A Dead Man Out of Mind by Kate Charles Page B

the moment, however, he was feeling slightly fed up with the demands of family life. He and Emily had argued at breakfast – though perhaps argument was too strong a word for the ongoing disagreement, or rather non-agreement, which had punctuated their life of late. Emily had mentioned that the twins were begging for a dog, and she was inclined to agree with them. At eight, she said, they were old enough to assume the responsibility for a pet. ‘But what will happen when they go off to boarding school next year?’ he’d asked. ‘Who will look after the dog then?’ Emily had been tearful, but stubborn as usual: no boarding school, she’d said. Why was it necessary to send their children away, when there were perfectly good schools in London, and when they could have places at the cathedral school? She didn’t seem to understand that the Nevilles had a long tradition of Eton for boys and Cheltenham for girls; he’d put Sebastian and Viola’s names down as soon as they were born. As far as Gabriel was concerned, it wasn’t even an issue.
    Now he sighed, looking at the telephone. Chatting on the phone, probably with Lucy Kingsley, on a morning when she knew that he had important calls to make. There were days when he entertained the fleeting notion that it would have been preferable to have remained a bachelor.
    A moment later, however, Emily tapped on his study door and came in with a tray of coffee and biscuits for his mid-morning sustenance. ‘I thought you’d be about ready for this,’ she said.
    Gabriel gave her a perfunctory smile. ‘Thanks.’
    Sensing his irritation, she hesitated by the door. ‘Is everything all right?’
    â€˜Who were you talking to on the phone?’ he replied elliptically.
    It was Emily’s turn to sigh. ‘Dolly Topping.’
    He made an involuntary face. ‘Dreadful woman. Why ever were you talking to her? Didn’t you talk to her yesterday, at that awful women’s meeting?’
    â€˜It would be more accurate to say that she was talking to me ,’ Emily corrected him. ‘On both occasions.’
    â€˜About the horrors of having a woman curate, no doubt.’ Gabriel raised his eyebrows cynically. ‘Foisted on them by some evil diocesan functionary like a bishop or even an archdeacon.’
    Emily gave a dry laugh. ‘The subject did come up, I believe. But that wasn’t why she rang me this morning, as a matter of fact.’
    Taking a sip of his coffee, he looked at her enquiringly. ‘Yes?’
    â€˜It was something to do with the silver at St Margaret’s,’ she amplified. ‘I didn’t follow it very well, but apparently the churchwardens are hoping to sell some of the church silver, and they’ve just found out that it’s very valuable.’
    â€˜Valuable?’
    â€˜Apparently so. Worth over a hundred thousand pounds, Norman told her.’
    Gabriel frowned. ‘They can’t just sell it, you know. They’ll have to apply for a faculty, and I’m not so sure they’ll get it.’ He put his coffee cup down with a decisive thump. ‘Why haven’t I been informed about this?’
    Shrugging, Emily interpreted the latter as a rhetorical question. ‘I thought you might be interested.’
    As she slipped out of the door, Gabriel flashed her a genuine smile of gratitude. Wives could be very useful sometimes, he reflected wryly, finishing his coffee. But whatever were those churchwardens up to? The Venerable Gabriel Neville, Archdeacon of Kensington, resolved to find out.
    CHAPTER 8
    Â Â Â Â  I have considered the days of old: and the years that are past.
    Psalm 77.5
    The voice on the loud-speaker was as muffled and incomprehensible as always, though in these days of customer service the announcements of delayed or cancelled trains were no longer stated baldly, but were couched in terms of feigned regret. ‘We apologise