The Snares of Death Read Online Free PDF Page B

pilgrimages to Walsingham stopped at this church. Beside the visitors’ book were a few tracts, yellowed with age. A pile of shabby green English Hymnals added to the impression of neglect.
    Dexter noticed that the table to the right of the centre aisle was quite a different matter. It was in fact a black oak chest, well polished and dust-free. It contained a few recent books, the latest issue of the parish magazine, some copies of the diocesan newsletter, and a highly polished brass vase, cheerful with early daffodils. How strange that the one table should be so neglected and the other so cared for. He must remember to ask someone about that.
    The back pews were clearly reserved for the churchwardens; their staves stood at attention like billiard cues on either side of the aisle. Dexter marched down the centre aisle. Each of the simple stone columns appeared to have a statue – a graven image, Bob Dexter said to himself – affixed to it. On the right stood St Francis of Assisi, a bird perched on his outstretched finger, flanked by a little red sanctuary light burning on a ledge on one side, and a tiny fish-paste pot of crocuses on the other. The pews had been cleared around the pillar, forming a small children’s corner, furnished with miniature chairs. Opposite St Francis, on the north side of the church, was a garishly painted St George; the tatty banner behind him read ‘St George for England’, and several pennants and banners, the remnants of a long-ago Scout troop, leaned against the column.
    Even Bob Dexter recognised St Francis and St George, however little he approved of them, but the next shrine he encountered, to the east of St Francis, baffled him totally. A red lamp burned in front of a statue of a priest – a Roman priest, by all appearances, in a biretta and a lace cotta. Closer inspection of the statue revealed the name ‘Curé of Ars’ beneath, but that was scarcely more enlightening. Someone, at least, was very fond of this particular example of idolatry: a brass bowl of fresh flowers stood beside the red lamp.
    Dexter moved quickly to the front of the nave. There was no nave altar, just the pulpit on the left and a lectern on the right. He turned to the left, past the organ – Dexter was not musical, but the organ looked a reasonable instrument – and had a look at the war memorial on the north wall. It was a large oak triptych with names on the side panels, and in the centre a very realistically carved crucifix with the inscription, ‘Pray for the souls of the faithful departed: May they all rest in peace.’ This posed a dilemma; praying for the souls of the dead was an abhorrent practice, but he couldn’t very well rip out the war memorial, could he? There were still people about who were sensitive about the war. A poppy wreath from last November hung on a nail at the crucifix’s foot, and three older wreaths, progressively faded, leaned on the floor beneath. The British Legion standard hung on one side, and on the other was an oak-framed, faded print of a dying British Tommy in the trenches of the First World War, supported by his mate, while an enormous hovering angel waited with arms and wings outstretched to receive his soul.
    Now Dexter circled around the perimeter of the church, down the north aisle, paying scant attention to the painted plaster Stations of the Cross which were affixed at regular intervals to the walls – those wouldn’t be there much longer. He passed the north porch, and the obnoxious foreign painting, and at the back of the church found yet more atrocities. In the corner was a Shrine of the Legion of Mary, proudly proclaimed by a banner and decorated with ferns and spider plants. On the wall behind was one of those garishly painted white porcelain pictures – Italian, he thought it was – that always made him think of an Edwardian lavatory.
    The font, with its attendant Paschal candle, was at the rear,