Set far back from the street, copper spire rising nobly above the huge oaks that surrounded it, the church was protected by a walled courtyard with high iron gates. At twenty after twelve, a hoard of chattering women was already milling about impatiently in front of the gates. Armed with umbrellas, shopping bags, and great heavy purses, they cast angry glances at the church, eyed each other suspiciously, shoved closer to the gates. They looked more like plump, red-cheeked Amazon warriors in print dresses than genteel matrons. “My God, they’re going to storm the place,” Mandy said, pulling up at the curb. “The mob in front of the Bastille must have looked just like this.” “Mandy, you can’t desert me now.” “I have things to do,” she said firmly. “I’ll pick you up at three.” “Where are you going?” “Here and there. I want to see Douglas about something, and then I’m going to drive over to Merrymead. I understand they have a large library. There’s something I want to check up on.”
