An Unholy Shame Read online

  Contrary to Sir Matthew’s belief that everyone in the Manor was tucked up in bed, several people were, in fact, still very much awake and alert.

  In his study, Sir Andrew sat staring blankly at his desktop. The archdeacon had given him much to think about.

  In her bedroom, Celia Gordon was unconcernedly going over some paperwork.

  And, in another wing, footsteps moved silently across the carpeted floorboards. Bishop Arthur Bryce looked back down a dimly lit corridor and stood pensively for a few moments, resting lightly on the balls of his feet. He could hear nothing except, coming from the door to his right, a faint snoring.

  He’d already seen from the register what room number she was in.

  He found it a few moments later and looked pensively back down the corridor again. And told himself not to be such a rabbit. All the doors were shut fast. Nobody was watching him, or would be likely to hear him.

  He turned and knocked very softly on the door in front of him.

  Inside, Jessica Taylor was sitting on the edge of the bed and just about to slip under the covers. She froze and picked up her small portable alarm clock, checking the dial. It was after midnight. Who on earth…?

  Again, there came a discreet tap, a bare brush of knuckles. She walked to the door and found herself holding her breath as she stood up on tiptoe to peer through the tiny spy-hole, set in the door.

  Further down the corridor, a door handle turned very slowly and a door opened an inch or two. Chloe Bryce pressed one dark eye to the gap and stared down the corridor at her husband knocking on the pretty redheaded vicar’s door.

  Jessica let out her breath in a small hiss as she recognized her visitor – Arthur. He’s got to be kidding, she thought crossly to herself. No way was she letting him in! Oh, she knew what he wanted to talk about all right, but there was just no way she was going to indulge him. Besides, she’d promised her husband before coming here that she wouldn’t do anything that she might regret. And she’d regret having anything to do with Arthur Bryce and his wife, all right.

  She turned and walked resolutely away from the door, got into bed and determinedly turned off the nightlight.

  Arthur Bryce knocked just once more, waited for a long moment, and then turned away, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

  Chloe quietly shut the door and got quickly back into bed. She was still pretending to be asleep when her husband slipped into bed beside her a minute or two later.

  Eventually, the Manor House fell silent.

  CHAPTER 4

  Saturday morning dawned with a thick layer of picturesque summer mist. Early risers took to the village in search of a paper, or were content to walk through the dew-wet meadows, whilst trying to avoid the cowpats. The late risers eventually came down the stairs from their comfortable beds and snug bedrooms until eventually all the forty-five conference goers were assembled in the dining hall for breakfast.

  Luckily the tables were now separated, allowing for more harmonious groupings to arrange themselves, and soon the waiters were busy circulating with tea and coffee pots and taking orders from the extensive breakfast menu.

  By the big bay windows, Chloe, her husband, Archdeacon Pierrepont and two other clerics were busy giving their choices.

  ‘Do you think you could bring me an extra glass of orange juice please?’ Celia Gordon caught the attention of a passing waiter with a smile and a raised voice. She was seated at a table for four with only one other companion, a very deaf verger who’d come in place of his boss, who’d been taken ill at the last minute. ‘I do love oranges,’ she added loudly to her deaf companion, who smiled disinterestedly. At the table opposite her, Jessica Taylor, her new Welsh friend and two other clerics who didn’t seem to know anyone else at the conference, politely pretended not to overhear the rather loud voice.

  ‘I swear I haven’t had a cold in years and that’s all because I always eat an orange a day. Besides, I love the taste of them.’

  ‘I prefer apples myself,’ Jessica said comfortably, breaking ranks to take pity on Celia’s rather isolated position. Celia smiled and looked across at her, shaking her head. ‘Give me oranges every time,’ she said firmly, catching the eye of a Deacon seated at a table on the other side of her, who was glaring at her quite obviously. ‘Vitamin C is so very good for you.’

  ‘I’m afraid my weakness isn’t for anything so healthy,’ Jessica confessed with a light laugh, trying to lighten the mood. ‘I’m a bit of a cake fanatic myself. Any kind of cake, I simply can’t resist it.’

  ‘I can’t understand why anybody has to talk so loudly, do you?’ she distinctly heard the Deacon say to his dining companions. ‘I do think it’s rather rude – especially in a roomful of others.’

  The deaf cleric, who could lip-read very well, offered him a stiff, disappointed smile.

  Chloe Bryce temporarily excused herself and ignoring the many eyes that followed her progress across the room, she headed towards the ladies’ room.

  Sir Andrew entered the room at that point, throwing a brief smile at those seated at the nearest table. ‘I hope that everything’s satisfactory, gentlemen?’ he murmured, already sure of the answer. His chefs had worked hard to make ensure that the breakfast menu was every bit as extensive and innovative as the lunch and evening meals. ‘Did everybody have a peaceful night?’ He went on to the next table, ever the circulating and attentive host.

  A waiter brought a bowl of corn flakes for Celia and kippers for her deaf companion. ‘I hope these aren’t those honey-nut ones,’ Celia said, the sharp edge to her voice momentarily silencing the room. ‘I’m very allergic to nuts, you see,’ she added to the flustered waiter, who hastily assured her that the corn flakes were most definitely the ‘plain’ ones.

  ‘Perhaps I’d better have toast instead,’ she said, pushing the dish away from her as the waiter headed obediently back to the kitchens.

  Over by the window, Archdeacon Pierrepont snorted loudly. ‘Trust her to make a fuss. It’s like I’ve been telling you, Arthur, you can’t trust a woman to do even the simplest thing.’

  Arthur Bryce smiled wryly. The academic had obviously never met a woman as efficient and single-minded as his Chloe. As if his thoughts had summoned her up from the ether, his wife suddenly appeared in the room again and made her way back to the table. Once again, covert and appreciative eyes followed her progress and Arthur felt a flush of pride, as he always did, whenever Chloe took her seat beside him. Today she was wearing a pale mint-green skirt and matching jacket with a jade, white and black-patterned blouse underneath. Dangling green earrings and green eye shadow complemented her dark colouring. Her shoes and handbag were black leather. Once again, she could have stepped off the cover of Vogue.

  Her muesli had arrived in her absence and as she lifted her spoon and glanced across at the archdeacon, she smiled briefly. ‘And how is Cambridge, Sir Matthew?’ she asked sweetly.

  Somewhat grudgingly, Sir Matthew told her how Cambridge was, unbending just a little when she told him that she had a son there.

  Jessica Taylor ate with her head down and kept her gaze firmly averted from the window table. Sir Andrew finished his rounds, having spoken a few words at every table, except, very noticeably, the table where Celia Gordon was seated. As he passed through the room, he overheard several whispered and unhappy comments about Celia’s loud and pushy ways.

  Sir Andrew walked steadfastly on, heading towards the kitchens.

  Dr Simon Grade climbed up awkwardly into the passenger seat of the big security van that had pulled up in front of his museum. It was one which belonged to the fleet of a very discreet firm he used whenever he needed to transport his more valuable items; alas, he hadn’t much use for the firm. Today the St Bede manuscript, still in its locked and now well-padded glass museum case, had been carefully secured in the back.

  As the driver climbed in beside him, started the van, and gingerly backed out into the road, Simon straightened his tie a shade nervously. It was important that no
thing go wrong.

  He was wearing a well-cut, but relatively inexpensive black suit with a deep-red tie and black onyx cuff-links to go with it. His suit could, with the addition of a colourful silk cummerbund and the black bow tie currently stowed in his briefcase, be transformed into a passable dinner suit. Dr Grade was feeling particularly happy with his lot that morning. He was confident of being able to give informative and interesting impromptu lectures to any number of conference-goers who wanted to inspect the manuscript. And the thought of rubbing elbows with the landed gentry and a plethora of bishops and noted academics was positively making him rub his hands together in glee.

  Yes, all was right with his world. He didn’t know, then, that he should have been making the most of it whilst he was still able – for things were just about to change.

  Those conference-goers not attending workshops or other activities had gravitated naturally towards the small village shop-cum-post office, where many emerged, guiltily bearing bags of sweets.

  ‘Want a gob stopper, Hubert?’ one old man asked of an even older one.

  ‘Not my thing. Sherbert?’ the other offered back his own bag in response, ‘Or would you prefer a liquorice stick? I haven’t seen a liquorice stick in years!’

  Inside the shop, Graham Noble, walking on ahead of his wife, bought their usual newspaper and cast an eye over a packet of custard creams. He was due to give his lecture that afternoon, and already his nerves were beginning to tap-dance. No, perhaps it wouldn’t be a good idea to indulge in anything sweet. On the other hand, an empty stomach might make him feel nauseous. Then he spied a small bag of peanuts hanging on the wall and, on impulse, bought a packet.

  If he ate the tiny nuts one at a time, they might just last him until two o’clock, but not sit too heavily on his stomach.

  As he stepped outside he nodded and smiled at the milling clerics, introducing himself to some as the local vicar, and being assured, somewhat alarmingly, that they were all looking forward to his lecture. He glanced behind him to see where Monica had got to, and saw her inside the shop talking to the owner, Phyllis. They seemed to be discussing the merits, or otherwise of tinned rhubarb.

  Jessica Taylor came upon the scene and felt her heart sink a little at the sight of all her fellow clerics clogging the square. Nevertheless, she straightened her shoulders and walked through them into the quaintest little shop that she’d seen in many years. As she browsed, several village women joined her. She listened half-heartedly to talk about the price of beef and someone’s mother’s varicose veins. She finally selected a middle-of-the-road newspaper for herself and walked to the till. There, a pretty dark-haired woman with striking, blue eyes moved aside to make room for her.

  ‘Say what you like, Phyllis,’ she was saying, ‘I still think home grown and straight from the garden is the best ’

  ‘Ugh! Too strong and tart,’ Phyllis shivered, but put away the tin of rhubarb in defeat. ‘I’ll bet Vera Ainsley uses tinned rhubarb,’ she couldn’t resist getting in the last word.

  Jessica’s ears pricked up at the mention of the famous cook.

  ‘And I can assure you she doesn’t,’ Monica shot back with a smile. Vera Ainsley had an apartment at the converted vicarage where she and Graham lived. ‘John has a rhubarb patch that everybody raids. Including Vera.’

  Phyllis took Jessica’s money for the paper and then glanced behind her. ‘Hello Deirdre. More babyfood?’ She asked, and Jessica in her turn moved away to allow a young mother with a basket full of tinned babyfood to get to the till.

  ‘You said it,’ Deirdre, a short, harassed-looking woman with pretty brown curly hair and a freckled nose, reached for her purse. ‘You’d never think such a small thing could eat so much.’

  ‘I know,’ Phyllis, who was happily childless, answered sagely.

  ‘Well, as of Monday, it’s my poor mum who’ll have to keep the ever-empty tummy fed,’ Deirdre sighed. She looked far from happy about this development however.

  ‘Oh yes? Oh right, you start that part-time job at the canal boat­yard, don’t you?’ Phyllis asked, busily punching away at the till.

  ‘Right. It’s only housework really, doing the narrowboats over before the visitors take them out. But they’re tiny, aren’t they, so I’m hoping there won’t be much too it. I mean, how much vacuuming can they need?’

  ‘And how’s Jack taking it? You having to work, I mean?’ Phyllis asked with thoughtless nosiness as she packed away the tins.

  And Deirdre, equally seeing nothing wrong with this shameless probing, shrugged. But even as she did so, Jessica Taylor couldn’t stop herself from shooting the women a quick and disbelieving look.

  Monica, noticing it, smiled to herself. She has to be a city slicker, just like I used to be, she found herself musing. She’d also found the village a bit of an eye-opener when she’d first arrived. Here, everybody knew everybody else’s business, and this was just accepted as the norm. It took some getting used to.

  ‘Well, he’s not happy still,’ Deirdre muttered. ‘He doesn’t like my working when the baby’s so young, but what else can I do? The rent comes due every month, dunnit?’

  ‘True,’ Phyllis said, blithely adding to her customer’s money worries by telling her the total of the baby food.

  Deirdre sighed and handed over some notes. ‘I think Jack’s worried about leaving the baby when she’s so young. He’s scared we won’t bond, or whatever you call it. I blame Oprah Winfrey,’ she added darkly, and somewhat obscurely.

  ‘Oh, but that’s nonsense,’ Jessica felt obliged to say, then stopped, appalled. But all three women looked at her with interest, rather than censure, and she felt herself relax. ‘There’s no evidence that says mothers and infants don’t bond, even if the mother works full time. And so long as your baby is looked after by, did you say her grandmother?’

  Deirdre nodded her brown curly head emphatically.

  ‘Well then, obviously, she’ll get all the love and attention that she needs. I dare say your mother loves having her and adores her,’ Jessica said firmly.

  ‘Oh she does,’ Deirdre agreed as she, Monica and Jessica all began to head for the door, aware of the queue that was growing somewhat impatient behind them.

  ‘There you are then,’ Jessica said as they all piled outside. ‘Don’t let anyone make you feel guilty for being a working mum,’ she said forthrightly. ‘The time when women were tied to the kitchen sink is long over.’

  It wasn’t until she looked around at so many disapproving male faces that she realized they were suddenly the centre of attention. She flushed, then lifted her chin defiantly. ‘Back in Birmingham, we formed a working mum’s club,’ she said firmly. ‘Just to give each other mutual support, trade the names of good and reliable baby sitters, and that sort of thing. It’s remarkable how helpful that kind of information can be.’

  ‘What a splendid idea,’ Monica said mildly, feeling obliged to come to the other woman’s defence. ‘Deirdre, why don’t you have a chat with all the other mum’s with young toddlers that you know. I’m sure… .’ here she glanced questioningly at the other woman.

  ‘Jessica Taylor,’ Jessica said, throwing Monica a grateful look.

  ‘I’m sure that the Reverend Taylor would be only too glad to send you some material on how to get your own club started,’ Monica finished.

  ‘Of course I would,’ Jessica agreed warmly.

  Deirdre, not entirely convinced, but happy to feel that someone was on her side, nodded her curly head and before she knew it, Monica found herself agreeing to forward on material and act as a liaison.

  ‘I’m Monica Noble, by the way,’ she added to Jessica as Deirdre, in a much more up-beat frame of mind, trudged off with her bag of heavy babyfood. ‘My husband,’ Monica looked around and spotted Graham, who was smiling somewhat wryly at her and quickly stepped forward, ‘is the vicar here. Graham, meet Jessica.’ The two shook hands. ‘Jessica, do you want to come back to the vicarage with me? I’ll give you our email a
ddress and perhaps we can have a chat over a cup of coffee?’

  ‘Thanks, that sounds great,’ Jessica agreed, and together, and still running the gauntlet of largely disapproving male eyes, they slowly headed across the square towards the church.

  ‘Just what we need,’ someone in the crowd muttered anonymously. ‘More women’s libbers.’

  Coming around the opposite corner, Arthur and Chloe Bryce were just close enough for Chloe, who had better hearing than her husband, to catch this somewhat uncharitable comment.

  ‘Hello Arthur, come for a paper?’ the former bishop, who was busy chewing old-fashioned humbugs, asked somewhat unintelligibly.

  ‘If there’re any left,’ Arthur said, indicating the clerics all standing about with various papers under their arms. Everyone smiled.

  ‘At least you’ll be able to buy your paper in peace,’ a familiar cracked voice piped up from one side, as Archdeacon Pierrepont turned to stride away in disgust. ‘Without having the joys of feminism rammed down your throat. Working mothers with babies, indeed. That’s what’s wrong with society today,’ he continued, unaware that as he walked further away, he was talking to nobody but himself.

  There was a rather embarrassed silence for a while and then Arthur smiled. ‘Frank, what on earth have you got in your mouth? A boulder?’

  ‘Hmmm, naaa, a goooobbsmokcher,’ came the somewhat slurped reply.

  ‘It’s like a treasure trove in there, Arthur,’ someone else said. ‘You ought to see it. I found some of those rhubarb-and-custard sweets you used to get. Delicious.’

  Obligingly, Arthur and Chloe entered the shop whilst the others began to drift off, in a half-hearted way, back towards the conference centre. And Archdeacon Pierrepont, still mumbling away to himself, disappeared around the corner.

  ‘He’s right,’ Arthur said, looking around the small, but attractive shop with a smile. ‘This place is a real throwback. Look there, a kit for a model aeroplane. I haven’t seen one of those in years. What is it – a Spitfire?’