Murdering Ministers Read Free Page B

three chords and the word “Alleluia,” but the youngsters were clearly enjoying it more than anything else in the service. Two or three of them began to clap, and the woman who had been playing the piano earlier now started to shake a tambourine in an arrogant fashion.
    The performance ended, and Tapster stepped down from the platform, reverently replacing the guitar in its case. Oliver noticed that the young people mostly had their eyes closed now, with half-smiles on their faces, and one was raising a hand to the ceiling, as if asking God for a bathroom break. The old man in front of Oliver grunted.
    Piltdown rose in the pulpit and announced the final hymn. The tambourine player stepped over to the piano and played the introduction to “As With Gladness, Men of Old.” Oliver wondered if Tapster would return the earlier compliment and accompany her on the maracas.
    After a final blessing and a moment of silent prayer, Piltdown came down from the pulpit and stalked along the aisle on the right-hand side of the church. His flock meanwhile began to gather personal belongings and fidget in their pews. The young people were the first to escape, shuffling up the left aisle and through a heavy velvet curtain that hung below the balcony and separated the sanctuary from the narthex beyond. Tapster stayed behind, collecting his guitar. The pianist waited for him. Oliver passed his hymn book to a young girl of around thirteen, who was already steadying a teetering pile with her chin. She grinned and hurried away.
    In the pew in front, the older couple stood as if on cue and turned simultaneously. Though they were both clearly in their seventies, Time had so far treated them with uncharacteristic decency. The woman was tall and straight-backed, with milky skin and a braid of thick white hair. Her husband was stocky-framed, and his hair, while fine and thinning, still covered his scalp and was largely dark. The way he fixed Oliver with a critical gaze from his small, brown eyes indicated he had no need of spectacles.
    â€œCedric Potiphar,” he announced solemnly, with a noticeable Cornish accent and a volume level that showed Time could still be a bastard. Oliver shook the large, dry hand and managed to introduce himself without mispronouncing his name. Potiphar took in this new information. “My wife, Elsie,” he added eventually, as if unsure of the propriety of exposing her to a writer. Mrs. Potiphar rewarded Oliver with a nervous smile, but didn’t speak. The couple then repeated the entire exercise with Ben.
    â€œMay I welcome you both to the Lord’s tabernacle on this Sabbath day?” Potiphar intoned loudly.
    â€œThank you very much,” said Oliver.
    â€œWe outstretch the hand of fellowship to all,” Potiphar conceded. “No matter how unworthy,” he added more quietly, with a sidelong glance at Tapster and the pianist, who were ambling past the pew. He fell silent. The girl with the pile of hymn books paused and watched Tapster until he disappeared through the curtain at the back of the church.
    â€œI suppose the guitar-playing is a way to involve the younger folks,” said Ben quickly, correctly guessing that the fishlike expression on Oliver’s face masked a fruitless and increasingly desperate attempt to think of any conversational comment to make to the Potiphars. Although Oliver was the most polite individual he knew, Ben was also aware that his friend was utterly inept when it came to sustaining small talk.
    Potiphar glared at the photographer as if he’d offered to take a set of boudoir shots of his wife. He tapped on the leather cover of his well-worn Bible. “There’s nothing in God’s word about preaching through entertainment,” he grumbled.
    â€œNothing about hearing aids either, cocky, more’s the pity,” muttered his wife under her breath. Potiphar appeared not to notice.
    They had edged their way to the aisle and