Since the departure of Plunkett the delegates had somehow been less willing to talk about the murder investigation and the questions Inspector Croft had put to them. Since the maniac had been taken off, things had somehow become more real. They had therefore been forced back as a topic of conversation on religion — hardly a subject to bring out the best in anyone. As they lounged around the lawn after breakfast Philip Lambton probed Randi Paulsen on her attitude to drink, dancing, ritual, and a whole range of subjects on which the Anglican Church would claim to have liberalized its attitudes over the last century. Randi’s replies, replete with the sourest kind of smug bigotry (and accompanied by the fearsome smile), were not to his liking. ‘It’s like Cromwell’s England!’ he said. ‘I didn’t realize there were still churches like that outside the nutty-fringe groups. And to think of them existing in Scandinavia!’ ‘At least we understand that our job is to spread the gospel,’ snapped back Randi Paulsen, viciously flicking at the switch of her smile, ‘and not to run a second-rate variety agency.’ Watching the exchange, and almost purring with pleasure, was Bente Frøystad.
