Murdering Ministers by Alan Beechey Page B

flushed upstairs, followed by the sound of running water. Oliver remembered that Patience Coppersmith’s son was named Billy and understood the resemblance he had noted, although the youth’s hair was longer than his mother’s. A door opened above them.
    â€œIs that our guest?” The lanky figure of Nigel Tapster came into a view, treading carefully down the stairs, and not taking his eyes off Oliver.
    When Oliver had first seen Tapster the preceding Sunday, he had placed the preacher in the category of people who were better suited to casual dress than more formal wear, at least judging from the way Tapster’s long limbs had easily outdistanced the arms and legs of his cheap, wrinkled suit. But he looked almost as uncomfortable now, in an old pair of gray flannels, a shapeless red sweater, and the same black socks and black wing-tips that he must have worn for work.
    It took Oliver about a second to assess Tapster’s clothes. And that was all the time he had before he became distracted by the intensity of Tapster’s dark-eyed gaze, which hadn’t left Oliver’s face. It was as if, for those few moments, every other human being in the world had ceased to exist for Tapster. Dimly, Oliver noticed that his host was reaching down a hand, and he let his own hand be clasped in a firm, damp handshake.
    â€œGood evening, Mr. Swithin,” Tapster said in that nasal voice that should have begun to undo the spell he had cast on Oliver, but didn’t. “Forgive me, I didn’t dry my hands very thoroughly after washing them. But you can be sure they’re clean.” He had stopped on the first stair and beamed around at his audience. “We’re great believers in hygiene in this household, aren’t we Heather? Aren’t we Billy? Cleanliness being next to godliness, as they say.”
    Heather murmured her joyful assent to this banality, and Billy laughed triumphantly as if Tapster had just delivered a successful commentary on the Dead Sea Scrolls.
    â€œI trust your journey here was a satisfying one, Mr. Swithin?” said Tapster, catching Oliver again in his hypnotic gaze.
    â€œIt was fine. A little slow. Rush hour, you know.”
    â€œRush hour.” Tapster savored the phrase, as if the words were new to him and he was relishing their fresh-minted strangeness. “Yes, how trying.”
    â€œI always carry a book to read,” Oliver added.
    â€œA book? How wise. How very wise. Your mind must be in a state of constant nourishment. I admire that. Truly, I do. And I pray that you feel our meeting will continue to feed you, perhaps spiritually as well as mentally. Well, why don’t you follow me upstairs to my study, so we don’t disturb these accomplished musicians.”
    â€œWould you like some tea?” Heather asked, as Tapster began to climb the narrow staircase. He stopped, his head bowed, as if the question had untold theological significance for him. Oliver predicted that he was going to repeat “some tea” thoughtfully and then comment on his wife’s generosity. And indeed he did.
    Tapster had turned one of the bedrooms into his office, which was decorated with several bright South American paintings—naive scenes of country life or possibly Bible stories that hung incongruously over the faded wallpaper. A low, overflowing bookcase was also a stand for a collection of carvings in black wood, which seemed both religious and pagan at the same time. Similar carvings stood on the windowsill and on Tapster’s battered desk.
    â€œA remarkable collection,” Oliver commented politely, sitting in an easy chair placed at the end of the desk.
    â€œIn many ways. They are Heather’s, from her time as a missionary in South America. She was there for eight years altogether. Unfortunately, these trinkets are not all tokens of the Lord’s coming triumph, but symbols of the warped religious practices she was