The Woman In Blue: The Dr Ruth Galloway Mysteries 8 by Elly Griffiths Read Free Book Online Page B

about his thesis, then with a colleague who wanted to complain about Phil. Normally this is one of her favourite pastimes but, when she catches sight of the clock, it’s ten thirty.
    ‘Sorry, Bob, I’ve got to go. I’ve got a meeting.’
    Bob’s voice follows her plaintively down the stairs: ‘And he’s even changed the loo paper in the staff bogs.’
    She hurries to the car park, book bag bumping on her hip. Her car is parked under a lime tree that drops sticky resin onto the bonnet but this has always been Ruth’s spot, and at the university you don’t change things unless you really have to. The marks on the paint didn’t matter when Ruth had a battered old car, but this one is new, bought last year. It’s smart and comfortable, but instead of a key it comes with a whizzy card device that you click to open the doors. Ruth always had problems finding her car keys, but the card is something else. Now she has to upturn her bag to find it, nestling at the bottom amongst the Polo crumbs and loose tampons. By the time she has inserted the card to start the ignition, the time on the dashboard clock says ten forty-five.
    Ruth races through the back roads to Walsingham. This car is faster than her old one, but that doesn’t help when she ends up behind a horse trailer for the first mile and then a man in a hat driving a Nissan Micra for the second. When she finally gets to Walsingham she follows signs to the car park and ends up at the top of the hill behind the farm shop. What was the name of the cafe Hilary mentioned? The blue something. Well, it can’t be far away. Walsingham seems very small, just a village, really. She passes an odd-looking pump-house with a brazier on top, a pub and a couple of shops selling shrine souvenirs. ‘Everything £1’, says one, Ruth’s first experience of a religious pound shop. She walks down the road, past flint and timbered houses, others painted in delicate pastel shades. Halfway down there’s a gateway that’s signposted as leading to the abbey grounds. The heavy wooden gates are shut now, apart from a grille showing a tantalising glimpse of green. The gate with its worn stone gargoyles looks odd amongst the picturesque houses, like a grey growth forcing its way through the wattle and daub. Ruth hurries on, looking in the shop windows for signs that one of them might be a cafe in disguise. As she does so she realises that these are very particular retail outlets. One sells priest’s vestments, gorgeous shades of green, purple and gold. Another has life-size models of the Holy Family, Mary in blue and white with upturned eyes, Joseph solid in russet red and brown, a disturbingly adult-looking baby Jesus. Aid to the Church in Need, The Pilgrim Shop. This must be where priests and vicars go for a spending spree. But, although the car park had been fairly full, there’s not a soul to be seen.
    At the bottom of the street she finds the Blue Lady. It’s part-cafe, part-bookshop and, at first, this too looks empty. Then she sees a woman browsing the shelves. Could that be Hilary? She’s about the right height and shape, but this woman has grey hair, cut in a glossy bob. Ruth has a few white hairs, but they always disappear if she changes her parting. Hilary is about her age, forty-five. Could she have gone completely grey?
    The woman turns and all thoughts of hair colour vanish. Because the woman is definitely Hilary and she is equally definitely a priest.
    ‘Hallo, Ruth.’
    ‘Hallo.’ For one lunatic moment Ruth wonders if she should address her as ‘Reverend’.
    Hilary gestures at the dog collar. ‘Sorry to spring this on you, but I couldn’t think of a way to tell you via email.’
    ‘That’s OK,’ says Ruth. She wonders if it would be socially acceptable to slip out of the cafe and run back up the high street screaming.
    ‘Shall we sit down?’ Hilary indicates a table in the window. ‘They do nice cakes in here. Do you fancy a cake? I do. It’s not Lent