Evil Intent

Life in the clergy is quiet, respectful and peaceful – or so Callie Anson believes when she begins her new job as curate at All Saints' Church in Paddington

Following her traumatic break-up with fiancé Adam, the last thing Callie needs is more emotional turmoil. However, she soon finds that her new job brings with it more than its fair share of challenges. She is exceedingly disturbed when she finds she is the subject of deep-seated hatred, cast upon her by her male colleagues. One in particular, Father Jonah Adimola, picks her out for a torrent of verbal abuse. To Callie's relief, her good friend and mentor, Frances Cherry, jumps to her defence. But when Father Adimola is found strangled to death the next day, suspicion falls upon Frances. Callie must now call upon her faith to steer her through the turbulent times ahead, and help prove her friend's innocence. With the help of DI Neville Stewart, it isn't long before the ecclesiastical façade is chipped...

Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
About the Author
Books by Kate Charles
Copyright

This book could not have been written without the generous help – in the form of time and expertise – of so many people, among them Christina Rees, the Revd. Dr. Joan Crossley and the other women of the Maud Royden Club, the Revd. Jacquie Birdseye, the Rt. Revd. Christopher Herbert, the Revd. Nicholas Biddle, the Revd. Christine Farrington, the Revd. Ally Barrett, the Revd. Peter Moger, the Rt. Revd. John Inge, the Revd. Colin Davey, Mel Thompson, Ayo Onatade, and Gianna
Lombardi-Roberts.
For editorial advice I am most grateful to Suzanne Clackson, Marcia Talley, Deborah Crombie, and Ann Hinrichs. Thanks also to my lovely agent, Dorothy Lumley, and my supportive editor, David Shelley, for sharing my belief in this novel.

Warm thanks are due, as well, for two unusual loans – to the Revd. Dr. Judith Maltby, for allowing me to ‘borrow’ her ordination stole, and to Neville Stewart, for lending me his name.

The priest wasn’t wearing a dog collar. He was casually dressed in an
open-necked
shirt, blending in with the other men in the room.

He had not come there by chance or by accident. It wasn’t that sort of place: one had to know it was there. Though located in the heart of Soho, it was accessed through an alleyway and down a flight of stairs. There was no sign advertising its presence, and no loud music blaring forth onto the street to attract a passing fun seeker. It was far more discreet than that, its music provided by a lone pianist in the corner. Men came there for various reasons, most of which they would not necessarily want to become public knowledge.

It had been a steamy day in London, and the dimly lit, windowless room was hot, airless, reeking of cigarette smoke, alcohol, sweat and
testosterone.
And it was crowded as well, many tables occupied, the clot of
people
round the bar throwing off even more heat.

The priest’s shirt clung stickily to his back, from nervousness as much as heat. As a precaution he chose a table close to the piano, where the
tinkling
of the keys would mask any conversation; though he didn’t expect to be overheard, there were times when it was best to take no chances.

After a moment he was joined at the table by a young man – little more than a boy. They engaged in an earnest discussion. One of them did most of the talking; the other listened carefully, nodding now and then in
agreement
or at least acknowledgement.

A bulging envelope appeared on the table between them.

‘You understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Half now, half later.’

‘I understand.’

A finger nudged the envelope an inch towards the other side of the table.

‘Do you want to count it?’

‘I trust you.’

The envelope, folded in half, was slipped into a pocket. The priest left;
the boy left.

The pianist’s fingers moved over the keys. He had seen many such transactions in this place. He shrugged and put it out of his mind.

On the afternoon of her first official Sunday as Curate of All Saints, Paddington, murder was the last thing on Callie Anson’s mind.

Instead, her head ached with trying to process and remember all of the people she had met: their names, their faces, their attitudes. By and large, she had been given a warm welcome. Those who were opposed to having a woman curate – and she knew that there was a handful in the congregation – had presumably stayed away. And there had been a few barbed comments which could be taken more than one way, along the lines of ‘I never thought I’d live to see the day when we had a woman in the Sanctuary’.

But most people had been lovely. Old women had greeted her with tears in their eyes, wishing her all the best. Young men had gripped her hand, declaring that it was about time.

And the Vicar, the Reverend Brian Stanford …

Brian, as he had insisted she must call him, had been kindness itself. ‘You must come to supper tonight,’ he’d said. ‘Relax and take it easy this afternoon, and come to us in the evening. It’s time we all got to know each other. Isn’t that right, Jane?’ At that point he had turned to his wife for confirmation.

She had nodded; she had even smiled, but her eyes had narrowed
fractionally.
Callie, a woman who noticed things like that, told herself that it was only to be expected. After all, it was generally known that wives did not always appreciate having guests sprung on them at the last minute by well-meaning husbands, and this must be as true of clergy wives as of
anyone
else.

‘If it’s not convenient…’ Callie had said, addressing Jane Stanford.

But Brian had answered for the both of them. ‘Oh, of course it’s
convenient.
After Evensong, just come across to the Vicarage. Jane will rustle something up.’

In the end, of course, Callie had accepted the offer of hospitality. It wasn’t as if she had anything better to do, she told herself. No one to cook for. Nothing in the diary. There wasn’t even anything particularly appealing on the telly that night.

Though she
should
get on with her unpacking. Callie sat on her sofa and looked at the tea chests which ranged along the wall. She’d had a week to unpack, in between her ordination and her first day on the job. And what had she done? She’d gone to Venice for three days, leaving the tea chests behind in the otherwise empty flat. On her return she’d managed to get the kitchen in order, as well as the bedroom and bathroom, so she could eat, sleep, and keep herself clean. But the book shelves gaped at her emptily in silent reproach at her laziness, and the tea chests reinforced her guilt. She was by nature an orderly person; living in any sort of chaos depressed her. Sighing, Callie roused herself from the sofa and opened the nearest tea chest.

Novels. She would put them here in the sitting room, on the built-in book shelves, and the theology books would go into the tiny second
bedroom
which would serve as her study.

Her new flat was not large, but Callie felt that it would suit her very well, once it was sorted out to her satisfaction. It was, almost literally,
living
above the shop: the flat was on the first floor, above the church hall. The proportions were pleasing, with high-ceilinged rooms, and the sitting room boasted an original Victorian fireplace flanked with book cases. The kitchen was rather old-fashioned and overdue for a refit, but Callie thought she could live with that.

She emptied three tea chests and arranged the books in alphabetical order. Then, feeling that it was time for a break, she went through to the kitchen and switched the kettle on.

The doorbell buzzed.

Callie wasn’t expecting anyone. She went to the door and opened it a crack. Her younger brother stood on the landing outside her door, half obscured behind a large sheaf of flowers.

‘Peter!’ She opened the door more widely, smiling in delight.

‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’

‘Come in! I’ve just put the kettle on.’

‘Music to my ears. You must have known that I was coming, then.’ He presented the flowers to her with a graceful flourish. ‘Here, Sis. For your housewarming.’

‘Peter, how sweet.’ She hesitated for a moment as she accepted them.
‘Let’s see if I can remember where I’ve put the vase.’

He followed her into the flat, neck craning unashamedly in curiosity. ‘So this is where they’ve put you, then. Not bad, is it?’

‘Sorry. I’m still not quite unpacked.’ Callie indicated the tea chests as they passed through the sitting room towards the kitchen.

Peter Anson laughed. ‘I moved three years ago, and I’m
still
not quite unpacked. To say the least.’

‘I’ve noticed.’ In Callie’s opinion, her brother had made disorganisation into an art form. His packing crates had become part of the décor of his flat, almost replacing the need for furniture.

‘The kitchen’s a bit small,’ Peter observed. ‘And surely those units have been there since about 1950?’

Callie opened the cupboard under the sink and found a large vase, which she filled from the tap. ‘True. But wait till you see the bathroom. They’ve left the Victorian claw-foot bath, but they’ve put in a brand new power shower. Perfect for a curate on the go.’

Peter, who had started rummaging in the nearest cupboard in search of the biscuit tin, turned to stare at her. ‘I still can’t believe it,’ he said. ‘My sis – a curate.’

‘Well, it’s true.’

‘What do they call you, then?’ he asked. ‘They surely don’t call you “Father”, do they? Or “Mother”?’

Callie laughed as she took a scissors from a drawer and began snipping off the bottoms of the flower stems. ‘Good question. To tell you the truth, I don’t think they quite know
what
to call me. They’ve never had a woman curate here before. So I’ve been telling them just to call me “Callie”. Some of them don’t seem very comfortable with that. Any bright ideas?’

‘I’ll give it some thought.’

While Callie arranged the flowers, Peter made himself useful by
preparing
the tea and carrying the tray through to the sitting room. He placed it on a convenient tea chest; Callie followed him and put the vase of flowers on the hearth in front of the fireplace.

‘Thanks so much for the flowers,’ she said. ‘They really lift the place, don’t they?’  

Peter surveyed her handiwork and nodded. ‘I like the fireplace. Does it work?’

Callie shrugged. ‘I think so. I haven’t had a chance to try it yet.’

‘That will be nice and cosy come winter. Given the right person to curl up next to —’

She cut him off, aware that her voice was sharper than she’d intended. ‘Peter, don’t.’

‘Sorry, Sis.’ He looked repentant. ‘I thought maybe what’s-his-name had come to his senses by now.’

‘You know perfectly well that his name is Adam. And no, he hasn’t changed his mind. I haven’t seen him since … well, since the ordination.’ Her tone, controlled and chilly, warned him to drop the subject.

‘Sorry,’ Peter repeated, and took the hint as she sat down on the sofa and began to pour the tea. He reached over and accepted his cup, reaching for a biscuit with his other hand. ‘Have you seen Mum?’

Callie grimaced. ‘Yes, I dropped by a couple of days ago. To give her something I bought for her in Venice.’

‘Let me guess. She didn’t like it.’

Her laugh was rueful. ‘Well, I should have known. I got a little cat for her collection – a glass one, from Murano. And she said that I ought to have remembered that she collects
china
cats, not
glass
ones.’

‘Well, that’s Mum for you.’ Peter lifted his eyebrows and sighed.

Callie felt a tightness across her shoulders. She consciously relaxed, laughing again. She shouldn’t let her mother get to her; she knew that. And at least Peter understood – the one person in the world who did.

‘You had a good time in Venice, then?’ Peter asked. They’d talked on the phone, briefly, since her return, but they were both in a hurry on that
occasion
and this was the first opportunity she’d had to tell him about her trip.

When it came down to it, though, she found it impossible to put her experiences into words. ‘It was…wonderful,’ she said. ‘Having a good time doesn’t begin to describe it. I’ve never seen anything as beautiful in my life as that city.’

‘Did you take lots of photos?’

Callie shook her head. ‘No. That wouldn’t have done it justice. Venice
is so much more than the sum of its parts. I just…well, I just absorbed it. I walked for hours and hours, and just soaked it in.’ She sipped her tea absently, remembering. She recalled the play of light on the stone of San Marco, the way the gold mosaics of its domes lit up the interior like
millions
of tiny lamps …

Peter put his cup down with a clatter, cutting into her thoughts. ‘What did you bring me?’ he demanded, reverting to the little boy he’d been years ago. ‘You said you’d brought me something.’

His eagerness made her smile. ‘Just a minute. Let me finish my tea.’

He helped himself to another biscuit. ‘I hope it’s not a glass cat. Or a china one either, for that matter.’

‘I’ll have to find it. I think I’ve put it in the bedroom. I wasn’t
expecting
you today, after all.’

It was impossible to be cross with Peter, she thought as she searched for where she’d put his gift.

Peter had made himself comfortable in her absence; he was sitting crosswise on the chair, his head tucked into the angle of the wing and his long legs dangling over the arm. Callie’s heart lifted, as it always did at the sight of him: he was so graceful, so elegant, grown up yet boyish still.

‘Here,’ she said. ‘A gondolier’s hat.’ Callie proffered it – a straw boater, festooned with dangling ribbons.

Peter took the hat, settling it at a rakish angle on his head.

‘Thanks, Sis.’ He grinned mischievously. ‘At the risk of sounding like Mum, I would have rather had the gondolier.’

Callie chose to misunderstand him. ‘I don’t think Mum would have
fancied
the gondolier.’

‘Very funny.’

‘Anyway,’ she went on in the same bantering tone, ‘what would Jason have said about that?’

The grin faded from his face, and suddenly he seemed very young indeed, far younger than his twenty-six years. ‘Actually,’ Peter said, gulping, ‘Jason’s left me. Last week. Went off with a nineteen-year-old chorus boy.’

Callie’s heart welled with sympathy. ‘Oh, Peter. I’m so sorry.’ And she was: Peter seemed to go through boyfriends the way most people went
through paper tissues, but Jason had been around for several months, and the two of them had appeared almost settled together. Peter had confided to her that he had hopes for a long-term relationship with Jason; evidently Jason had not shared those hopes.

He made an effort to smile, but he looked like nothing so much as a miserable schoolboy whose pocket money had been stolen, and his voice quavered. ‘So you see, Sis, it looks as if the two of us are in the same boat, doesn’t it? We’ve both been ditched.’

Callie went to him, her arms outstretched.

In a way, Callie wished that she didn’t have to go to Evensong. She and Peter had hugged, had shared their misery and even shed a few tears
together.
It was therapeutic for both of them; she hated to have to cut it short. But on the other hand, as she was going to the Stanfords’ for supper, it was useful to have Evensong in between to collect herself and regain her
equilibrium.
Peter had dredged up emotions in her which she had kidded
herself
had been dealt with and banished. Now she admitted to herself that it was far from the case.

As she knelt for the prayers, Callie took deep breaths. She had to get on with her life. She had a new job, a new flat, and the prospect of many new relationships as she got to know the people in the parish. She should be thankful that it was so, thankful that her life was full of promise and
possibility.
But she couldn’t stop thinking that somewhere less than a mile away Adam was probably also at Evensong. And someone else might be at his side.

Jane Stanford hadn’t gone to Evensong. No, she’d been left behind to
prepare
supper. Offering hospitality was one of the accepted duties of a vicar’s wife, and she had never resented that. Throughout Brian’s ministry Jane had always been conscious of her privileged position at his side, embracing the obligations that position brought with it: she had, in her day, taught Sunday School, run the Mothers’ Union, headed up the flower rota, made countless cups of tea and produced endless traybakes and scones. She had edited the parish magazine, typed it herself and duplicated it on an old hand-cranked Gestetner machine in the days before high-speed
photocopiers.
She had typed Brian’s sermons, often improving them subtly,
hoping
that he wouldn’t notice. Many times through the years she had even been a surrogate vicar, listening to the whispered confessions and guilty tears of people who were too afraid or in awe of the vicar to speak to him; everyone knew that something told to the vicar’s wife would reach his ears, and no one else’s.

It was a high calling, that of a vicar’s wife. There were moments, of course, of being fed up with it all, of wishing that one’s home were one’s own and not an extension of the parish hall. There were times when the burden of making the meagre vicar’s stipend stretch to the end of the month, to put food on the table for her family every night and still eke out enough money for everything else, seemed impossible – for unlike many clergy wives, it was a point of honour with Jane that she had never worked outside the home. But when Jane had met Brian all those years ago, when he was an ordinand and she embarked on secretarial training, she had determined from the start that it was what she wanted: to be married to Brian, and to have all that came with being the wife of a clergyman in the Church of England. She had never, for more than a passing moment, regretted that choice.

Tonight, though, Jane was feeling a bit low. She told herself that it
wasn’t
really surprising. She had worked flat out over the past few weeks as the boys prepared to go off to university, making sure that they had everything they would need to take with them and that it was all packed properly and in a fit state. Buying all those last-minute things for them had stretched the budget, as well. It had always been one of the difficulties of having twins, she recognised: the demands on the budget had inevitably come in twos. When Charlie needed new trainers, Simon always needed them as well, and the same was true now of tuition fees and books. For the first time in her married life, Jane had thought seriously about getting a job to fund the expensive proposition of having two boys going up to Oxford.