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but for now . . .’ She smiled to herself at David’s interest; it hadn’t taken much bait to hook him. ‘At the beginning they need some aesthetic and architectural advice – surely within your scope. But they also need some legal help. You see, it’s not at all a wealthy parish, not like St Anne’s. The only way they’ll be able to finance the work is by selling off the school and the church hall.’
    â€˜Ah.’
    Daphne leaned forward. ‘It’s important, David. The diocese wants to take the easy way out – they want to close the church, and amalgamate the parish with the one next door. They’ll flog off the whole lot to some sharp property developer, and the church will be torn down.’
    â€˜Not an E. B. Lamb church!’ David’s indignation was sharp. ‘That would be a crime!’
    â€˜You’ll help, then?’ she asked quickly.
    â€˜It will involve a lot of work, Daphne. Isn’t there anyone in the parish . . . ?’
    â€˜No one. You wouldn’t be stepping on any toes. No one but you could give them the kind of help they need.’
    Thinking aloud, he said, ‘They need to find a property developer who would be prepared to keep the school and the church hall standing – to convert them to offices, probably. It might mean playing several property dealers against each other, and negotiating with the charity commissioners as well. Complicated stuff.’
    â€˜They trust you,’ she assured him. ‘I’ve told them what a good lawyer you are. They’ve seen the work you’ve done on our chapel, and . . .’
    David narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Daphne, have you already promised my services?’
    Daphne nodded, unabashed. ‘I knew that you’d want to be involved. It’s the project of a lifetime for you!’ She proffered the whisky bottle. ‘Here, David. I think you’re the one who needs another drink now.’
    CHAPTER 6
    Â Â Â Â  For all the beasts of the forest are mine: and so are the cattle upon a thousand hills.
    Â Â Â Â  I know all the fowls upon the mountains: and the wild beasts of the field are in my sight.
    Psalm 50.10–11
    There was nothing on the exterior of the ordinary-looking Victorian town house on the outskirts of Norwich to distinguish it as the national headquarters of the British Animal Rights Coalition. Indeed, on the ground floor, apart from the large poster in the sitting room, there was nothing to set it apart from a normal home. But upstairs one of the larger bedrooms had been converted into an office, dominated by a very sophisticated and extremely expensive computer set-up, and the small boxroom on the first-floor landing was crammed so full of stacks of brochures and cartons of badges and bumper stickers that the door would scarcely open.
    Often meetings were held in the office, but tonight’s gathering would take place in the sitting room. There was almost a party atmosphere in the room, with little bowls of snacks placed strategically around on the tables. They were, of course, healthy snacks – sunflower seeds and low-fat crisps and peanuts with raisins – but they were snacks nonetheless. The huge, colourful poster had pride of place tonight; it complemented rather than overwhelmed the decor, defined as it was by the modern paintings that covered the walls.
    The enormous black dog in the corner didn’t move when the strikingly dressed dark-haired woman entered the room, but the man on the sofa turned and gestured at the bowls of snacks.
    â€˜It’s not a party, Fiona love. It’s a meeting.’ Rhys Morgan’s protest was half-hearted.
    â€˜Yes, but I think a bit of a celebration is called for. I’ve got in some sparkling grape juice, so you can have a little toast.’ Fiona Crawford sat down beside him on the sofa and stroked the red hairs on his arm. ‘Aren’t you cold in that T-shirt,