11

       Sunday morning

      Mike had walked over to the church early. After the early fog it was a glorious day and he could smell new-mown grass from the churchyard where Bill Standing, in his job as groundsman, had been trimming round some of the old graves. A retired professional gardener, Bill liked nothing more than to mow the grass and trim the hedges, training the cascades of rambling roses which grew over the lych gate and across the wall into a glorious patchwork of pink and red. He denied, however, having had anything to do with the mowing in the rectory garden, and had, to Mike’s certain knowledge, never set foot inside the church itself. To Mike, this last information had been an amazing piece of news. He didn’t understand it at all, especially as the old man seemed so fond of the place. Mike stopped at the gate and raised his hand in greeting. One day he would love to talk at length to the old boy, who, he suspected, was a fount of local knowledge and wisdom, and ask him why he wouldn’t go into the church, but so far his attempts to engage Bill in conversation had met with little success.

      Bill had been staring down towards the estuary, a worried frown on his face. Mike followed his gaze. There was nothing to see but the bright strip of water and a few wheeling gulls. As Mike watched he shook his head thoughtfully and turned away. The expression on his face was grim. Mike paused and called his name. Bill glanced up, nodded, and turning the mower trundled it off in the opposite direction. Mike shrugged and paused to glance round the churchyard instead. The weathered headstones were mostly illegible now. The salt-laden east winds off the estuary had long ago beaten the inscriptions into indecipherable lichen-crusted anonymity, but there was a quiet warmth in the shelter of an August morning which made it seem a good place to lie in peace.

      He opened the gate and walked up the path. The church was already unlocked, one of the churchwardens there before him, making ready for the service. Donald James, who had retired three years before from his position as manager of one of the oldest banks in Colchester, was carrying prayer books through from the vestry and laying them out on the shelf by the door. ‘Morning, Rector.’ Donald smiled at him. ‘Shall we leave the door open and let the sunshine in?’

      Mike obligingly pushed the door back as far as it would go. The limed oak with its medieval ironwork groaned slightly as the sunlight hit the grey stone floor.

      ‘That’ll be enough books, Donald. I doubt if we’ll get very many.’ Mike shrugged. ‘Pity. But it is the holidays. Several of our regulars are away.’ He walked on up the aisle towards the vestry. The small room smelled of books and the old musty hassocks someone had stacked in a corner, rather than throw them away. Mike hesitated in the doorway, then he turned back and walked on towards the chancel. Kneeling on the top step before the altar he gazed up at the cross, composing himself, drawing his thoughts together and, finally, beginning to pray.

      Behind him Donald moved quietly between the pews to pick up some fallen rose petals from the carpet beneath the pulpit. He glanced round as a shadow darkened the doorway for a moment and recognising the figure raised a hand in greeting. Judith Sadler was Mike’s lay reader. A tall, dark-haired woman in her early forties, she was wearing a severely cut navy trouser suit and a pale-blue shirt with what looked suspiciously like a dog collar. Donald frowned as she headed up the aisle. It would probably not occur to her to leave the rector alone until he had finished praying. Sure enough, she was already speaking when she was several yards from him.

      ‘Good morning, Mike. What a glorious day!’ Her voice cut Mike’s prayers off in mid-flow. He opened his eyes and sent up a quick last petition. For patience. His predecessor seemed to have thought a great deal of Judith and had recommended her as lay reader very highly. He had not disclosed until later that he had not endorsed Judith’s powerful ambition to become a priest herself and that his lack of recommendation had contributed to the Director of Ordinands turning her down for selection, something which Judith was not going to forget or forgive.

      Mike rose to his feet and turned with a smile. ‘Good morning, Judith.’ Ushering her ahead of him towards the vestry so that they could robe in good time he saw out of the corner of his eye that a stranger had entered the church. That was a good sign. He was closely followed by two or three other figures momentarily silhouetted against the bright sunlight. Perhaps he had underestimated the size of the congregation after all.

      Several times during the service Mike found himself looking at the unknown man who had seated himself three-quarters of the way down the aisle on the left. He was alone. A youngish man, perhaps in his mid-thirties, he had short cropped hair and a long, lugubrious face. Although he listened intently to Mike’s sermon and stood or sat in the right places Mike noticed he took no active part in the service. He did not pray out loud, he did not appear to be singing the hymns and he did not come up to take communion.

      Perhaps he was a tourist, curious about the church? He did not have the appearance of an unhappy or troubled soul, but one couldn’t always tell. It was not entirely surprising when at the end of the service he saw the man hanging back, obviously hoping for a private word. After Mike had shaken hands with his last parishioners and seen them stroll out into the sunlight, he turned towards the man and they walked slowly together along the side aisle, out of earshot of Donald and Judith.

      ‘Mark Edmunds.’ The stranger held out his hand. ‘I’ve been staying up here for a few days. You may have noticed us. We’ve been filming in one of the shops at the end of the road here.’

      Mike shrugged. ‘Sorry, I must have missed you. What are you filming?’

      ‘A documentary. About ghosts.’

      ‘Ah.’ Mike scanned the other man’s face. ‘And you want a quote from the church?’

      ‘I wouldn’t turn one down if it was offered.’ Mark gave a fleeting smile. ‘But that’s not actually why I’m here.’ They had drifted to a standstill beside a memorial to men of the parish who had died in the First World War. ‘Presumably you believe in ghosts? That is part of your job, isn’t it?’ Mark slid his hands into his pockets.

      Mike nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes,’ he said cautiously. ‘I do believe in them. But I have to admit I have never seen one. And I have never been consulted professionally about one. Do you have a problem?’

      Mark