it than I did.
A more noticeably guarded edge crept into his voice. 'Is that wise?' he asked. 'Twenty years is a long time, and you seem to have done so well for yourselves ... stayed together ... made a family ... put the unpleasantness behind you.'
'You remember our little chat then?' I murmured. 'I didn't think you would.'
'I remember it well,' he said.
'Then you'll understand why I want to talk about Annie's neighbors.'
I heard his sigh down the wire. 'What good will it do to rake over dead ashes?'
'It depends what you find,' I said. 'My father put a log on the fire once and a gold sovereign dropped out of it as it burnt. Someone had obviously hidden it in the tree and a couple of centuries later my father reaped the reward.'
Another pause. 'I think you're making a mistake, Mrs. Ranelagh, but I'm free on Friday afternoon. You're welcome to come any time after two o'clock.'
'Thank you.' It was my turn to pause. 'Why am I making a mistake?'
'Revenge is an unworthy ambition.'
I stared into a gilt-edged mirror that was hanging on the wall in front of me. It was old and cracked and, standing where I was then, it produced a lengthened image that made my face look thin and cruel. 'It's not revenge I'm after,' I said with studied lightness. 'It's justice.'
The vicar gave an unexpected laugh. 'I don't think so, Mrs. Ranelagh.'
I had no intention of taking Sam to Exeter so I told him it was pointless for the pair of us to go when the lawn needed mowing and the flower beds tidying. He seemed happy enough although I caught him looking at me rather strangely over breakfast. 'What's the matter?' I asked.
'I was just wondering why everyone seems to be moving to the west country,' he said.
Peter Stanhope's parish was in the St. David's area of Exeter. I arrived too early and sat at the end of the road for an hour, watching the world go by through my windshield. I was on the edge of the university campus, and most of the pedestrian traffic seemed to be students-groups of boys and girls carrying books, or young couples clamped at the hip and shoulder like Siamese twins. I found myself envying them, particularly the skimpily clad girls in bottom-hugging skirts and crop tops, who swung along in the sunshine and radiated the sort of confidence I had never had.
The original vicarage was an impressive Victorian mansion, hidden behind high hedges, with a real estate agent's board outside, advertising a 'desirable penthouse flat' for sale. The new vicarage was a cheaply constructed cube, across the road from the church, lacking both charm and character. As I parked outside at exactly two o'clock, I was beginning to wish I'd had the sense to spend the last hour in a pub. Dutch courage would have been better than no courage at all. A part of me thought about driving away with my tail between my legs, but I noticed a net curtain twitch in a downstairs window and knew I'd been seen. Pride is always a stronger motivator than courage.
The door was opened by a tall, cadaverous-looking woman with a beak of a nose, shoulder-length grey hair and the speed of delivery of a machine gun. 'You must be Mrs. Ranelagh,' she said, taking my hand and drawing me inside. 'I'm Wendy Stanhope. Peter's running late. It's his morning at the shelter. Battered wives, poor souls. Come into the kitchen. He told me you were driving from Dorchester. Are you hungry? What about a drink? Chardonnay, do you?'
I followed her across the tiny hall. 'Thank you.' I looked around the white melamine kitchen which was mind- numbingly uniform and hardly big enough to swing a cat. 'This is nice.'
She thrust a glass into my hand with long, bony fingers. 'Do you think so?' she asked in surprise. 'I can't stand it myself. I much preferred the one we had in Richmond. The church doesn't give you much choice, you see. You have to make do with whatever pokey little kitchen they give you.' She took a breath. 'But there you go.' she went on cheerfully, 'I've only myself to blame. No one forced me to marry a vicar.'
'Has it been a good life?'
She filled her own glass and tapped it against mine. 'Oh, yes, I don't have many regrets. I wonder sometimes what it might have been like to be a lap dancer, but I try not to dwell on it.' Her eyes twinkled mischievously. 'What about you, my dear?'
'I don't think I've got the body for it,' I said.
She laughed happily. 'I meant, has life been good to you? You're looking well, so I assume it must have been.'
'It has,' I said.
She waited for me to go on and, when I didn't, she said brightly, 'Peter tells me you've been living abroad. Was that exciting? And you've two boys, I believe?'
There was so much blatant curiosity in her over-thin face that I took pity on her-it wasn't her fault that her husband was late-and talked enthusiastically about our years abroad and our children. She studied me over the rim of her glass while I spoke, and there was a shrewd glint in her eyes that I didn't much like, I wasn't used to having people see straight through me, not after so many years of growing an impenetrable skin.
'We've been lucky.' I finished lamely.
She looked amused. 'You're almost as good a liar as I am,' she said matter-of-factly. 'Most of the time I can contain my frustration, but every so often I drive to a wide-open space, usually a cliff top, and scream my head off. Peter knows nothing about it, of course, because if he did he'd think I was mad and I simply couldn't bear to have him fussing round me.' She shook her Lear-like locks in grotesque parody of a lap dancer. 'It's quite absurd. We've been married forty years, we have three children and seven grandchildren, yet he has no idea how much I resent the utter futility of my existence. I'd have made an excellent vicar, but my only choice was to play second fiddle to a man.'
'Is that why you scream?'
She refilled my glass. 'It's more fun than having a hangover,' she said.
