The Lamp of the Wicked

episodes – usually involving halos and harps and a few gobsmacked shepherds. Or we might mention – with a shiver – something we like to call the Angel of Death, which…’

Merrily looked up at the stained-glass window with the apples. The angels there were solid and looked female, with their extravagant golden curls and small pursed lips.

‘… which we always see as something horribly sinister rather than something gentle and understanding which exists to guide us through what, for most of us, is the only situation since birth in which we are one hundred per cent helpless.’

Jenny Box had lowered her gaze. Merrily thought of all the hospital beds she’d sensed to be enfolded in dark, downy wings. But then – the thought pierced her like a thin blade – what was the Angel of Death doing when the face of Lynsey Davies was turning blue under the savage pressure, her eyes bulging, her tongue—

‘I… As far as I know, I’ve never seen an angel. So I really can’t tell you if they look like the ones in the windows over there – if they’ve got actual wings, or if they’re light and vague, or as invisible as breath. I suspect that angels look… just like us.’

And how many others are dead? Nobody knows. And why? Nobody knows.

‘Some people do claim to have actually seen them in times of crisis, some to have… sensed them.’

She swallowed. Lifted her eyes and her thoughts. Had she sensed them? At her shoulder during a Eucharist? Once, perhaps, on Christmas Day, in an aura of profound holiness, as the bells awoke the valley?

‘Most of us, though, have only seen evidence of what appears to be a practical intelligence which comes out of nowhere to… alter a situation. Now that in itself – that’s such an amazing concept, such a Superman thing, that it’s easy to get carried away, to start looking for angels, looking for evidence of angelic intervention in everything, every little situation.’

She paused, looking around for Jane, who would occasionally slip in at the back, without making a thing about it. No sign of her today. No surprise.

‘My own feeling, for what it’s worth, is that angels are a layer of creation, an aspect of divinity, of which we should be aware. Or more aware. And if we ever have reason to think that an angel has intervened for us, then maybe we shouldn’t just say “Oh, it was meant,” we should spend some time thinking: Why? Why me? Why now?’

What Merrily was thinking right now was that all this sermon had told its listeners so far was that this vicar hadn’t yet worked out where she stood on angels. Or, indeed, on Jenny Box, probably the parish church’s biggest benefactor since the Bull family ran out of spare cash.

She looked into the congregation, perhaps for some guidance on how far to take this, and caught a movement from the bottom end of the nave: Frannie Bliss walking quietly through from the porch.

Frannie Bliss?

But, like several others, Bliss must have left before the after- service tea and coffee – either that or she’d imagined him. Jenny Box didn’t stay, either, but then she never had; she probably considered the serving of refreshments to be misuse of a holy sanctuary. On this one, Merrily would always disagree; this was about giving and sharing and opening up, not taking people’s money.

Sometimes, people would want to discuss aspects of the sermon, but not today. Nobody, it seemed, wanted to disclose a personal angelic encounter. Outside, after everyone had gone, only James Bull-Davies hung around in the churchyard.

It was a James kind of day: stiff, blustery. He angled over, hands behind his back, stared moodily at a windfall apple that had landed on a grave.

‘This Box woman.’

Merrily drew her woollen cape over her surplice, tilted her head to one side, curious. Pulled prematurely from the Army on the death of his father, James had reluctantly shouldered what he perceived to be his family’s burden of responsibility for the village. Lately, however – under the influence of Alison, no doubt – he seemed to have shrugged much of it off, coming to church alone, avoiding the traditional Bull pew, generally adopting a neutral stance on parish issues.

‘Don’t like to interfere, Mrs Watkins.’ He cleared his throat. ‘As you know.’

‘How’s Alison?’

‘Fine.’ He flicked a brittle wafer of lichen from the eighteenth- century headstone opposite the porch. ‘Met the husband, have you?’

‘Husband?’

James folded his arms, looked down at his shoes. He had on a checked shirt and a mud-coloured tie under the old tweed jacket he wore like battledress. ‘Encountered the guy in the Swan, Friday evening. Up here for the weekend. Works in London.’

‘I’ve never met him.’

‘Worried man.’ James gazed over Merrily’s head towards the lych-gate. ‘No one wants a wife playing away.’

Merrily blinked. She got a sudden flashback of James at the height of his crisis, drunk on the square, Alison trying to haul him into the Land Rover. Mistress, he’d called her. And then whore. Ownership. But Alison had been cool about all that.

‘Another man?’ Merrily said. ‘Here?’

‘Good Lord, no.’ James snorted. ‘Gord, Mrs Watkins. Gord!’

‘What?’

‘Has its place, religion – the Church. Always accepted that, as you know. Part of the framework. More of these newcomers we can bring into the fold the better.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Fanaticism, however… something else entirely.’

‘Oh, I see. You mean God is the… the other man.’ She smiled. Church, for James, was a local obligation, a necessary hour of faint tedium on a hard pew smelling of polish. Echoes of public school. James’s school had had masters. When the idea of a woman priest-in-charge had been mooted for Ledwardine, he’d apparently been the first to object. She’d kind of thought that was in the past.

‘Find this amusing, do you, vicar?’

‘James,’ she said, ‘He’s my boss.’ He sniffed. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘It’s not awfully warm here. Do you want to come back to the vicarage? Sit down with a cup of tea and—’

‘No…’ He shook his head quickly. ‘No time, sorry. I just… This is simply the gypsy’s warning, all right? I’m strongly suggesting you keep that woman at arm’s length, if you know what’s good for you. Sorry… don’t mean that to sound like a threat.’

‘Of course not.’

‘Simply that Box told me some things. Guy’d had a few drinks, so I’m treating most of it as confidential. However, presume you know she’s been in psychiatric care?’

‘No, I didn’t know that.’

‘Well, there you are.’

‘But…’ Merrily thought of Lol. ‘We do try not to hold it against people. “Let the loonies come unto me,” sayeth the Lord, “and I shall…” ’

‘Mrs Watkins,’ James said wearily. ‘I realize that taking the piss out of me has become a little hobby of yours, but—’

‘What’s he like?’

‘What?’

‘Mr Box.’

‘Oh.’ He considered. ‘My height, perhaps an inch or two taller. A little older than her, but not appreciably. Keeps himself fit.’ He avoided Merrily’s eyes, inspecting the oak frame of the porch, as if the Bulls still paid for its maintenance.

Yes,’ she said, ‘but what’s he like?’

‘Ex-journalist. Businessman now, handles her shops. Says he does all the work, she wanders round, tweaks a few things. Don’t know these shops myself… decor.’ Saying it like you’d say