Mourn not your Dead

Deveney precede him out the gate, Kincaid gave the garden a last glance. The air shimmered slightly, as if it had been disturbed by their presence, then stilled. He shut the gate reluctantly and followed Deveney around the corner, then detoured a bit to read the notice board at the bottom of the lane. It proclaimed the activities of the Parish Church of St. Mary and reminded Kincaid that the seasonal rhythms of his boyhood had been marked by the church calendar.
    The churchyard lay on their left as they climbed, the muted gray headstones decorated with a confetti of fallen leaves. Beyond it, the church sat astride the hill at an angle that might almost have been construed as playful. Kincaid smiled—he had to credit the architect with good showmanship as well as a sense of humor, for the position commanded the best possible view of the village.
    As they neared the church, Deveney pulled out his notebook and rifled through it.
    “What’s the vicar’s name?” asked Kincaid.
    “Fielding,” Deveney replied after flipping through another few pages. “R. Fielding. Oh, hell.”
    “R. Fielding O. Hell? Odd name for a vicar,” Kincaid said, grinning.
    “Sorry, I’ve a stone in my shoe. I’ll catch you up.” Deveney bent and began unlacing.
    Kincaid found the porch door unlocked. Entering, he stopped for a moment and closed his eyes. Even blindfolded, he would recognize that smell anywhere—damp and polish, overlain with a hint of flowers—ecclesiastical, institutional, and comforting as childhood memories.
    When he opened his eyes he found the usual stacks of leaflets in the narthex and a collection box. When a soft, “Hullo, anybody about?” received no response, he wandered past the carved screens and into the dimness of the nave itself. Here the silence was almost palpable, and the only motion came from the dust motes stirring lazily in the rainbow-hued light that fell from the high windows.
    The door creaked and Deveney’s voice called, “Any joy?”
    Joining him a little regretfully, Kincaid said, “No, but I don’t think we’ve exhausted the possibilities.” He tried the door opposite the porch, and they entered a scuffed linoleum-floored hallway. To their left lay washrooms and a small kitchen, to the right a meeting room with stacks of plastic chairs. “A new building,” Kincaid mused, “but it’s a clever extension—I didn’t notice it from the outside. There’s no one here, though. I suppose we’ll have to try the good vicar again—”
    The door to the ladies’ toilet opened and a woman came out. Thirtyish, Kincaid guessed, with a friendly face and a mop of dark curls, she wore jeans and an old sweater, and in her rubber glove-clad hands she held a utilitarian-looking brush and a jug of industrial-strength cleaner.
    “Oh, hullo,” she said cheerfully. “Can I help you with something?”
    “We were hoping to have a word with the vicar,” Kincaid ventured.
    She looked rather helplessly at the objects in her arms. “Just let me do something with this stuff, then. Won’t be a tick.” Glancing up again, she must have seen their uncertainty, for she paused and smiled. “I’m Rebecca Fielding, by the way.”
    “Ah, yes,” Kincaid answered, returning the smile and wondering what other surprises the day might have in store. He supposed he shouldn’t have been startled—ordained women were common enough in the Anglican Church these days, and in fact were rather tame news. He introduced himself and Deveney, and when Rebecca Fielding had disposed of her cleaning supplies in a small cupboard, they followed her into the meeting room.
    An ancient-looking tea urn squatted malevolently on a trolley, taking pride of place over the scarred table and plastic chairs. “A necessity of parish meetings, I’m afraid,” said Rebecca, eyeing it with distaste. “I can’t imagine why I went into this line of work—I never could stand the taste of stewed tea.” She separated two chairs for the men and one for herself, and when they were seated she became suddenly brisk. “If this is about Alastair Gilbert, I’m afraid I can’t help you. I can’t imagine why anyone would do such a dreadful thing.”
    “That’s not exactly why we wanted to see you,” said Kincaid, liking the woman’s easy, direct manner, “although any light you could shed on the matter would be helpful. We’d like to ask you a few questions about the items you reported stolen.”
    “That?” Her dark, straight