The Dream Weavers by Barbara Erskine (books you have to read txt) 📕

the transept, heading for the nearby exquisitely carved alabaster monument to Bishop Stanbury, with cameras slung round their necks. She moved slightly to block the entrance to the chapel and when she saw them frown, groped in her pocket for her lanyard and name tag. It obviously gave her a semblance of authority because they immediately veered away, walking on towards the Lady Chapel. Turning back, Sandra was in time to hear Bea’s voice, quiet but clearly audible: ‘Please tell us what to do, Father. I should have listened to you, but I’m involved now and Emma needs you.’

Sandra froze. She could actually feel the hairs on the back of her neck moving. Almost too scared to look, she scanned the tiny chapel to see who Bea was talking to. There were only the four chairs in there in front of the prayer desk. The floor was covered in matting, the altar bare. No cross. No candles. There was no one else there. Emma had her eyes tightly shut and Sandra could see the girl’s hands shaking as she clasped them on her knee.

Bea was quiet now. Her eyes were open, fixed on the altar – slightly to the left of the altar – which was bathed in coloured light filtering through the stained-glass windows. She nodded, as if she was listening, then Emma’s eyes flew open. ‘No!’ she cried loudly. ‘I won’t do that!’

‘Em, darling. If he thinks it best—’

‘No! Never! Dad will be here by now. I want to go and find him. Take me out of this horrible place!’ Emma jumped to her feet and Sandra turned away hastily. She hurried down the aisle and round the corner into the transept as the girl appeared in the doorway.

Bea and Emma had headed for the café and Sandra followed at a discreet distance. Simon was indeed there, sitting at a table in the far corner. Seeing him, Emma broke into a run and threw herself down opposite him. She looked distraught. Bea followed more slowly and slipped into the seat next to her. ‘Give us a moment to calm down,’ she said. She sounded completely in control.

Sandra turned to the counter and ordered herself a cup of tea, then, cup in hand, she walked quietly to the table behind them and sat down. She was just within earshot and no one at the table noticed her; Bea had her back to her and in any case the two adults were concentrating on Emma.

‘It was creepy. This old man was sitting there, as real as you or me, and he looked at me and he had such a kind face.’ Tears spilled over and ran down Emma’s face. ‘But what he said—’

‘What he said was that there was a demon clinging to her and that Emma must pray and that Our Lady and all the angels would keep her safe.’ Bea’s words, though very quiet, were clearly audible.

‘A demon?’ Simon echoed the word out loud, and several people turned to look. Bea glanced over her shoulder nervously and to her horror saw Sandra sitting only feet away from her.

Sandra smiled. ‘Tea break,’ she said weakly.

Bea stood up. ‘Simon, I think we should leave. We need to talk. In private.’

Sandra watched as the three of them walked out of the door. She didn’t follow. She was too shocked.

Mark was sitting in the snug, deep in thought, when Bea got home. ‘Darling, can we have a chat?’

She threw herself down onto the sofa. ‘I’m exhausted. But I think we’re through the worst with Emma.’ She sat forward again and looked at him, worried by his expression. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Sandra went to the dean.’

Bea felt herself grow cold. ‘She was there this morning, in the café. She was listening.’

Mark gave a slow nod. ‘He said she’s been watching you, following you. For your own good, naturally, and she felt she could no longer keep quiet. Also for your own good. And mine.’

‘And what could she not keep quiet about?’

‘I think you know.’

‘No, I don’t! What business is it of hers where I go and what I do? Or of the dean, for that matter. She has never seen me at work. She has never seen me gazing into crystal balls or invoking the spirits of the dead, or whatever it is she thinks I do! And what your wife does as a hobby or as a job is absolutely her own affair and nothing to do with the cathedral!’ She stood up, furious. ‘That bloody woman!’

‘She saw the article in the paper.’

There was a long moment of horrified silence. ‘But that was months ago,’ Bea said at last.

‘Apparently she has a file of cuttings.’ Mark sighed. ‘She showed the dean. And she told him she saw you conjuring spirits.’

Bea opened her mouth to retort, then she subsided back onto the sofa again. ‘She was there, outside the chantry?’

A look of genuine pain crossed her husband’s face. ‘I don’t know where all this happened exactly. What did you do in the chantry?’

‘The old priest is there sometimes. I don’t conjure him!’ she almost spat out the word. ‘He sits by the altar and he prays for the souls of the dead, as he was charged to do hundreds of years ago. I go there sometimes to pray quietly on my own and sometimes he’s there and sometimes he isn’t.’

‘And Sandra saw him?’

‘I’ve no idea what she thinks she saw.’

‘You took Emma there.’

‘You know I did! It was a quiet place for her to pray for the soul of the murdered king. Oh, come on, Mark. This is what the church is for! Sandra is so busy and bossy with her self-importance and her tourists, she’s forgotten that people come here to pray!’

He sighed. ‘The dean is no fool. He recognises that she’s obviously got some kind of an agenda with you, and yes, he knows it’s the cathedral’s policy to allow partners their own life completely outside the place if they so choose, but