On Harrow Hill

“Lots of dark rumors to that effect.”

“So Danforth is super-wealthy?”

“Not in Larchfield terms. The Peale family lost most of its fortune and business properties to a Ponzi schemer of impeccable blue-blood provenance. Greed was the engine and destroyer of the family’s wealth. Danforth inherited what was left, but has done nothing to increase it. Like many who’ve been given a lot, he’s resentful that he wasn’t given more.”

“I appreciate your candor,” said Gurney.

“What you mean is, you’re surprised that a woman of God would speak like this behind the backs of her neighbors. The fact is that just about everything I said to you I’ve already said to their faces, and would gladly say again. There are many people-pleasers in this world, Detective, but I’m not one of them. I believe my creator put me on earth to tell unpleasant truths.” She glanced up at an antique clock on the mantelpiece. “Any other questions?”

“Do you have an opinion of Chandler Aspern?”

She made a lemon-sucking face. “Chandler is just a poor imitation of Angus. The same greed and ruthlessness, with half the intelligence and none of the charm.”

“How about Darlene Tate?”

“On the surface, a lubricious drunk. Beneath the surface, a lubricious drunk.”

“I gather from your earlier comment that you have no great affection for Reverend Gant. Any particular reason for that?”

Russell unclasped her hands and, leaning forward in her chair, slowly rubbed her palms on the tops of her legs as if preparing her muscles for battle. She delivered her opinion like a battering ram.

“Silas Gant is a virus in the heart of Christianity. A walking, talking malignancy. He promotes racism, hatred, guns, and violence as though they were life’s cardinal virtues. His so-called ministry is an ugly joke.”

“What’s in it for him?”

“Money, publicity, the thrill of stirring up an angry mob. And—if he can grow that mob big enough—a political career. He wouldn’t be the first petty demagogue to rise to the heights of power on a wave of ignorant fury.”

“You think that’s his goal?”

“Everything he does is consistent with building a certain sort of following—­resentful fundamentalists who see evil in their enemies, virtue in themselves, and the Bible as a blunt instrument for breaking heads. That constituency, led by a clever psychopath . . .”

Her voice trailed off. She shook her head in a shudder of revulsion before adding, “I’m sorry to say, Angus was one of his largest supporters.”

“Really? I didn’t think Angus was a particularly generous man.”

She startled Gurney with a harsh laugh. “I guarantee you that nothing Angus did was even remotely connected with generosity.”

She got up from her chair, which emitted a slight creak when relieved of her weight. “I hope I’ve been helpful.”

“Perhaps we can speak again, if other questions come up?”

“I’m always here, and never too shy to share the truth.”

She led Gurney through the dark center hall to the front door and opened it.

As he was about to step out onto the porch, he hesitated. “Hilda is an interesting name, one I haven’t heard in a long time. Were you named after anyone in particular?”

“The seventh-century abbess of Whitby Monastery in North Yorkshire. She reputedly had a talent for turning snakes to stone.” She flashed a sharp-edged smile. “I envy her.”

28

Gurney emerged from the parsonage driveway onto the street that separated St. Giles from the village square. He was about to head for Waterview Drive, as he’d planned, when he noticed three figures coming out of police headquarters, wearing motorcycle leathers.

Two were hulking, bearded men—the ex-lineman types employed as bouncers in rowdy bars. The third man, walking in front of them, was clean-shaven and more compact. Gurney recognized Silas Gant’s gray pompadour from his appearance on RAM News.

They went straight to three motorcycles parked in front of the headquarters building, put on their helmets, revved up their engines, and pulled away from the curb, Gant in the lead.

Deciding to postpone his trip to Mary Kane’s house, Gurney drove around to the headquarters side of the square and parked in the space vacated by the trio.

He went straight to Morgan’s office. He found him at his desk, looking worried as usual, phone in hand. He put it down when Gurney entered.

“I was about to call you. Gant was just here.”

“I saw him leaving, with a pair of apes. What did he want?”

“To keep me informed, is what he said. He plans to hold what he called ‘a gospel revelation tent meeting’ tonight out at the Buckman farm. He told me that members of his Church of the Patriarchs would be providing security.”

“He’s expecting trouble?”

“So he says—from local Satanists and God-haters.”

“What Satanists and God-haters?”

“Good question. He also wanted me to know that his security people would be conducting, in the public interest, their own search for Billy Tate and any fellow travelers supporting Tate’s activities.”

“And what did you say to all this?”