Page 29 of Pressure Head
We went to see Reverend Lewis midafternoon on Monday, which I guessed must be his quiet time—after all, you hear about morning prayers and evening prayers, but you never hear anything about afternoon prayers, do you? Maybe the man upstairs likes a nap after lunch.
Like the vicarage he lived in, the Reverend Lewis was tall, austere, and looked like he’d been constructed sometime during the reign of Queen Victoria. Not that he was old—I put him in his early thirties, tops, with his washed-out blond hair and thin, ferrety features. But he somehow didn’t seem to fit in the modern world—like he’d be horrified if a girl showed her ankles in front of him, or if anybody swore. He offered us each a limp hand to shake and invited us in. The air inside the vicarage was chilly and damp, which was one way it made a change from the vicar himself. His handshake had been unpleasantly warm and damp.
“Do come this way,” he said, ushering us into a front room I guessed had been decorated by the previous reverend’s wife—it was all chintzy floral patterns, now faded in parts, and tasselled ties holding back the curtains. This Rev, Phil had told me on the way over, was unmarried. Looking at him, it was hardly surprising. I don’t expect my blokes to have film-star looks, but I do like them to have at least a nodding acquaintance with a shampoo bottle, and I’m fairly sure most women would agree.
“Can I get you a cup of coffee? Tea?” At least he had better manners than Samantha East, but then I supposed it sort of went with the job.
“Coffee would be lovely. White, no sugar, ta.” I sat down on the sofa, leaned back, and crossed my ankle over my knee.
Maybe the Rev had had a big lunch and was feeling dozy this afternoon—he just carried on looking at me for a moment, then jumped when Phil spoke. Loudly.
“I’ll have a cup of tea, thanks.”
Rev Lewis blinked and turned a bit pink. “Ah. Yes. Of course.” He scurried off down the hall.
I looked at Phil; he nodded, so I started listening for vibes. “Nothing here,” I murmured after a moment. “But something’s definitely calling me upstairs.”
“Okay—give it ten minutes or so, then make your excuses.”
“You do realise half the bloody village is going to end up thinking I’ve got incontinence issues, don’t you?” I muttered.
Phil laughed. “Bit sad, really—a plumber having problems with his pipes.”
“You’re all sympathy, aren’t you?”
Rev Lewis scuttled back in, carrying three mismatched mugs on a scratched tray with a picture of a fluffy kitten on it. I was a bit disappointed not to see something more overtly religious, but on the other hand, one of the mugs was printed withCoffee Jesus Makes the World Go Round. “Here we are. Now, what did you want to ask me, ah, Phil?”
As Phil leaned forward, looking all intent and businesslike, I took my coffee and settled back in my seat again. The Rev sat there looking, well, reverend, with his hands clasped in his lap like he was about to start praying or something. His gaze kept sliding in my direction, then zipping back to Phil, as if he’d heard you should make eye contact with people you’re talking to but had never actually seen it done.
“I understand Melanie Porter was acting as parish administrator?” Phil began.
The Rev nodded, and a lank strand of hair flopped down over his watery blue eyes. When he reached up to brush it back into place, I noticed his shirt cuffs were frayed, and felt a vague sense of guilt that I hadn’t put anything into a church collection box since I was a nipper at Sunday school. Which I’d left under a cloud at the tender age of seven after the great Easter Egg Hunt fiasco—well, they’dtoldus to go and find the bloody things, hadn’t they? It wasn’t my fault none of the other kids had a clue where to look. And you show me a seven-year-old boy whoisn’ta greedy little sod.
“She was indeed.” Lewis answered Phil’s question and gave us a thin little smile. “A blessing, since poor Mrs. Reece’s, ah, indisposition.” The way he said it made me wonder if there was something to find out there. “Really quite admirable of her, when she already had a full-time job.”
Phil was nodding. “And what did her duties involve?”
“Oh, paperwork, that sort of thing,” the Rev said vaguely with a nervous titter that made my skin crawl. “The purpose of the post is to enable the incumbent to keep his mind on higher concerns, of course.”
“So . . . paying bills?”
“Oh, yes. She was an authorised signatory to our bank account, as am I myself, but—” again the teeth-grating nervous laugh “—I try not to become involved in matters fiscal.”
“So she could sign cheques? Who are the other signatories?”
“The church wardens, and our treasurer, naturally.” I braced myself for another wheezy snigger, but it didn’t come.
“And they are?” Phil persisted.
“The church wardens? Oh, Jonathan Riley—but he’s off in Africa at the moment, of course—and Mrs. Cox.”
“What, Pip Cox?” I butted in.
Lewis blinked in my direction. “Yes—why, do you know her?”
“Met her the other day.” Why hadn’t she mentioned this when we’d been there? “Nice girl, isn’t she?”
Phil cleared his throat, leaning forward even farther. “What about the treasurer?”
