing in Walsingham? The only credible reason for him ever to be here was his nephew, and Stephen Thorncroft, as she well knew, was absent today. If the National Pilgrimage were not, as Fiona had said, ‘her scene', it was most certainly not Geoffrey's either. What was he up to? She decided to follow him and find out.