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Tavy whisked round and went back the way she had come before she was spotted. Her heart was hammering oddly, but she told herself not to be so stupid. She knew perfectly well that Jago was refurbishing the four-poster in the master bedroom, and at the right moment, it seemed.
She hadn’t yet thanked him for the cheque. She’d written several notes, each more stilted than the last, but had sent none of them.
She would have much preferred to stay away from tonight’s meeting, knowing it would only bring her more distress, when she was already struggling to maintain her usual composure. But she knew she had to be there for her father’s sake, if for no other reason.
She had dressed neatly for the occasion in a navy skirt, topped by a white blouse, and put her hair up into a tidy, well-skewered knot on top of her head. So the surface was calm and orderly at least.
The Archdeacon’s car was already parked near the hall door when they arrived.
‘Ready for a quick getaway, no doubt,’ Tavy whispered to her father.
‘I hardly think there’ll be a lynch mob, darling,’ he returned.
Yet there was certainly a mob. Nearly every seat was taken, and more chairs were being retrieved from the storage area under the platform. Looking round, Tavy saw faces she did not even recognise. She did however notice Norton Culham and his wife, sitting together, stony-faced.
The Archdeacon was standing at the front of the hall, talking to Mrs Wilding. He was a tall man, whose face seemed set in a perpetual vague smile. But this was misleading, because everyone in the diocese knew he was, in fact, the Bishop’s hatchet man.
As Tavy and the Vicar walked towards them, Mrs Wilding moved hastily away, and joined Patrick who was seated, head bent, in the second row.
The Archdeacon’s voice was cold. ‘I see the meeting has attracted quite a crowd. I trust they are not hoping for a change of heart by the diocese.’
‘Everyone is entitled to hope, Archdeacon,’ Lloyd Denison returned evenly.
‘Including yourself. A projected move to Milcaster as Dean, I hear. Laudable if a little ambitious under the circumstances.’ The smile was positively vinegary. ‘However, shall we start the meeting?’
Tavy watched them mount to the platform, aware of a sudden stab of anxiety. What on earth could the Archdeacon have meant? she wondered, looking round for an empty seat, only to find she was being beckoned to by a small woman, with iron grey hair cut in a severely uncompromising bob, and bright, if not sharp brown eyes, who was lifting a large, solid handbag off an adjoining chair to make room for her.
‘So you’re the Vicar’s daughter,’ she commented briskly as Tavy sat down. ‘I recognise the hair.’
Tavy, faintly bewildered, was just going to ask, ‘Have we met?’ when the Archdeacon rapped on the table in front of him on the stage, called for silence and announced that proceedings would commence with a prayer.
As his sonorous tones invited the Almighty’s guidance, Tavy heard a stir at the back of the hall and felt the excitement rippling through the crowded hall. She did not have to look. Not when awareness was shivering through her entire body. Besides, he’d said he would be there.
She stared straight ahead of her with eyes that saw nothing, listening as the Archdeacon spoke with well-modulated regret about the closure of Holy Trinity.
‘A decision not taken lightly, but forced on us due to the dangerous dilapidation of the building, and the extortionate cost of putting it right.’
However, he added, arrangements would be made to hold regular acts of worship here in the village hall, including a monthly communion service.
Ted Jackson got to his feet. ‘And who’ll be doing that?’ he asked. ‘Will we be getting a new Vicar in place of Mr Denison?’
The Archdeacon paused. ‘The needs of the parish will be met by members of our local team.’
The Vicar said gently, ‘But presumably you would find a replacement for me if the church could be privately repaired.’
The Archdeacon’s sigh sounded almost regretful. ‘In times like these, there is little hope of that, I fear.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Mr Denison blandly. ‘I have received an offer to cover the entire cost of renovation, on condition that the parish continues to function as in the past.’ He took an envelope from an inside pocket of his coat and placed it on the table. ‘Perhaps you would pass on the details to the Bishop.’
Shock wiped the fixed smile from the Archdeacon’s face. ‘An offer,’ he repeated ominously. ‘What possible offer is this and why have you waited until now to tell me?’
