Evil Angels Among Them by Kate Charles Page A

his wife Alice, 1896–1915. His body lies in France, his soul is with God, but he lives in our hearts for ever.’
    â€˜Wholly interesting, them monuments,’ said Harry Gaze conversationally, materialising behind the Rector. ‘Shame the family died out like that.’
    â€˜Very sad.’ Stephen turned to face the verger.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Only for a few hours a week.’ As he said it, Stephen wondered why he sounded so defensive.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜He were a wholly good man,’ Harry said severely. ‘None better.’
    â€˜I’m sure.’ The Rector’s voice had not a trace of irony.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜The money from the Quota helps to pay the clergy’s stipends,’ Stephen pointed out mildly. ‘You’re getting me in return, Harry.’
    â€˜But Fred says as your money comes out of some trust fund, all thanks to the Lovelidge family. Nothing to do with the diocese – you’d get it whether or no.’
    â€˜That’s not strictly true. And it’s not really the point.’
    â€˜The point is,’ Harry went on stubbornly, ‘Fred says that we need that money here in Walston. We’ve got to look after our own. The Lovelidge family all them years ago made provision for us so as we’d always have a priest. So why should we go throwing good money after bad, sending it off to Norwich every year to pay for some other village’s problems? Why can’t we just tell them to get on with it and sort themselves out?’
    Stephen took a deep breath and tried to be patient. ‘Because we’re all part of the Church of England,’ he explained. ‘That’s what it’s all about. We’re all in it together.’
    â€˜There’s many here as will wholly disagree with you, Father.’ Harry folded his arms across his chest. ‘Fred’s been talking to a