The Mushroom Man by Stuart Pawson

Author:Stuart Pawson [Stuart Pawson]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780749012854
Publisher: Allison & Busby
Published: 2012-10-15T16:00:00+00:00

The Reverend Gordon Ibbotson was in a confused, mixed-up, fed-up, wish-I-were-dead mood as he swung his middle-of-the-range Audi into the vicarage drive. He reached out with his left hand to prevent the Pyrex container on the passenger seat from sliding away and spilling its cargo of home-made samosas onto the carpet.

‘Very nice, Gordon,’ Mrs Sharmini had told him. ‘But perhaps just a little more generous with the turmeric next time.’

It had been the final night of his Indian cookery class, and had not gone as expected. They had all prepared their specialities and enjoyed a boisterous evening sampling each other’s fare and entertaining members of the other classes. The rather informal plan was that they would then all repair to the pub and continue the convivialities; after which the Reverend Ibbotson intended offering one of his classmates, whom he knew only as Pauline, a lift home.

When the subject of the pub was raised, however, heads were shaken. ‘Sorry, I can’t make it,’ was the common cry. A mysterious person called Ray was coming to collect Pauline from the class, no doubt attracted by the thought of sampling her shakooti rassa. The Reverend placed the lid over his sad-looking samosas and came home.

As the car jerked to a standstill on the drive the five-hundred-watt security light flicked on, dazzling the vicar with its glare and triggering off photosynthesis in his herbaceous borders. In the shadows, darker than a sea-cave, between the garage and a Pyracantha watered, a claw-like hand tightened its grip on the shotgun.

The figure in the shadows watched the clergyman climb from the car, fumbling with keys and casserole, and unlock his front door. The intention was to wait until he was inside, then gain admittance by ringing the bell for the side entrance.

The vicar reappeared almost immediately. He’d come out again to put the car in the garage. The figure, high on the adrenalin that the role of Destroying Angel generated, withdrew into the darkness, breath held and heart pounding like a desperate prisoner hammering on a cell door.

When the Audi was safely tucked up for the night, the clergyman pulled the garage door down and locked it. He cast a brief glance across his lawn to see if any hedgehogs were foraging for worms or moths that had been scorched flightless by the security light, then pushed his front door open again. The Destroying Angel relaxed and stretched upright.

‘Reverend Ibbotson! Gordon!’

A middle-aged woman was coming up the drive and calling his name, trotting from the knees down in the way that some women do.

‘Mrs McFadden!’ said the vicar, with undisguised enthusiasm.

She was slightly out of breath as she stopped before him. ‘Oh!’ she puffed. ‘I saw your light come on so I thought I’d bring you your typing. You did say it was urgent.’ She passed him a pink folder.

‘I didn’t expect you to do it tonight, Brenda. Tomorrow would have been soon enough, but it’s very good of you. Did you have much trouble with my terrible spelling?’

She gave a little giggle.

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