Her task completed, Gillie came over to me while her friend closed the hatchback. "Oh, Mike, how can we thank you? Sandy and I were so frightened."
"They were only kids," I said modestly.
"Thugs," she corrected and I shrugged noncommittally. The other girl, Sandy, joined us and I could tell she was still shaky. "You're Mike?" she said. "The others have told me about you and Midge. I hope you've managed to settle in at Gramarye."
The vicar appeared to do a sudden reappraisal of me. "You're the couple who've moved into Flora Chaldean's cottage?"
"One half of the couple," I admitted.
He immediately stepped forward, his hand outstretched. "Then please let me welcome you to the parish and ask your forgiveness for not having popped out to see you and your good lady by now. I'd heard you'd arrived, of course, but my pastoral duties have kept me rather busy of late. I had intended . . ."
I shook his hand, already becoming used to his unfinished sentences and his entreaties to forgive. "That's okay, we've been a bit busy ourselves. I'm Mike Stringer."
"Peter Sixsmythe." He pumped my hand. "The Reverend Sixsmythe."
"We have to get back, Mike," Gillie interrupted. "It was so good of you to help us—I hope you'll allow us to repay the debt."
"No problem," I said, now feeling a trifle embarrassed (smug, nonetheless). "And nothing to repay. I'm just glad I happened along. See you soon, eh?"
"You will, most definitely."
I hadn't meant it as an invitation. To my surprise, both girls took turns to lean forward and kiss my cheek before climbing into their car. The vicar and I stood aside as Gillie reversed the Citroen from the parking space, and she waved from the window as they left the car park.
"Mr. Stringer," said the Reverend Sixsmythe, his school-boyish face grave, "are you, er, well acquainted with those people?"
I frowned. "Not really. Gillie and a couple of her friends have dropped by the cottage from time to time. They're very neighborly."
"Yes. Yes." The words were drawn out as though he were considering the implications. "Look, would you mind if I came over to see you tomorrow. I know I should have done so before, but as I explained . . ."
I hesitated. Religion wasn't one of my strongest points— not organized religion, at any rate—and I couldn't see myself turning up for Sunday Service on a regular basis; Midge, maybe, but definitely not me. Not that I'm a nonbeliever—far from it—but such beliefs are a personal and very private thing to me, and sharing only makes me feel uncomfortable. Churches make me fidgety. Still, what could I say to this anxious cleric?
"Sure, that'll be fine. I'll tell Midge you're coming."
"Midge is your good lady?"
"My girlfriend."
"Ah." That was a small "ah," no "living in sin" judgment involved. "I shall look forward to seeing you both. Will some time during the morning be all right?"
I nodded assent.
"Jolly good. And I do hope the little incident today hasn't left you with a bad impression of our village, Mr. Stringer. Such upsets are very rare here, I can assure you." He opened his car door, but didn't climb in immediately; instead he asked me a question. "Did you know that these new friends of yours belong to a sect called the Synergist Temple?"
"I found out today."
"I see. They hadn't mentioned it before?"
"No. As a matter of fact, it was Mr. Hoggs in the hardware store who told me."
"I wonder if they have said anything to you about Gramarye itself? Anything at all?"
Weird question, I thought. "Uh-huh. They're interested generally in how we're getting on there, but nothing more. What makes you ask?"
He checked his watch. "I'm rather late for an appointment right now, so I must park my car and get along. Perhaps we might discuss this further tomorrow." He ducked inside the car, then his head came back through the open window again. "A word of caution in the meanwhile: be very careful of these people, Mr. Stringer. Yes, be very careful."
I left him reversing into the parking space vacated by Gillie's Citroen and walked on to my own car, not sure of how seriously I should be taking him. Perhaps he just didn't like maverick religions. Or maybe there really was something sinister about these people.
One way or another, I was sure we would soon find out. I had a feeling in my bones.
SYNERGISTS
KINSELLA ARRIVED later that evening, alone apart from two bottles of home-made wine.
I was sitting on the doorstep, tossing bread crusts to Rumbo, who was storing them nearby on one side of the path, nimbly catching each piece and dashing back with it, kicking up a storm to warn off the late-shift birds. Midge was inside, clearing up the dinner things.
"You'll need a suitcase to carry that lot home," I advised Rumbo and he chattered back at me to get on with the game. I'd always thought that squirrels only ate nuts and acorns and berries, so it came as a surprise that the rascal would chomp anything offered to him.
This time Kinsella arrived in a different vehicle, a red Escort, and I looked on curiously when the car drew up outside the gate. When I realized who it was something inside me sagged: the vicar's cautionary words had obviously reinforced my own reservations about this blond bomber and his companions.
He waved to me from the other side of the gate and, for some reason, he stayed there as if waiting for an invitation to enter. It occurred to me that neither he nor his friends had ever set foot on Gramarye property, our conversations always conducted over the fence. Sheer politeness, I told myself, plain old-fashioned good manners on their part. Heaving myself up, I sauntered down the path toward him, Rumbo showing his irritation that the game had been interrupted by clenching his tiny fists and squawking fiercely. I dropped the last crusts onto his pile as I passed, and this soothed him somewhat, although I could still hear him grumbling behind me as he tidied up his hoard.
"Hi there, Mike," Kinsella called as I approached, the wine cradled in one arm as he raised the other. He was grinning broadly, all suntan and white teeth. "I've brought a little somethin' to show our appreciation for what you did today."
"Oh, you mean the trouble in the village?" I said humbly and feigning surprise. "They were only kids out for a bit of hooliganism."
"Not quite kids, as I heard it. Gillie told me you gave 'em hell. She and Sandy send their love and thanks once again, and I bring you wine."
"That isn't necessary, you know."
"Sure it is. Look, why don't we open a bottle of this stuff right now? I promise you, it tastes real good."
He stood there holding the wine bottles by the necks over the gate and it would have been churlish of me not to have invited him in. I swung open the gate and waved him through. "Sounds like a great idea," I said.
I expected him to sweep right past, full of bonhomie and sunshine health; but he didn't—he stood on the threshold like a nervous bride. I stared and it was only when he became aware of me once again that the old swagger returned.
"Uh, sorry," he said quickly. "I suddenly wondered if I were imposing. You might be very busy just now,"
"Not this time of day. To tell you the truth, I could use a drink."
He stepped inside and I thought—I only thought—I saw him shiver.
"Boy, you've worked hard on the patch," he remarked as I led the way.
"Midge has done most of it. She's amazed me the way she's coped with all these different flowers. I think moving down here has revived all her horticultural instincts."
Rumbo, who no doubt had been pondering on how to get his groceries back to the nest, jerked his head around at our approach and his small sharp teeth bared in alarm. I was amused to discover he was so shy of strangers when he shot off like a rocket, streaking up the embankment at the side of the cottage to disappear into foliage.