A Dead Man Out of Mind Read Online Free PDF

Father Keble Smythe the unseemly – perhaps even sinful – envy they felt towards the fortunate Mrs Bairstow. Flustered now by his attention, Mrs Goode tried to cover it up with a show of efficiency. ‘No trouble at all, I’m sure. China or India?’ she asked, backing out of the room.
    â€˜China,’ said Martin Bairstow.
    â€˜India,’ said Norman Topping simultaneously.
    â€˜I shall make both,’ Mrs Goode declared. ‘And I’m sure that Father will be here any minute.’
    The tea, served in thin china cups, was delicious, and accompanied by buttery fingers of Mrs Goode’s homemade shortbread. The Vicar had as yet failed to appear; over their tea the men made some effort at conversation.
    â€˜Your family is well?’ Bairstow enquired courteously. ‘Avoiding the bugs that have been going round?’
    â€˜Oh, yes. Dolly is never ill – it’s a point of pride with her. She says that she’s never been ill a day in her life.’
    Bairstow nodded. ‘What is Dolly doing with herself these days, now that Ladies Opposed to Women Priests have lost their raison d’être ? Has she found another cause?’
    Chuckling, Norman Topping helped himself to another shortbread finger. ‘They may have lost the vote, but they’ve by no means disbanded. Dolly will never give up hoping that some miracle will occur – that God will instantly strike dead all women who want to be priests, and any heretical bishop who’s prepared to ordain them. But yes, she’s looking to fresher pastures these days – she’s getting involved with an anti-abortion campaign. And if I know Dolly, she’ll be running the show within a few weeks.’
    Martin Bairstow stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘The Church needs people like Dolly, who are prepared to stand up for what they believe. And she’s absolutely right about women priests, of course. As we’ve often discussed before. Disaster for the Church of England, complete and utter disaster.’
    â€˜But as long as we don’t get any of them here . . .’
    Bairstow got up and went to the window. Already the days were lengthening, and it was not yet dark; he could see the austere Victorian edifice of St Jude’s across the street in the deepening gloom. ‘It would be out of the question – untenable,’ he declared forcefully. ‘I can’t see it happening, quite frankly. But if it did . . . well, I’d have to re-think my position about staying in the Church of England. All of us at St Margaret’s would. Dolly would be the first to—’ He broke off at the sight of the Vicar’s car turning into the street. ‘Ah, here is Father Keble Smythe. At last. Now we can get on with this meeting.’
    Father Keble Smythe, sweeping into the parlour in his great clerical cloak, was of course fulsome in his apologies for keeping his churchwardens waiting on a Saturday afternoon when they were sure to have other commitments. ‘It was unavoidable,’ he assured them. ‘Even though I’m a bachelor myself, I am most conscious that you both have wives waiting for you at home, and I wouldn’t have delayed you if it hadn’t been of the utmost importance. But I’m so pleased to see that Mrs Goode has supplied you with tea. An excellent woman, Mrs Goode. The next best thing to a wife.’ His voice was beautifully modulated, and his accent plummy in the extreme.
    Accepting his apologies, they followed him into his study. Like the parlour, it was a well-appointed room, nicely proportioned and expensively furnished. Waving the churchwardens into chairs, the Vicar seated himself behind his desk and allowed himself a moment to glance at the silver-framed photo which had pride of place in front of him, then picked it up and handed it across the desk to Martin Bairstow. ‘Have you seen this? A new portrait of Miss McKenzie, my fiancée.