The Woman In Blue: The Dr Ruth Galloway Mysteries 8 by Elly Griffiths

yet.’
    Ruth has no idea when Lent is, but she’s surprised to hear a vicar sounding so enthusiastic about cakes. Aren’t they meant to live on bread and water? She only knows one other member of the clergy and he seems to eat and drink fairly normally. But he’s Irish and a Catholic. Her parents’ church has elders, ordinary people who are just holier (and smugger) than the rest of them. She doesn’t really have any experience of C of E vicars, aside from Rev or reruns of The Vicar of Dibley .
    Hilary orders tea and a slice of carrot cake. Ruth goes for coffee and a chocolate brownie.
    ‘Have you lived in Norfolk long?’ Hilary asks her.
    ‘About seventeen years.’ Christ, is it really that long?
    ‘And you work at the university? I’ve looked you up. Very impressive.’
    Why? thinks Ruth. Why have you looked me up? Instead she says, ‘Are you still working in archaeology? I mean . . . not now obviously . . .’ Her voice trails away.
    ‘I worked as an archaeologist for a while,’ says Hilary. ‘Did some fantastic digs in Sussex. At Boxgrove and Whitehawk. But then . . .’ She shrugs. ‘I found God.’
    Why do people keep doing this? Ruth’s parents discovered God when she was ten and her life was never the same again. Why couldn’t He just stay hidden?
    Feeling she should show an interest, she asks Hilary how long it takes to become a vicar.
    ‘Ages,’ says Hilary with a brilliant, ageless smile. ‘First there’s the discernment period – where you ask yourself if this is really what God wants for you – then there’s the training. That took three years in my case. Then I was a curate for four years. Now I’m a parish priest in south London.’
    ‘Where?’ asks Ruth. ‘I’m from south London originally.’
    ‘I know,’ says Hilary, rather worryingly. ‘My church is in Streatham. Quite a challenging area, very mixed.’
    What does ‘mixed’ mean in this context, wonders Ruth. Black and white? Rich and poor? Sheep and goats?
    ‘I’m very happy,’ says Hilary. ‘I love my work and I’m married with a four-year-old son.’
    ‘I’ve got a five-year-old,’ says Ruth. ‘A daughter. Kate.’
    This is something Hilary doesn’t know about her. She beams. ‘That’s wonderful! I wish we could get them together. What does your partner do?’
    ‘I’m single,’ says Ruth. ‘I’m not with Kate’s father.’
    Hilary gives her a compassionate smile. ‘Must be hard work.’
    ‘It is, sometimes. But I have a lovely childminder and friends help out a lot.’
    ‘That’s good.’
    ‘Yes, it is.’
    Their drinks and cakes arrive and Ruth divides her attention between the chocolate brownie and wondering how she can get round to asking why it was so important that they meet and have this fascinating chat about lifestyles. Then Hilary, cutting her cake into tiny cubes, says, ‘Are you wondering why I wanted to see you?’
    ‘Well, I . . .’
    ‘The thing is, Ruth . . .’ For the first time Hilary’s sunny glow falters. She looks older, and afraid. ‘The thing is, I’ve been getting these letters.’
    ‘What sort of letters?’
    ‘The thing is,’ says Hilary again, cubing the cubes, ‘there are some people who just don’t like the idea of women priests.’
    Ruth knows. She’s read about it in the Guardian . Though, to be honest, she usually skips those articles on the way to the TV listings.
    ‘Most women priests get abuse of some kind, people saying things, refusing to come to their services. When I first started getting the letters I didn’t think anything of it. A rite of passage, that’s what Brian, my husband, says.’
    ‘What does Brian do?’ Well, Hilary had asked her.
    ‘He’s a priest too.’ Hilary smiles. ‘Crazy, isn’t it? But we met at theological college. He’s a school chaplain.’
    ‘So what do these letters say?’
    ‘Well at first it was the usual stuff about all the disciples being men, women not being worthy, women’s vocation being