‘It must be something,’ she persisted. ‘She’s pretty, that can’t be denied, but there’s more than one pretty girl in Saxonhurst.’
‘Change the subject.’
‘Oh, all right. When did you last have a girlfriend?’
‘Not that one.’
‘Oh, Adam, don’t be so tight-lipped. You look furious! It’s a reasonable enough question. I want to know about your past.’
‘I can’t think why you would. I’m a vicar. I trained as a vicar. I got ordained. I came here.’
‘This is your first parish?’
‘No.’
‘Why did you leave the last one?’
‘Julia, are you a Catholic?’
‘No, of course not, why do you ask?’
‘You seem to have had training from Torquemada.’
‘Goodness, so cagey. So Adam Flint has no past, no relationships, no previous job. How interesting. What a challenge for an enquiring mind.’
‘I’m really very much as you see me. There’s no great mystery.’
‘I refuse to believe it. I’ll work you out yet. See if I don’t.’
He strove, with some effort, to drive the conversation towards the history of Saxonhurst.
‘Was there always a member of your family as lord of the manor?’
‘Oh yes, we go back centuries,’ she said. ‘There’s a Shields in the Domesday Book, you know.’
‘No, really?’
‘Indeed. We presided over this village through thick and thin and we always chose the right side. Stephen over Matilda, Yorkists over Lancastrians, Parliamentarians over Royalists. We had the best connections and we made sure they counted. When Saxonhurst was a rotten borough, a Shields was the MP. We were bulletproof. We even got away without a single plague sufferer.’
‘So what happened?’
‘I’ve told you.’ Julia’s face, eager for once, closed immediately. ‘The misfortune of my parents, my own financial incompetence.’
‘And there isn’t a single spare Shields who can come and take the reins of the dynasty.’
‘I’m last of the line.’
‘You never married?’
‘Oh, I’d tell you mine if you’d tell me yours. But you won’t, will you?’
And there the conversation ended, signposts for the seaside having been sighted on the motorway, to rousing cheers from the back of the bus.
The villagers had scattered so rapidly and randomly once the bus was parked that Adam had missed his chance to try and ascertain Evie’s movements.
He found himself alone on a crowded promenade, a lonely black-clad figure in a sea of lobster-red skin and fluorescent nylon. What should he do with himself? Have his fortune told by Gypsy Rose Petulengro? Hardly appropriate for a man of the cloth. Have his portrait drawn in charcoals? Who would ever want such a thing? Take a ride in a flight simulator? No, all the amusements ranged around him failed to amuse.
He wanted Evie. He wanted to find her and take her away from her pernicious influences, just as Tribulation Smith had done before him. But where was she? If he looked in all the seafront pubs, he would draw unwanted attention to himself. Perhaps she was innocently eating candyfloss on the pier. Yes, the pier.