cheated. After all, what was the point of sacrificing the night’s soap episode on television and raiding the wardrobe for the suit or dress that would impress the most, only to find an unsmiling twitchy vicar who could hardly wait to say the magic words ‘Go in Peace’ and get rid of everybody?
Not surprisingly, the handshakes of the Reverend Andrew Cotter’s flock were less than enthusiastic as they filed past him through the north door of the little country church and hurried to their parked cars, muttering and shaking their heads in righteous indignation. But Cotter was hardly aware of their dissatisfaction. He had a much more important problem on his mind, something that threatened to destroy his career, his marriage – his whole life. And that problem had had the audacity to demand a meeting with him in the church itself, straight after the service.
As he closed the door after the choir and stewards had finally left, he tried for the millionth time since the sealed letter had been placed on the sacristy desk to work out who his tormentor might be, but yet again he failed miserably. He had only been at St Peter’s for three years and the skeletons in his cupboard were much too old for any of his present flock to know about. No, the person who had typed that note must be someone who had known him in the old days, someone with a grudge – and possibly a desire for money as well as revenge.
Turning back into the church, he shivered. The lights had been dimmed by the departing verger, and without its worshippers the building seemed suddenly cold and sinister, the twin rows of ornate stone columns that marched so resolutely through the rows of vacant pews, reaching up into the heavy blackness of the vaulted roof as if into infinity, and the brass eagle supporting the pulpit lectern gleaming lifelike and malevolent in the dimly lit gloom.
He crossed himself automatically as he turned down the nave towards the chancel, genuflecting in front of the simple brass cross on the altar before making for the north-east corner. The curtains across the choir vestry stirred on his approach, as if under a draught, and he paused again with a frown, peering over his shoulder at the north door. It appeared to be securely shut and he shook his head a couple of times in puzzlement, wondering where the draught could have come from. Then he shrugged, mentally reproaching himself for his stupidity. For heaven’s sake, man, he thought, the church is 700 years old. You can hardly expect it to be vacuum sealed.
The low door to the sacristy at the far end of the choir vestry was ajar, the bunch of keys still dangling from the lock where he had left them earlier, and he ducked his head as he went through. The lamp burned brightly on his desk, casting fantasy shadows up the bare stonework, but not all were illusions and he froze when one peeled itself off the wall behind the desk and came towards him. ‘Good evening, Father,’ the figure said quietly. ‘That was a nice short service.’
Cotter’s mouth tightened and the worms immediately started crawling around his insides. ‘I am not a father ,’ he snapped, trying to take command of the situation, but finding himself let down by the nervous quaver in his tone. ‘This is an Anglican church.’
His visitor chuckled. ‘Well, whatever, Andrew,’ he replied, continuing to advance slowly towards him. ‘Let’s not split hairs, shall we?’
Cotter clenched both fists by his sides. ‘What do you want?’ he whispered. ‘Is it money you’re after?’
The other laughed harshly. ‘Money, Andrew?’ he echoed. ‘Money? Oh, I think you’ll need a lot more than mere money to clear your debt.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Now, now, Andrew, no more playing games, eh? You did enough of that in the old days, remember?’
Cotter shook his head quickly as he backed away from his sinister visitor. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.’
Feeling the
Not surprisingly, the handshakes of the Reverend Andrew Cotter’s flock were less than enthusiastic as they filed past him through the north door of the little country church and hurried to their parked cars, muttering and shaking their heads in righteous indignation. But Cotter was hardly aware of their dissatisfaction. He had a much more important problem on his mind, something that threatened to destroy his career, his marriage – his whole life. And that problem had had the audacity to demand a meeting with him in the church itself, straight after the service.
As he closed the door after the choir and stewards had finally left, he tried for the millionth time since the sealed letter had been placed on the sacristy desk to work out who his tormentor might be, but yet again he failed miserably. He had only been at St Peter’s for three years and the skeletons in his cupboard were much too old for any of his present flock to know about. No, the person who had typed that note must be someone who had known him in the old days, someone with a grudge – and possibly a desire for money as well as revenge.
Turning back into the church, he shivered. The lights had been dimmed by the departing verger, and without its worshippers the building seemed suddenly cold and sinister, the twin rows of ornate stone columns that marched so resolutely through the rows of vacant pews, reaching up into the heavy blackness of the vaulted roof as if into infinity, and the brass eagle supporting the pulpit lectern gleaming lifelike and malevolent in the dimly lit gloom.
He crossed himself automatically as he turned down the nave towards the chancel, genuflecting in front of the simple brass cross on the altar before making for the north-east corner. The curtains across the choir vestry stirred on his approach, as if under a draught, and he paused again with a frown, peering over his shoulder at the north door. It appeared to be securely shut and he shook his head a couple of times in puzzlement, wondering where the draught could have come from. Then he shrugged, mentally reproaching himself for his stupidity. For heaven’s sake, man, he thought, the church is 700 years old. You can hardly expect it to be vacuum sealed.
The low door to the sacristy at the far end of the choir vestry was ajar, the bunch of keys still dangling from the lock where he had left them earlier, and he ducked his head as he went through. The lamp burned brightly on his desk, casting fantasy shadows up the bare stonework, but not all were illusions and he froze when one peeled itself off the wall behind the desk and came towards him. ‘Good evening, Father,’ the figure said quietly. ‘That was a nice short service.’
Cotter’s mouth tightened and the worms immediately started crawling around his insides. ‘I am not a father ,’ he snapped, trying to take command of the situation, but finding himself let down by the nervous quaver in his tone. ‘This is an Anglican church.’
His visitor chuckled. ‘Well, whatever, Andrew,’ he replied, continuing to advance slowly towards him. ‘Let’s not split hairs, shall we?’
Cotter clenched both fists by his sides. ‘What do you want?’ he whispered. ‘Is it money you’re after?’
The other laughed harshly. ‘Money, Andrew?’ he echoed. ‘Money? Oh, I think you’ll need a lot more than mere money to clear your debt.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Now, now, Andrew, no more playing games, eh? You did enough of that in the old days, remember?’
Cotter shook his head quickly as he backed away from his sinister visitor. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.’
Feeling the
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