Antiques Fate by Barbara Allan Page B

most worthwhile pursuit.” He was clearly accustomed to having a tourist stop by for a look at a house of worship right out of the English countryside. “So, then—you’re here to see the church.”
    â€œNo. Well, yes, of course—it’s lovely. But I’m really here to see you .”
    A curious smile formed. “Oh? Well, I’m happy to see you , Mrs. Borne.”
    â€œPerhaps we could sit in a pew and talk?”
    â€œYes. Let’s.”
    I followed him into the church’s austere interior where we sat in a hard-back pew. Down front, a scaffolding had been erected in the apse, the cracked, paint-peeling ceiling badly in need of repair.
    â€œWhat’s on your mind, Mrs. Borne?”
    â€œWas Millicent Marlowe one of your parishioners?”
    â€œAhh . . .” He tilted his head back. “You do jump right in, don’t you?”
    â€œI’m not sure I understand, Father.”
    His smile was slight but winning. “Mrs. Borne, I’m well aware of your reputation for solving murders here in Serenity County. I would imagine everyone in Old York is. But I can assure you that Millie’s death was just—and I don’t mean to diminish it—but just a tragic accident.”
    â€œYou believe she accidentally, forgetfully, took too many pills?”
    â€œI do, yes.”
    â€œWhy, Father?”
    He crossed his legs while gauging his answer.
    Finally, thoughtfully, he said, “I’ve known Millie my whole life—I grew up here. And yes, she was a member. Very regular in her attendance. But only recently I noted a deficiency in her memory. Slightly so, but she was forgetting things.”
    â€œFor example?”
    He shrugged. “What time service is held. Now and then, she couldn’t remember my name—even though, I grant you, it is unusual.”
    I shrugged. “Not so unusual anymore.”
    â€œOh, you mean, the Sherlock Holmes actor? Well, with some of the younger people, maybe. Among our restrictions are indoor TV antennas, and we’re still on Internet dial-up service. I’m afraid many Old Yorkians don’t get around much, Mrs. Borne. We live in a kind of bubble here.”
    â€œAnd I take it you wouldn’t mind bursting it, judging by your pro-incorporation stance on the board of trustees.”
    Gesturing to the scaffolding, Father Cumberbatch said tersely, “Isn’t it obvious? Living in the past is one thing, but having the present crumble and fall down all around you is something else again.” He sighed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound defensive. It’s terribly limiting, having such paltry funds to make even the simplest repairs.”
    I nodded sympathetically. “I understand your frustration. Your church is central to the charm of this old English village, and yet the only support you have is the offering plate.”
    â€œI would be content with that,” he said, twisting toward me, “if incorporation passed. It would mean growth for the town, and in turn, growth in the membership of this church.”
    â€œYou might need two offering plates.”
    â€œIt’s not just that. The young people . . . they won’t stay here. Many, perhaps most, grow up and leave as soon as they can. And what’s a church without young people?”
    â€œEventually,” I said, “it’s an empty building.”
    â€œMaybe not even that, if it crumbles.”
    â€œWhat’s your vision for the future of this church?”
    â€œ Of course I’m in favor of maintaining its historic look. But we need modern facilities. The idea of building even a small, new youth center, hidden away behind the church, is viewed by many in my congregation as heresy.”
    I gave him a gently encouraging smile. “You’re a young man to be trapped in such old ways, Father. Surely you’ve thought of moving on.”
    His grin came easily. “Well, vanity