Casting Samson (10 page)

“Oh.” He stopped, and she wondered if he would apologise but guessed he would not. Her impression of Professor Duggan was a man who was used to getting his own way. But when he did continue, his voice had lost its angry edge. “Since I was in the area, I thought I would make one last attempt and call on you, but your house was empty. However, an enquiry at the local pub—what is it, the Dog and something…”

“Sardine.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sardine. The Dog and Sardine. That’s the name of the pub.”

“Yes, well. Thank you. They told me I’d find you here.”

“Well, now you’ve found me, what do you want?”

He stood before her, hands in his pockets, his head slightly on one side, watching her. “You know very well. You have to correct the misapprehension that St. John’s is a Templar church.”

The professional in Anne wanted to agree with him, but two glasses of wine had made her obstinate.

“Are you sure it isn’t?” she countered. “Are you an expert in that period?”

“No, but at one time I touched on the medieval history of this area in my researches—”

“So your knowledge is not extensive.”

She heard his intake of breath. He said stiffly, “My observations are based on sound records, not legend.”

“Well, everyone here believes it.” Anne found her head was still pounding with the music, or was it that second glass of wine? “And besides, what does it matter?”

“Matter? My good woman, it is not
true!
You cannot print something that is incorrect.”

“I wish you would stop calling me your good woman,” she said crossly. “And lots of people perform plays that are founded on much flimsier evidence.”

“But you are deliberately misleading the public.”

Anne sought for a response. “Nonsense” sounded far too tame. She thought about her fifth-years. What would they say?

“Bollocks.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I mean, that’s rubbish. It’s only a little carnival.”

“That does not alter the principle. It is not true.”

“Who says so?” she challenged him. “Where are your records to prove it was built by someone else?”

With a sigh of exasperation, he ran one hand through his hair. “But your premise is based on nothing more than a legend.”

“Yes, and people love legends! Look at Robin Hood, or King Arthur. You don’t see people trying to stop stories about them.” She walked over to the wall of the church, placing her hands on the stone, still warm from the sun. “Look.
This
is St. John’s. It is a beautiful church, we need money to restore it, and we’re trying to raise it. Is that such a bad thing?”

He came to stand beside her, looking up at the building. “But it
isn’t
a Templar church.”

“It could have been, once.”

“You can’t prove that.”

“And
you
can’t disprove it.” She stared at him, her eyes challenging.

Professor Duggan shook his head. “You are the most obstinate woman I have ever met!”

“Then you can’t have met many!”

To her surprise, he laughed. “True. Too many years stuck in the university library.” He turned and took a few steps along the path, hands buried deep in his pockets. “I’m sorry if I’ve spoiled your evening. I hope your husband won’t get the wrong idea.”

“That needn’t worry you. I’m a widow.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry.”

The simple apology shook her. She said gruffly, “That’s okay. You weren’t to know.”

“True, but—look, I really have tried to phone you—”

“Oh, I believe you.” Her anger was cooling. In fact she felt quite light-headed. She sank down on the bench at the side of the path. “And don’t worry about the dance. To be honest, I’m glad of this respite.”

He came back to sit beside her, throwing back his head to gaze up at the sky. Anne watched him. Straight nose, smooth chin-line. A boyish profile, yet he must be somewhere around fifty…

He turned his head and caught her glance. “So when
are
you at home?”

“Pardon?”

“This is clearly not the time to pursue the argument over the origin of St. John’s.”

“You won’t persuade me to retract. The committee is right behind me. We’re going ahead with this pageant.”

“So you prefer childish storybook lies to the truth.”

“Not at all. Besides,” she added triumphantly, “you can’t prove it’s not true, can you?
Can
you?”

“If I find proof, will you stop this silly charade?”

“No. Although I will happily incorporate it into the guidebook I’m writing about the church,” she said kindly. “
After
the pageant.” She thought he might explode at that, and smiled to herself.

“Even though I will expose you to the press?”

She laughed. “Oh, I don’t think that will worry us. We need all the publicity we can get!”

“You are playing a dangerous game, Mrs. Lindsay.”

She laughed again. The night air was making her reckless. “Dangerous, my eye! A little academic tussle!”

“Academic—!” He twisted round on the bench, one arm lying along the back of the seat. The lighted windows of the village hall reflected on his glasses and she could not see his eyes. “You think you can cross swords with me?”

“Don’t be so fanciful. I mean I will not be browbeaten by you, Professor, when you can no more prove your case than I can prove mine.”

He stood up. “Very well, we shall see just who has the last laugh. Don’t think you’ve heard the last of me.”

“Oh, I hope not,” she murmured, watching him stride away. “I’ll prove you wrong, Professor Tobias Duggan.”

She stretched luxuriously, gazing up at the moon. The encounter had left her feeling unusually happy, her nerve endings tingling with the pleasure of being alive. What had she done? She threw back her head even further until the roof of the church was within her view, the ancient lead gleaming in the moonlight.

“Well, Hugh of Moreton, looks like it’s me and the County Library against the learned might of Flixton University.”

Deborah was enjoying herself. Andy was an attentive partner, and when at one point she caught Josh’s gaze, her smile was so natural, so full of infectious happiness, that he grinned back at her over Kylie’s bobbing blond head. After another energetic number, Andy led her away in search of refreshment. She accepted a glass of lager and they moved to one side.

“Why are you staring at me?” Andy took a long drink from his bottle.

“Was I?” Deborah shook her head. “Sorry. Just wondering why you were dancing with me and not any of the others.”

His answer surprised her. “Because I feel safe with you.”

“Oh?”

His slow smile dawned. “Haven’t you guessed?”

“Guessed what?”

He shook his head. “Never mind. Josh said you’re carrying a torch for some guy, so I thought you’d be the safest bet.”

“Thanks!”

“Sorry. Have I offended you?”

“No, not really. So are you staying for the weekend?”

“Yeah. We heard old Josh was settling here for a bit and decided to pay him a visit. See what he’s up to.”

“Pity it’s not in a couple of weeks’ time. He’s taking part in our pageant.”

Andy grinned at her. “Is he now? Then we might come back then too. So what’s with you and Josh?”

“Nothing.”

“You sounded a bit uptight with him just now.”

“When Kylie dragged him off? When she’s on the warpath it’s easier to just get out of the way. But I have to say I’m surprised he’s here at all, if Demelza wouldn’t come.”

“Who?”

“Demelza. The girl he lives with. He said she didn’t like parties. Do you know her?”

“Do I—? Yeah. I know her.” He gave her his slow grin. “Jealous?”

“Me? Of course not!” Her laugh sounded false even to her own ears.

There was a break in the music and Josh came up to them. “God, it’s hot in here. Where did you get the drinks?”

“Over at the bar.” Andy held out his bottle. “Have some of mine.”

Something in his attitude caught Deborah’s attention and she watched them closely. Andy gave her a wry grin. “I need the gents.” As he passed Deborah, he said softly, “Even a queen can look at a cat, love.” He moved away, strolling off the dance floor and ignoring the hungry looks of the other girls searching for partners.

“Isn’t he going to dance with anyone else?”

“I doubt it.” Josh pulled her into his arms as the slow rock number started. “He’ll go and find Steve. They’re an item. On and off, but mostly on.” He saw her frown. “Yeah. They’re gay. Does it matter?”

“No-o. I think I suspected Andy was. Only—” she sighed, “—he’s so damned attractive.”

He laughed at that. “That’s the way it goes.”

He pulled her closer and she allowed herself to enjoy the rhythm. Idly she glanced around. Anne Lindsay had disappeared, Yvonne was still hovering around the disco, while Tim Gresham was standing morosely at the bar, watching the dancers. She noted with mild surprise that Kylie was now dancing with Spike. As the music ended, the blond wrapped herself around her partner and began to devour him in the middle of the dance floor.

Following her look, Josh grinned. “Looks like there’ll be one less body kipping on my floor tonight.”

“You mean, Kylie and Spike—”

“Very likely.” He laughed. “Shocked? Little innocent! It goes on, you know, even in Moreton-by-Fleetwater.”

Of course it did. Deborah flushed. He must think her so stupid. It was the sort of remark Bernard made constantly, the insinuation that she knew nothing. She wished she had found the courage to argue, to fight back, but although she despised her silence, she could never bring herself to answer him.

And now Josh was saying the same thing. Perhaps all men were like that. She broke away from Josh and stalked off the floor, suddenly wanting to go home.

“Hey, where are you going?” Josh followed her out of the hall.

“I’m hot, and I’m tired.”
Just leave me alone!
she wanted to shout at him.

Perhaps she should have refused the lager. It was definitely having an effect. She hesitated. The black shape of the church loomed in front of her, across the river. She could hide away from everyone in the churchyard, but the black shadows made her nervous. She turned towards the green.

“Deborah!” Josh came running after her. “Hey, what’ve I said?”

She marched on, while he fell into step beside her. Well, just what had he done? Accused her of being innocent. As Bernard had done. She had liked it at first, thought it a term of endearment, but she’d learned that he despised her for her naïve country ways, and thought he could have her as his housekeeper while he was out shagging every other girl in town! Her anger flared. Deep in her heart she knew she was being unreasonable, that it wasn’t really aimed at Josh, but he was there, and she had an overwhelming need to be angry with someone.

“You and your friends, coming here and sneering at our
quaint country ways
!”

“But we’re not!”

“Thinking you’re so much better than us!”

“Debs, you’ve got this all wrong.”

They crossed the green and walked the length of the High Street and still Deborah’s pace didn’t slacken. Josh made no attempt to stop her, merely matching her steps. They crossed the Eastgate Bridge, the river glinting in the moonlight.

“Debs, listen to me. Really—we came tonight just to help out the numbers. I brought the lads along so they could see the village and meet some of my friends—and I’ve made a few since I’ve been here.”

“Yeah, like Kylie!” She strode across the street towards the Yew Tree.

“Deborah, don’t be stupid. She’s a kid.”

They reached the restaurant. Deborah stopped. “That didn’t stop you making up to her, did it?”

“Look, I’m no saint, and if the kid wants to flirt on the dance floor, that’s okay with me.”

“Oh, I bet it is. And how many more girls have you got around town while poor Demelza sits at home waiting for you?”

“Dem—!” Josh stared at her, then he put back his head and laughed. “Oh, Deborah, you treasure!”

She stared at him, but before she could demand to know what he meant, the big outer door of the restaurant opened and her father looked out.

“Ah, there you are, Deborah.” He stepped outside, looking strangely ill at ease. “You’ve got a visitor waiting for you.” He stood aside as a figure in a sharply cut pale suit followed him on to the forecourt.

“Bernard!”

“Hello, Deborah.”

She swallowed hard and stared at the young man in front of her. His fair hair glinted in the light from the doorway, and his blue eyes swept past her to rest enquiringly on her companion.

“This—this is Josh. He—he was kind enough to walk me home.”

“How quaint.” Bernard murmured the words so quietly only Deborah heard them, but he gave Josh a quick smile and a nod of acknowledgement. Deborah watched as Bernard summed up Josh in one quick look, decided he was unworthy of any more attention and turned back to her. He moved forward to kiss her but Deborah turned her head, taking his lips on her cheek.

“Well, well.” Stan Kemerton hovered anxiously, uncomfortable outside his kitchen fastness. “Shall we go in?”

Deborah tried to think clearly, but her brain seemed to have turned to porridge. She looked round at Josh standing behind her, but he shook his head and stepped back. “Thanks, but I’ve an early start in the morning. I’d better get back.”

“Oh. Okay.” Her anger towards him had gone. She didn’t want him to leave like this but she couldn’t find the right words for the situation—and Bernard was waiting for her at the door. Silently Josh turned and walked away, and she was left to follow her father into the little restaurant.

“Everything’s ready for the morning, so we can go to the upstairs sitting room. You two go ahead—I’ll just lock up.”

At the door Deborah paused. “Where’s Mum?”

“She’s gone on to bed, love.”

“Oh. I’ll just call in and say good-night to her.” She snatched at the excuse, unwilling to be alone with Bernard. She crept into her parents’ bedroom but her mother was already asleep, propped up on her plump pillows, her pink cheeks and pale skin almost doll-like in the dim glow of the night-light. She sat down beside the bed. Her heart swelled with love for the woman lying in the bed, remembering all the good times they had shared, but since the heart attack her mother had lost a lot of her sparkle. She tired easily and could no longer help in running the busy restaurant.

I did the right thing, coming home.

Deborah waited as long as she dared, but eventually she had to go to the sitting room. Bernard was there alone and Deborah thought wryly that her father was deliberately keeping out of the way, giving them time alone together. She was surprised to find how little she wanted to be alone with Bernard.

He didn’t get up when she came in. “So what’s all this about, Debs? You’ve been here for over a month now. Don’t you think I’ve been punished enough?”

“I’m not punishing you.”

“Oh, come on. You didn’t like it because I showed some other girl a bit of attention—”

“You were sleeping with her!”

He shrugged. “Okay, so I got carried away. But it’s over, as you’d know if you’d answered my phone calls. There’s no need to carry on with this.”

She gripped the back of a chair. He’d lied to her so often, she knew that if she returned, it would happen again, and again, but the temptation to believe him was so great she had to dig her fingers into the chair cushion to stop herself from giving in. She said slowly, “You don’t understand. I’m not coming back.”

He gave her the boyish grin that used to make her heart flip. Oddly enough it had no effect this time. He merely looked smug.

“You’re not serious. Look, I’ve spoken to the other partners. Your job’s still open if you want it.”

“No, thank you.”

“Come on, Debs, you know you’re a damned good facilities manager, you’re not going to waste your life serving fry-ups in a café!”

“Not forever, perhaps, but for now it suits me fine.”

Stan Kemerton’s footsteps could be heard on the stairs, and the older man coughed loudly before he entered. “Well, here we are then. Now, how about a cup of tea?”

“No thanks, Dad. I think I’ll go to bed.” She glanced at Bernard. “I suppose you’ll have to stay the night—has Dad made up the bed for you in the spare room?” Her father looked so embarrassed she almost laughed out loud. “Don’t worry. It won’t take me a minute.”

When she returned, the two men were discussing football over a glass of whisky—more accurately, her father was speculating about the start of the new season. Bernard merely looked bored.

“Bed’s made,” she said brightly. “You’ll show Bernard the way, won’t you, Dad? I’ll see you both in the morning.”

Deborah lay awake in her bed, listening to every creak in the old house. She wondered if Bernard would come to her room and didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved when he didn’t show up. She knew she had been right to leave him, but she wasn’t sure how hard she would fight if he attempted to make love to her. She missed his company, his physical presence in her bed, the feel of his hands running over her body. She shifted uncomfortably and rolled over, casting around in her mind for a distraction. It came in the image of Josh, pinning her to the wall with her bicycle and kissing her gently. Another wave of desire made her shudder.

“Oh, stop it!” She thumped her pillow. “You’re turning into a nymphomaniac, Deborah Kemerton!”

She left her room the next morning tired and heavy-eyed. Bernard was enjoying a hearty breakfast and she went off to make herself useful in the kitchen rather than sit alone with him. She didn’t want to face his arguments, which always made her feel uncomfortable and guilty, as if she was in the wrong. She wished she could be strong enough to tell him to get lost, and to tell him with conviction. That was her problem, Deborah admitted. Whenever they’d disagreed about anything, Bernard had talked her round in the past, and now he didn’t believe she was serious.

“Deborah, Bernard is going now, dear.” Her mother walked into the kitchen, leaning heavily on her stick. “You’d better see him off. He thinks you’ve been avoiding him.”

“I have, Mum,” she muttered, but she dutifully wiped her hands and went out to the car with Bernard.

“You could come back with me now, if you wanted to.” He threw his overnight case into the back of his sporty little hatchback.

“I told you, I’m not coming back.”

He turned to look at her. She felt the familiar anxiety—what would he find to criticise, was her skirt too short, her jumper the wrong colour—and gave herself a mental shake. What was she worrying for? It didn’t matter anymore what he thought of her.

“You’re getting quite forceful, Debs. I’m impressed.”

Was that admiration in his look? She frowned. “I’m not trying to impress you.”

He grinned.

“Okay. We’ll play it your way for a bit longer, but I won’t wait forever, you know.” He leaned forward to kiss her, allowing his lips to linger on hers so that she had to force herself not to respond. From the gleam in his eyes, she knew he was aware of her struggle. “Bye, babe. For now.”

She watched the car speed away.

“All right, love? Is he gone?” Her father put his hand on her shoulder.

“Yes.”

“For good this time, I hope.”

“Don’t you like him?”

“Too much of a know-it-all for my tastes.” He gave her a quick hug. “And nowhere near good enough for my little girl,” he added gruffly.

***

The small procession had reached the little chapel and stopped beside the ancient yew tree that bounded its graveyard. Lord Andrew twisted round to speak to his wife, riding pillion behind him.

“There—you can see the manor now, just ahead. We are almost home, sweeting.”

Maude nodded, turning away from the sombre burial site to gaze out over the river and the marshes, listening to the call of the birds circling above. Her body ached from travelling and she thought longingly of her feather bed, less than a mile away now.

It had been Andrew’s idea to make the pilgrimage to Winchester, to pray to Saint Swithun for Hugo’s safe return. It was ten years since Hugo had left Moreton, and although they never spoke of it, Maude knew that Andrew missed his brother deeply. It was at Winchester that she had realised she was pregnant again, and the news had cheered her husband, causing him to curtail further visits and take his wife directly back to Moreton. Sitting behind him on the great horse, her head resting against his broad back, Maude smiled to herself. She could not regret telling him of her condition. She might find his fussing and concern irksome at times, but it had banished some of the sadness from his eyes, and his words that morning had given her even more happiness. He had laid his hand over her stomach, smiling.

“Our fourth child, Maude. We are truly blessed. If it is a boy, we will call him Hugh, after my brother.”

Hugh. And would he, too, be called by the more familiar name Hugo? Could she bear it? Maude swallowed a sigh. Of course she could. It would be a boy, she was sure of it. And he would be born at Moreton. Another child to add to her growing family, to fill her days and ease the pain of Hugo’s absence.

***

After a restless night, Anne Lindsay was one of the first shoppers in the High Street on Saturday morning. Once her purchases had been made, she made her way to the church, where she found Clara Babbacombe and Mrs. Gresham arranging fresh flowers for the Sunday service. The church was cool after the sunny High Street, and the light pouring in through the stained glass windows was split into multicoloured bars, like a confused rainbow.

“Hilda, did you say we have some more Oasis in the hall? I wonder if you’d be a dear and fetch it for me…” Miss Babbacombe looked up from her flowers. “Morning, Anne. Looking for the vicar?”

“Hi. No, not really. I wanted some inspiration. I’m looking for some proof that this church has a Templar connection. I’ve searched the records and come up with nothing. I was hoping the church itself might yield some evidence.” She gave a rueful smile. “I’m probably being a bit fanciful, but it’s become a matter of importance.”

Clara Babbacombe’s shrewd eyes twinkled. “Ah, yes. I heard your professor came looking for you last night.”

“He’s not actually my professor, but he certainly brought the fight right to my door.”

“So what’s he like?”

Anne blushed faintly. “Quite nice, actually.”

“Going over to the enemy, my dear?”

“No, no, of course not. But I was expecting a dry, dusty academic, and he isn’t anything like that.”

“Oh? I’m sorry I didn’t see him. What does he look like?”

Anne considered the question. “Blue eyes, fair hair—a bit boyish-looking. And he has a strong chin.”

Miss Babbacombe raised an eyebrow. “A strong chin? What on earth does that mean? Does he use it for weightlifting, hang heavy chains from it—”

“No, of course not! Just—strong. I know it sounds crazy. He is rather attractive, actually.” She laughed, “I haven’t thought that about a man since Malcolm died. Do you know what I mean—oh—sorry—”

“No, don’t be.” Miss Babbacombe held up her hand to show she was not offended. “I
do
know what you mean, as a matter of fact.”

“Was there someone, once?”

Miss Babbacombe smiled. She seemed to be looking far into the past. “Oh yes, there was someone, a long time ago. He was a soldier, killed in action in Cyprus.”

“Oh, I am sorry. And—was there never anyone else?” Anne asked gently.

“I was never prepared to take second-best.”

A sound at the door broke into Clara Babbacombe’s reverie and she looked past Anne. “Ah, here’s Hilda coming back. I’d better get on with this arrangement. And I won’t keep you any longer from your research, my dear, though I doubt you’ll find anything much to help you. The clock tower and all the western end of the church was rebuilt in the nineteenth century after a fire. The Lady Chapel is possibly medieval and might be more interesting—that and the apse are the oldest remaining parts of the building.”

Starting by the door set into the west end of the south wall, Anne made her way around the inner walls of the church, slowly moving towards the chancel arch that separated the round apse from the rest of the church. The stone inscriptions of Moreton’s former residents were all nineteenth century and, although the chancel arch and wooden screen were older, they clearly did not date back beyond Tudor times. She opened the gate in the iron railings and went into the small Lady Chapel. Here the stone effigy of Hugh of Moreton was fixed upright to the wall. He was depicted in armour, the stone shape of his legs patterned to represent chain mail, the pointed toes resting on the floor. Anne studied the crossed feet, the hands clasped over the handle of a large double-edged sword before her scrutiny moved up to the face. The carved eyes were blank, but it was still a kindly face. Humorous even, as if he was smiling at her. She heard footsteps and glanced back to see Deborah walking towards the Lady Chapel.

“He’s nice, isn’t he?” Deborah stepped through the gate and came up to stand beside her. “We’ve always known him as Hugh of Moreton, but do we really know that?”

“I think we can be pretty sure of it,” Anne told her. “The oldest records state that there was only ever one effigy laid in this church, that of Hugh of Moreton.”

“I remember this was my favourite spot when we came into church with Sunday school. Sometimes they let us help with decorating the church for Easter or Palm Sunday and I always made sure I brought something for him. There’s a little gap between his hands and the sword handle, see? I used to bring a few leaves, or a flower or something.” Deborah stared at the worn effigy and began to twist the ends of her hair between her fingers. “Funny how your mind works, isn’t it? I used to dream up all sorts of adventures—knights in armour rescuing me from dragons, that sort of thing. I still come in to say hello, sometimes—like today. Stupid, really.”

“No, it isn’t. I think it’s perfectly natural, especially because it’s so peaceful here.” Anne smiled at her. “I’m looking for clues about the age of the church. Do you want to stay and help me?”

“I’d love to, but I’ve got to collect the groceries for the restaurant and get back to help Dad. Sorry.”

“That’s okay. See you tonight—more costumes to sort out at the village hall!”

“Yes. See you then. ’Bye.”

Alone again, Anne turned her attention back to the effigy in front of her. A stone block was set into the wall beside the figure, the lettering worn away with the centuries, but it was just possible to read the name of Hugh of Moreton, and the date of his death in Roman numerals.