‘But you kept quiet for the, erm…’
‘For the money, Merrily. You know how things are. What I did do afterwards was to check on the Reverend Barclay. Rang the church he said he was from.’
‘Which church was it?’
‘St Stephen, Walbrook, in London. The minister there said they’d never had an Adrian Barclay there, but when I described him – tall, shaven-headed chap in his early forties – he fitted the description of a curate who’d lasted six months before he was asked to leave. Wouldn’t explain why. Curious, wouldn’t you say?’
‘But you didn’t ask any questions… locally.’
‘It didn’t seem appropriate,’ Dick Willis said. ‘Locally.’
Merrily phoned Gaol Street, asked for Annie Howe.
Not available. She spoke to DC Vaynor and explained briefly. She said she’d last seen Colin Jones walking from the square into the alley which led to a stile which led to a footpath into the remains of the old Powell orchard.
What happened now would be an exercise for Byron. A discipline.
DC Vaynor told her not, on any account, to go anywhere, but she told him she had to be in church in twenty-five minutes and could not be disturbed. Not for anything.
She changed quickly into a black skirt, black cashmere jumper, pectoral cross, then sat down and Googled St Stephen Walbrook.
Never been, but she’d heard of it.
There was a colour photo of an angular City church with a campanile. Built by Sir Christopher Wren, it said, to replace one destroyed in the Great Fire of London. The first recorded church on the site near the River Walbrook, now underground, had dated back to the seventh century.
According to Wikipedia, the banks of the River Walbrook had yielded spectacular Roman remains, the best known of which was an impressively well-preserved monument now moved to Temple Court from its original site and open for public viewing. The London Mithraeum.
Its original site, apparently, had been close to the foundations of the Bank of England.
Merrily switched off the computer as if it was about to explode.
She couldn’t think about any of this until after the meditation.
Or Easter.
The vestry was locked now, but she didn’t know whether the pistol remained at the centre of the pile of prayer books.
She looked up at a movement in the window, saw Lol coming past towards the back door, in an actual jacket.
Flitting in and out of one another’s energy fields.
She felt warmth, relief, guilt, a touch of shame… folding the Power of Attorney document and sliding it inside her copy of Revelations of Divine Love.