TWO

Robin might look saintly, but he’d once been an amateur boxer. He’d also done time, as he put it, as a curate in a rough northern parish where the very few people who were in his congregation were more likely to take money off the collection plate than put it in. So his reflexes were good.

But the box disappeared before he could even cry out. The box, the hand, and, almost, the man attached to both. Younger than Mel, as far as I could see.

My reflexes weren’t bad, although I’d learnt my skills at a far less orthodox school of fighting than Robin’s. And I was pretty quick on my feet. So, vaulting over the table, I gave chase. Yelling ‘Stop, thief!’ might have been a good idea, if I’d had breath to spare, but at least Marjorie managed it – thin, squeaky, but a yell all the same. I was almost on the guy when someone got the wrong idea and shoved a foot under not the thief’s legs but my mine. I went down. My skirt went up. And that was the end of my chase, not to mention my dignity.

‘Don’t worry about me! Get that bastard,’ I shouted, forgetting where I was.

After a vital second’s hesitation, Robin accelerated past me and had almost caught up with Lightfingers when a small object hurtled on to a gravestone. It took Robin’s eye off his target for a vital second, and the thief was over the churchyard wall and into the adjoining woodland.

By now I was on my feet, hands and knees smarting with gravel-rash. All the same, I was mobile enough to make for whatever the thief had dropped. It was the poor box, now battered as well as tarnished. The impact had burst it open and strained the hinge holding the lid to the body. It came apart in my hands.

It seemed that first-aid to silver, in pieces or not, was not Robin’s main concern. He didn’t know whether to identify and rebuke whoever had tripped me, or to minister to my injuries. As for me, there was such a commotion amongst the stallholders and the visitors that I was afraid of more thefts, so I caught the Commandant’s eye.

‘First-aid box in loo,’ she barked. Then, turning to the others, she declared, ‘Nothing to worry about, good people. Plenty of tea in the pot. Loads of raffle tickets left. Let’s do fête!’

A woman after my own heart.

The gravel rash was much less serious than that I’d had most weeks when I was a kid, but for some reason hurt much more. I must have forgotten how to fall. The main victim was the poor dress, and I spent more time swishing cold water on the bloodstains than on the whole of my own treatment.

There was a hammering on the door. My disappearance must have alarmed someone, or perhaps all those elderly bladders were panicking. Calling that I was fine and wouldn’t be a minute, I tidied the place up a bit. And stowed the snuffbox where no one could get at it – thank goodness for the full skirt, which covered any giveaway bulge.

Sympathetic hands reached for me as I emerged, and I submitted to being guided to the refreshment tent, where I was loaded with tea and cakes. But I’m not really one to be coddled and fussed over by strangers, so I took the cup and plate back to the bric-a-brac stall, ready to return to work.

‘Come on, folk,’ I called. ‘If it’s worth nicking, it’s worth buying. Let’s see your money now! Roll up, roll up.’ Sounded convincing.

Maybe it was my curiosity value that brought people flocking round. Whatever it was, we sold about five times as much as we had before, people pressing notes into our hands and not asking for change.

One person who I didn’t see, however, was Robin. What had happened to him?

At last the surge died down. Nothing eluded the eye of the Commandant.

‘Only another fifteen minutes to go before we can shut up shop. Did well there,’ she said. ‘Patched yourself up all right?’

I nodded, afraid she’d demand to see the dressings. ‘Any idea where Robin might be?’

‘Saw him at the apple-bobbing. Or maybe at the Chuck a Sponge. The far side of the church.’

Assuring her I could find him myself, I pottered off. There was a lot of splashing and laughter, but no Robin.

Before I could explore further, the Commandant called me over. ‘Crisis on the bookstall!’

It was the organist, wanting to know whether Edward Marston and Amy Myers could be considered hard-boiled. I told her cheerily I’d no idea but that I liked the jackets, so she added them to her pile.

The funny thing about fêtes is you never get time to look at what should be the focus of the whole event, the church itself. At last, all the remaining bric-a-brac and books were repacked. Apart from those heading for Oxfam, some boxes were destined for the tip; others were going back in store in someone’s barn so their contents could have another dreary outing next year. Why? If no one wanted the stuff now, why would they want it when it was a year older and smelt even mustier?

At last I could emerge from the shadow of the tomb – which, come to think of it, might have been the title of one of the books the organist had bought – and have a look round.

Whatever other skills the congregation had, flower arranging must have been up there with the best. The wooden-walled porch was so full of early sweet peas and roses that you could hardly smell the dry rot. Inside, other flowers glowed from the base of each squat pillar, each deeply recessed window sill. The font, huge and solid, quite out of proportion in the tiny nave, was surrounded by carnations. Exotic flowers I couldn’t name cascaded from the altar. There was even a little posy on the end of each pew. The thought hit me quite uninvited: if ever I got married, I’d like it to be in a church like this.

I sat down on one of the choir stalls out of sight to ponder. Not so much about finding a man I might love enough to marry, but about leaving the man to whom I owed everything – Griff. It would be unbearable for us both. Worse than Emma trying to leave poor Mr Woodhouse, in that novel neither of us liked very much. At least there was no Mr Knightley to trouble Griff and me just at the moment, and although there’d been a couple of Frank Churchills – far worse than Frank Churchill, to be honest – my heart had been no more than dented. Rather like that box, except I’d never been unhinged; at least, not since Griff had taken me into his life. How about that for a simile? – no, I mean a metaphor. When you get things like that right, after all the things I’ve got wrong in my life, you can’t help smiling, so I gave God a thank you smile – I was in His house after all, and liked to be polite, most of the time, at least.

And I gave Him another smile when I discovered what I’d been sitting on. Not just any old choir stall, but a misericord, one of those seats that tips up to support the chorister’s bum if he has to sing during a long service. Underneath the plain seat you’ll often find carving, which there was here. In turn, I found a fat man, a long-faced woman who looked as if she’d got toothache, and what looked like a Green Man. Maybe it was the evil-looking imp next to him that made my retro necklace snap, the beads cascading all over the floor, parts of which were so dark I had to find them by touch. I hope I said nothing too offensive, but I couldn’t guarantee it.

‘And what might you be doing, miss?’ a voice demanded.

Scrabbling to my feet, I found myself eyeball to eyeball with the Commandant and her teeth, set in snarling mode. ‘Gathering up these,’ I said, showing her a handful. ‘What a time and place for the string to give way.’

‘Hmph,’ she said, not pleasantly.

I almost asked when kneeling in a church had become a crime. But she looked as tired as Griff after a busy fair, so I simply smiled and fell into step with her as she headed for the door. Actually, to be honest, I didn’t fall into step. I was herded, wasn’t I? Anyway, someone called her, so I had another dawdle, this time by some impressive memorials – not because I could read the Latin, but because I wanted to make a point.

I was just leaving the church when Robin ran up the path. To my amazement he was wearing his church gear – the white nightie over the black skirt.

‘Hoped I’d catch you,’ he gasped, ‘before you left.’

‘Where’ve you been?’ I asked stupidly.

‘Nearly forgot a wedding at Brayham,’ he said. ‘Dear Lord, that was a close call. Anyway, what did the police say?’ He collapsed into a handy pew.

I joined him. ‘What police?’

‘The police after the thief. I called them. That was when I remembered the wedding. Thank goodness the bride was even later than I was.’

I made a little rewinding gesture. ‘Did you actually dial nine nine nine?’

‘No. Someone with a mobile said he was doing it and why didn’t I just scoot. What’s the matter?’

I was twitching the end of my nose. Why had someone said he’d phone, which meant no one else would, and then obviously not done so?

‘All these flowers giving you hay fever?’

‘Just smelling a rat,’ I said. ‘But that’s me. I smell them even when someone’s gone to all this trouble to keep out the smell of damp. And isn’t that dry rot in that funny little porch?’

‘Our fault, not the original builder’s,’ he said quickly. ‘Oak withstands most things, but not a blocked drain. As for damp, yes, we’re missing some slates.’

‘Will the money you raised today pay for everything?’ I asked, just managing not to squeak in disbelief.

‘Hardly. It’s like the little Dutch boy and his thumb in the dyke, I suppose. We just stick in more thumbs.’

‘Let’s hope no one pulls his out, then – though he may get a plum, I suppose. OK, so how do we raise enough to do a proper job? I suppose you haven’t got a handy millionaire or two in the congregation?’

‘I wish. But then, would we want to accept tainted money?’

‘Tainted?’

‘Think of the rich man and the camel trying to get through the eye of a needle.’

‘I thought you said that that was a reference to some narrow gate or other,’ I said, referring to an explanation he’d given me months back.

He grinned. ‘True. But think about it. How can anyone be a millionaire without exploiting someone?’

I could see him muscling up for a good philosophical argument, so I nipped in with another question. ‘OK, what about ordinary people?’

‘There’s a joke going round us clergy. The Archdeacon phones to say there’s good news: there’s plenty of money to repair the roof, or whatever. The bad news is it’s still in people’s pockets.’

‘Ah. And are there enough pockets?’

‘Not a chance. On a good day I get twenty souls, on a bad ten. Most are retired: the young aren’t exactly leading a lemming rush to eight o’clock Communion. In terms of cash, it’d be cheaper to buy a minibus and ferry them to one of the other churches than to pay the heating and lighting. Not to mention the maintenance work.’

‘But surely something as old as this must be listed?’

‘Oh, yes. I think all churches may be, actually. And this one is special. So special I’m surprised – shocked – that English Heritage isn’t prepared to help. Well, the cuts, Lina – everyone’s having to tighten their belts, as they say.’

‘Yours is on the tightest notch already. And those misericords are pretty important, aren’t they?’

‘Oh, yes.’ He sighed, then buried his face in his hands. Although he wasn’t on his knees, I thought he might be praying and didn’t want to interrupt, so I sat quietly and looked about me. I was a sucker for lost causes. Was there anything I could do?

When he emerged from his silence, I asked bluntly, ‘Have you any valuables to sell? The church, not you.’

‘You’d have to talk to the churchwarden. Fiona. She’ll know. She’s wonderful – no parish priest should be without a Fiona, preferably a Fiona for each church.’

Fiona must be the Commandant. No need for him to know we hadn’t entirely hit it off.

After a pale smile, he added, ‘You know they’ve tacked another church on to the benefice? Eight altogether now.’

‘All the extra services?’ I squeaked. ‘Not to mention extra parish work? You need a trade union,’ I declared, getting to my feet. ‘Come on, it’s a lovely evening. Let’s find a pub and I’ll shout you a shandy and you can tell me who was supposed to have called the police. Hell! That’s my van alarm!’ Elbowing him aside, I sprinted out into the sun.

Whoever had tried to get into the van had presumably been put off by the noise, though not necessarily the one that the people restoring the churchyard to its usual state heard. We’d had our system tweaked, just a little, so in addition to the usual racket there was another, probably illegal noise, just out of the range of adult hearing. It came courtesy of one of Griff’s shadowy friends, and I approved of it heartily – see, I’m not fit to be associated with an agent of whatever law you choose – and it was there to deter the odd enterprising youngster who thought he’d nick something to sell for his next fix, or just smash up anything handy. Until his ears started to hurt a very great deal. As mine were hurting now, though Griff’s wouldn’t even have picked up the evil sound.

When the alarm stopped and I could venture closer, I could see that there were a couple of marks on the back doors, from a jemmy by the look of it, but the defences were still intact. At this point I withdrew and covered my ears. I knew what was going to happen. Just when it seemed to have settled down, the alarm became very, very loud again. That was part of its charm. From a discreet distance I zapped the van and silenced the system. Presumably whoever had tried to break in had taken the same exit route as the guy who’d been after my silver box earlier, over the fence and into the woods. In jeans and trainers I’d have been in there chasing him. But not in this dress and these sandals.

I turned back. Robin had stripped down to civvies again, bundling his working gear over his arm. He still sported his dog collar, though, and it seemed wrong to let him go off to do my dirty work chasing after Crowbar Man dressed like that.

I managed a rueful smile. ‘No harm done. That’s what we have the alarm for, to put people off. And maybe the guy who promised to call the fuzz was just too busy.’

Shaking his head, he frowned. ‘Two attempts at theft in one fête is two too many.’

‘Do you remember who you asked?’

‘I didn’t ask. He offered. And I don’t think I knew him. But the fête was well advertised – there was a really good piece on local radio – and I didn’t know quite a number of the visitors.’ The frown deepened. ‘Does it mean we’ve not just got two attempted thefts, we’ve got two would-be thieves?’

There was no point in lying to Robin. ‘Or maybe a thief and an accomplice?’

‘You’d have thought one of us would have noticed someone trying to break into your van,’ he mused. ‘Why did no one say anything? Look, I’ll have a word with Fiona.’

‘She’s as knackered as you are. Tell you what, do you have a parish mag that carries photos of events like this?’

‘Yes. I think I saw Brian with his nice new digital jobbie.’

‘When you’ve a moment, ask him to keep everything. He may have got a snap of the guy trying to lift that box. Or jemmy the van. Just by accident, when he was taking something else.’

He looked around. ‘He’s gone. But I’ll email him.’

I put a hand on his arm and smiled. ‘Can you hear that? It’s the Rose and Crown calling, saying it’s got a pint of best bitter with your name on it.’

He cocked his head: he could certainly hear something calling, but it turned out to be his phone. He took the call at once, his face changing from a nice bloke after a drink to a serious, concerned professional.

‘That was the hospice. I’m afraid Mrs Garbett needs me. I’ll see you soon, Lina – OK?’ He managed a quick peck on my cheek and was gone.