A Dead Man Out of Mind by Kate Charles

issue writs, if that’s how you say it, to prevent the Vicar from bringing that woman in to this church. Now that would be useful.’
    â€˜Woman?’ David wasn’t really following the train of thought. ‘You mean his fiancée, Miss McKenzie?’
    â€˜Fiancée!’ Robin West snorted in derision. ‘Fiancée, I’m sure! No, I mean the so-called curate – you’ve heard about her, haven’t you?’
    â€˜Oh, yes, of course.’
    â€˜Not that I accept the validity of her orders, of course.’ The sacristan swung the heavy safe door open. ‘Not even her deacon’s orders. Women have no place in the Sanctuary. The very thought is a sacrilege.’
    â€˜There seem to be quite a few people at St Margaret’s who agree with you about that.’
    â€˜I should think so! This is a proper Catholic parish, always has been!’ His voice had lost its customary languor as he went on, ‘I can’t imagine what Father was thinking of when he agreed to her appointment! He must have known that heads would roll, that people wouldn’t just sit in the pews and accept it!’
    David frowned. ‘But what can people do? Apart from leaving St Margaret’s in protest, and finding another church? I mean, people may not like it, but . . .’
    â€˜Humph.’ The sacristan reached into the safe and brought out a candlestick. ‘I can think of a few people who would rather see that woman dead than at the altar of St Margaret’s. I, for one, will not serve in the Sanctuary, or even enter it, if she is there.’ He nodded resolutely, as though that settled the matter. ‘Here – is this what you want? You’ll have to tell me which pieces you’re taking.’
    Helping David to carry the silver to his car, Robin West continued his litany of grievances. ‘I don’t know how we’re meant to manage without the thurible or the monstrance. Or the processional cross, for that matter. Will you have them back by the weekend? By Sunday morning?’
    â€˜I’m afraid not. It may be several weeks, in fact.’
    â€˜Then what does Father expect us to do? Though Lent will be upon us soon, and we don’t have incense during Lent, so the thurible won’t be so critical.’
    â€˜Perhaps you can borrow some pieces from St Jude’s,’ David suggested. ‘I think that’s probably what the Vicar has in mind.’
    If he’d been wearing a cassock, Robin West would have twitched his skirts. ‘Oh, I’m sure you know more about that than I do. After all, I’m only the sacristan,’ he said cuttingly.
    Having stowed the silver with great care in the boot, David was anxious to get it to the V & A before anything happened. He faced Robin West with an awkward smile. ‘Well, thank you very much for your help. I won’t keep you any longer.’
    The sacristan waved a dismissive hand. ‘Oh, that’s all right. I don’t have to be at work for a while yet.’
    David’s curiosity got the better of him. ‘What sort of work do you do, Mr West?’
    â€˜Please, call me Robin,’ he smirked, then explained, ‘I manage a restaurant. A bistro, really. In South Ken.’ With a flourish he produced a card from his pocket and handed it to David. ‘As you see. La Reine Dorée. Lunches and dinners, seven days a week. Why don’t you call in for a drink one day? On the house, of course.’
    Framing his answer carefully, David replied, ‘Thank you very much. Perhaps I’ll come in for a meal with my . . . um, girlfriend.’ He realised that the word sounded faintly ridiculous coming from a man of his age, but the important thing was to establish the gender of the person involved; a more accurate term such as ‘partner’ could be dangerously ambiguous, and he wanted Robin West left in no doubt.
    The sacristan took it well, with the equanimity