Murdering Ministers Read Online Free PDF Page A

between the Potiphars’s sofa and Joan Quarterboy’s armchair, while Ben took a seat between Tina and Foison.
    Joan Quarterboy was in her late thirties and clearly believed in going to church dressed in her Sunday best. She wore a blue two-piece suit, artificial pearls, and an odd hat shaped uncomfortably like an overturned dog dish on her frizzy hair, which was already styled in anticipation of her retirement years. Her small features seemed to huddle for protection in the middle of her face. Lipstick was her only makeup, exactly the same shade of orange as the spine of a Penguin novel. Oliver took one look and guessed that Joan had never owned a pair of jeans in her life.
    Both she and Potiphars were smiling encouragingly at him, as if willing him to speak. Ben was already deep in conversation with Foison and the girl, and Oliver once again envied his handsome friend’s confidence and social ease. Being alluring like Ben must be like having your self-consciousness surgically removed at birth, and Oliver remembered his fear that even the harshly professional Effie Strongitharm would not be immune to the good-looking photographer’s potent pheromones, back in the days when Oliver was nobly but inexpertly concealing his passion for his uncle’s Sergeant. But Effie had chosen him, and the last four months had been the happiest in Oliver’s life. He wished she were here now. No, definitely something more romantic than socks. He swallowed and tried to think of a question for his neighbors.
    â€œEr, have you been members of the church long?” he asked nobody in particular. Joan Quarterboy looked abruptly terrified and turned toward her husband.
    â€œMy wife and I moved to Plumley when we got married,” Sam Quarterboy cut in, to Joan’s evident relief. “The Quarterboys have been Diaconalists for generations. But the record at this church is held by young Cedric here. He’s been serving the Lord as a deacon now for more than forty years, without a break. Isn’t that right, Cedric?”
    Cedric Potiphar was staring ahead of him as if he hadn’t been listening, but he spoke in his deep Cornish tones.
    â€œâ€˜For he that is called in the Lord, being a servant, is the Lord’s freeman.’ One Corinthians, chapter seven, verse twenty-two.”
    â€œVery true, brother, very true,” Quarterboy agreed, and Oliver found himself nodding sagely with the others. But only he seemed to hear Elsie Potiphar’s whisper:
    â€œNeeds a servant himself, to pick his dirty knickers off the bedroom floor.”
    Oliver looked at her quickly, but she seemed lost in thought. He realized it was time to pose another question.
    â€œSo, Mr. Potiphar, I imagine you must be an honorary deacon for life by now?”
    Potiphar frowned, and looked as if he was going to dredge up another biblical reference, but again Sam Quarterboy spoke first.
    â€œEvery deacon has to be elected, Mr. Swithin, every year at the annual church meeting. In fact, it’s taking place on Friday evening. There are four places on the diaconate—Cedric and I are humbly putting our names forward for consideration, as we do every year. And Patience Coppersmith and Dougie Dock are also standing again—I imagine you’ll be meeting them shortly.”
    Oliver noticed that Quarterboy hadn’t mentioned Nigel Tapster. Didn’t Paul say he was running, no doubt on the bearded twit ticket?
    â€œWhy don’t you join us on Friday at the church meeting?” Quarterboy continued. “I’m sure it would give you some valuable information for this article of yours.”
    â€œYour minister already invited me,” Oliver replied swiftly. “But on Friday, I’m scheduled to see my uncle’s Bottom.”
    There was an uncomfortable silence, apart from a small suppressed squeak from Elsie Potiphar. The smile drained from Joan Quarterboy’s face.
    â€œI’m not sure I