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count them – tall candlesticks. They looked as though they should be worth something, as did the sanctuary lamp, which appeared to be silver. The place was truly abominable, but Dexter was beginning to see the financial possibilities. There were probably people who would be willing to pay good money for all this popish nonsense – even the statues and the pictures. If he could sell it all off, there might even be enough money to build a proper Sunday School extension.
    He suddenly had the feeling that someone was watching him, and he turned slowly. On his left was a very large painted plaster statue of the Virgin, regarding him balefully with her glass eyes. In her right hand she held a sceptre and a rosary, while with her left she supported a simpering child. The hand-lettered notice beneath her requested ‘Mother of God, pray for us’, and she was surrounded by an assortment of candlesticks, none of them lit, and a large bowl of slightly drooping flowers. Bob Dexter laughed aloud.
    At that moment he became aware that he was indeed not alone in the church. There was a clattering noise coming from the area of the north porch. Vandals, come to steal his candlesticks before he could flog them off ? Although the church was not locked, and theoretically everyone was as free as he to enter, already he felt proprietorial about the place. ‘Who’s there?’ he called out in his best preaching voice.
    A quavery, frightened voice answered his challenge. ‘Gwen,’ it said. ‘Gwen Vernon.’
    Bob Dexter strode down through the chancel gates and confronted the figure who struggled up the centre aisle, laden with a sheaf of flowers.
    â€˜I’m sorry if I frightened you,’ he said in a more normal tone of voice. ‘I just wasn’t expecting anyone.’ He paused, then added portentously, ‘I’m Bob Dexter. Soon to be the shepherd of this flock.’
    â€˜Oh!’ squeaked the woman who faced him, nearly dropping the flowers in her shock.
    Dexter smiled his trademarked smile. ‘My dear lady, let me help you with those. Where were you taking them?’
    â€˜In . . . in there.’ She indicated the chancel as he scooped the flowers out of her arms. Recovering herself, she added timidly, ‘My friend . . . that is, Miss Barnes, and I, we always do the flowers for Our Lady. And this morning Alice, that is, Miss Barnes, noticed that they were getting a bit, well, past their best. I hadn’t noticed myself, but Alice, Miss Barnes, says I’m like that. So as soon as we’d finished our lunch she said, “Gwen, you must go over to the church and take some fresh flowers for Our Lady.” And here I am.’
    Dexter decided to withhold his opinions of her devotion to Our Lady for the time being, and see what he could find out from the woman. There would be plenty of time after he’d arrived to sort out these aberrations. He put the flowers down in the chancel and regarded the woman in the murky light that filtered in through the dark Victorian east window. ‘There you are, Miss – or is it Mrs? – Vernon.’
    â€˜Oh, Miss Vernon. Thank you, Father, for your help.’ Dexter winced at the appellation, but Miss Vernon, her eyes already turned towards the Virgin, failed to notice.
    She appeared to be in her late sixties, though her hair was no help in determining her age: she wore a wig of a most unlikely golden-blonde shade, in a style that had been popular probably two decades earlier. She was quite tall, and very angular in build; her movements were jerky and she gave the impression of clumsiness. Her clothing, too, seemed to fit the image, the various garments looking as though they had been assembled at random from a jumble-sale box.
    â€˜Do you live nearby?’ Dexter inquired as she went down on her knees before the statue and began sorting through the flowers.
    â€˜Oh, yes, in the village. Do you know the village?