Free The Woman In Blue: The Dr Ruth Galloway Mysteries 8 by Elly Griffiths

She’d light candles in the recreation room and pray every night. She said that she thought her guardian angel was looking after her. Turns out he wasn’t,’ he adds, with sudden bitterness.
    ‘Her mother said that she wanted to take a course,’ says Tim. ‘Something spiritual, she said. Do you know what that was?’
    Jean and Stanley look at each other and smile. ‘It was a course in angel therapy,’ says Jean. ‘You tap into the healing vibrations of the angels.’
    More angels. Tim doesn’t dare look at Nelson. ‘Where did she find this course?’ he asks.
    ‘Online,’ says Jean. ‘You get a certificate and everything.’ She obviously thinks some sort of explanation is needed because she says, ‘Chloe loved angels. She collected pictures of them. She gave me this beautiful angel brooch. I’ll never take it off.’ She points at her chest, where a little gold cherub nestles in the grey fleece. ‘She was interested in all sorts of spirituality, though. As an ex-teacher I recognised a truly curious mind. She meditated, as Stanley says, she did mind, body and spirit courses and she went to conventional C of E church services.’
    ‘She went to church?’ says Nelson. ‘Where?’
    ‘St Simeon’s in Walsingham,’ says Stanley. ‘I went with her sometimes. Doctor McAllister drove us, but she never came into the church.’
    ‘That figures,’ says Jean. ‘Fiona McAllister’s an atheist if I ever saw one.’
    ‘Did Chloe ever talk to you about anyone she met at St Simeon’s?’ asks Nelson.
    ‘She said she used to see her guardian angel there,’ says Stanley, in a matter-of-fact voice.
    ‘What do you think she meant by that?’ asks Tim.
    ‘She said she’d seen a vision of her guardian angel,’ says Stanley, ‘in the graveyard.’
    ‘Did you believe her?’
    ‘Oh, yes,’ says Stanley. ‘She was telling the truth, I’m sure of it. I’ve learnt to spot true mystics in my line of work.’
    ‘What line of work is that?’ asks Nelson.
    Stanley gives him a sad smile. ‘I’m a priest,’ he says.
    *
    ‘Bloody hell,’ says Nelson, driving back through the darkening lanes. It’s still afternoon, but already the daylight is fading. ‘You don’t expect to find a priest in a drying-out clinic.’
    ‘I don’t know,’ says Tim. ‘They must come under tremendous strain. People dump all their problems on their ministers. I don’t know if they have enough training or counselling to help them to cope. I should imagine it’s enough to make you turn to drink.’
    It’s a characteristic, measured Tim response. ‘Is your family religious?’ asks Nelson.
    ‘My mum is,’ says Tim. ‘She goes to church every Sunday. All her social life is bound up in the church too. I don’t believe myself, but her faith’s got Mum through some very bad times. It’s been a real support to her, a real community.’
    Nelson wonders what the bad times entailed. Tim never mentions a father – perhaps he died or deserted the family. It’s typical of Tim to answer a question in a very open, friendly way and yet not tell you much.
    ‘My mum’s religious too,’ he says. ‘Roman Catholic. We were all brought up as Catholics but none of us practise now. For my mum, though, it’s the centre of her world. She’s like your mother, never misses a Sunday.’
    She goes on Fridays too, for some obscure reason that Nelson can never remember. Something to do with collecting brownie points for the souls in purgatory. He has a superstitious impulse to cross himself. He remembers Cathbad saying, ‘You’re still such a Catholic, Nelson.’
    ‘Stanley wasn’t a Catholic priest, though,’ he says aloud.
    ‘“Anglo-Catholic”, he said.’
    ‘It’s not the same,’ says Nelson. ‘Anglo-Catholics are still Protestants.’ He can still hear his mother criticising her parish priest, Father David, who’s a Church of England convert (‘He only came over to us because he couldn’t stand the thought of female