The Reaper (10 page)

That would be impossible, but she murmured something.

"Above all, no talking about it to anyone else."

"Agreed."

He said, "I've got to go. You understand why?"

"Mm."

He smiled faintly. "Potent wine."

"Yes."

"It doesn't mean we can't work on the books again. In fact we must. You're going to need help. I'll just have to stick to the one glass in future."

"Me, too."

She went to the door with him. Before leaving, he put his hand lightly on her forearm and said, "Thanks."

She watched him to the gate and up the street. From first to last it had been a cringe-making mistake. And when she closed the door and went back inside and saw the great box of account books and the stain on the floor she made a sound deep in her throat that was nothing less than a howl.

ten

NEW ORLEANS HAD BEEN paradise. Gary was back, red-faced and triumphant, keen to talk about his great adventure, but in a way that put Rachel down. "You've never heard anything like it and never will. Jeez, those long, hot nights in Preservation Hall and the Palm Court Jazz Cafe. We were cutting it up until dawn usually."

"Which was why you didn't get to the phone."

"I called you."

"Once in three weeks."

"Sure, honey." He'd taken on some outdated Americanisms that irritated her even more. "By the time I was waking up most days, around two in the afternoon, I needed to eat, and when I got to thinking of calling home it was always too bloody late over here, with the time difference, so I didn't disturb you. There wasn't much I could tell you anyway. It's a blur, but, man, what a blur."

The Southern cooking—even in the inexpensive places Gary and his friends had patronised—had suited him better than he expected. Glaring at the pork chop and two veg Rachel served up, he talked with relish about delicacies she could only imagine, gumbo and po-boys, black-eyed peas and jambalaya.

He was so high from the trip that he didn't notice the wine stain on the living room carpet. Rachel had tried glycerine and a carpet shampoo and got some of the colour out. It was still an eyesore. She'd brushed in talcum powder and made a small difference, but not enough.

He said, "I can't think why I left it so late in my life to make a trip like this one. You can keep your holidays in Buddleigh Salterton. I'll be jetting to the jazz spots in future."

The cosmopolitan Gary was a new infliction. Practically every statement he made about America downgraded England—and, by association, herself.

Later the same evening he said he wasn't feeling so good.

Rachel said it was probably the jet-lag.

"I don't think so."

"How do you know? You've never been on a jet before."

"Neither have you. I've got this pain across the chest. Can't shift it."

"Could be something to do with the way you were sitting in the plane."

"Hope it's not my heart." He'd always insisted he had a heart murmur, whatever that was. Just an excuse for not helping with the garden, Rachel always thought.

"If you're worried, let's call the doctor." ;

He didn't want the doctor, but after another hour of groaning and self-pity he thought better of it and let her phone. Old Dr. Perkins was on duty that evening and he was at the cottage inside twenty minutes. After pressing the stethoscope to Gary's chest, he said that the beat was a little irregular, but nothing to be alarmed about. "You say you've just had a long flight from the United States—and some over-indulgence there, am I right? It's a big effort for the body, bigger than we appreciate, flying for hours and then having to adjust to another time. This may well be a touch of angina."

"Angina? At my age?" Gary was horrified.

"What are you—mid forties?"

"Only forty-two," Gary said, and the hurt at the doctor's overestimate sounded in his voice.

"It's better than a full blown heart attack, I can assure you. If you're sensible, it needn't hamper you unduly. Some of my patients have had angina for years and lived well into their eighties." He produced a nitroglycerin tablet for Gary to chew and told him it should relieve the pain rapidly. It would still be necessary to have some tests on the heart function and he would arrange a hospital appointment.

The tablet worked, and Gary was still asleep when Rachel left in the morning for her appointment with the orthopaedic surgeon.

THE BLISS! It had been worth an 8:30 hospital appointment to be released from that horrid, heavy, grease-stained plaster. Now she was in the front garden making up for lost time, attacking some of the most vigorous weeds. Festoons of bindweed had taken over while she'd been unable to work out there, and when she tugged it away in satisfying armfuls she revealed other horrors, ground elder, couch grass, creeping buttercups and sticky groundsel. Some wild flowers she was willing to tolerate in a cottage garden. Harebells, columbines, the pink foxgloves, the purple monkshood and the dog rose hedge coexisted with the expensive plants she had bought from nurseries. The majority of the weeds had to go. Just about everything needed attention. If it wasn't overgrown, it was ailing. But she enjoyed being out there.

Cynthia Haydenhall rode unsteadily up the village street on her bike with bulging carriers dangling from both handlebars and a pair of marrows in the wire basket between them. She spotted Rachel and came to a rasping halt and jumped off the saddle. A couple of onions fell out of one of the bags and rolled across the road. Rachel stepped out of her garden to retrieve them.

"You're a bit overloaded, aren't you?"

"Harvest supper on Saturday. It's all left to the WI as usual."

"I'd forgotten."

"You're coming, I hope?"

Rachel hesitated. "I'm not sure. I may give it a miss this year."

"You can't do that. It's for church funds. Now you're the treasurer, it's a must."

"It doesn't mean I have to turn up to every event."

"You always have." Quick on the uptake, as usual, Cynthia peered at her friend. "Something upset you, did it?"

"I'm fine. Just busy."

"Tell you what, darling. If you come, I'll reserve the seat next to Otis for you."

Rachel felt the blood rush to her face. "No, don't."

"You're a big wheel on the PCC now. You're entitled to sit beside the rector."

"You sit beside him."

"Be like that," said Cynthia. "Last time we spoke you'd have given your eye teeth for an offer like that. What's up? Is Gary back from the States?"

Rachel glanced up at the curtains, still across the bedroom window. "He is, as it happens, but that's got,nothing to do with the harvest supper. You know he never comes to anything like that."

"He's smelt a rat, has he? Bad luck."

"What do you mean?"

"Your fling with Otis."

For a moment she was flustered, and it showed. How on earth had Cynthia found out? She made a show of denying it. "Cynthia! Leave off, will you? There's no fling, as you put it."

"Joking," said Cynthia.

"People will get the wrong idea."

"He picked you for treasurer."

That
was all she meant, thank God. "Because no one else wanted the job." Purely to divert Cynthia from the subject of Otis, she said, "I wouldn't mind helping out in the kitchen."

Cynthia assessed the offer. "No, I can't upset my team. Daphne, Joan and Dot do the cooking every year. Besides, you're not WI."

"They'd be glad of some help. They all know me."

"You want some credit for helping out." Satisfied that she understood what this was all about, Cynthia unbent. "I suppose I can stretch a point and find you a job if it's the only way we'll get you to come."

It was agreed that Rachel would help with the preparation and serving. Cynthia eased back onto the saddle and wobbled to her next engagement.

ON THE same September morning Peggy Winner was shopping in Warminster and decided to treat herself to a coffee in Rosie's, a teashop located in a whitewashed cellar below the high street. Peggy had a special affection for the place. Years ago, under different management, it had been Chinn's Celebrated Chophouse, perfect for intimate trysts with the tall Mauritian evening-class teacher she had for conversational French and much more. Alain had long since returned to his own country and surely forgotten all about suppers in Warminster, but Peggy still felt a sense of adventure going down the steps and through the stone passageway, if only for an innocent coffee and scone.

The interior was divided into three. You came first to the cooking area where you could inspect the cakes on offer, and, dipping your head to avoid the beam, progressed to the two rooms where the tables were. Peggy usually went right through to the back where it was quieter.

This morning someone was at the table she thought of as her own. Silly to be like that, only she was. She stared at the young man as if he was something she had trodden in, and then did a double-take. It was Burton Sands, from the village, in his business pinstripe and drinking black coffee. Their eyes met and she couldn't very well sit at another table. Blast him, she thought.

"You don't mind?"

He shrugged and shook his head. She might as well have been a stranger, and it seemed she was to him.

Peggy had enough charm for both of them and decided to help him out. "Funny, two Foxford people meeting down here. I'm Peggy Winner. I decided to reward myself for doing the shopping. It's so snug, isn't it? What's your excuse?"

"I work here."

"What as?"

"I'm a chartered accountant. We have an office over the road, above the newsagents."

"Yes, of course, you were up for treasurer. I'm on the parish council."

"I know," said Sands without animation.

The waitress came for Peggy's order. She asked if the scone could be warmed.

"I feel like a traitor when I use the supermarket instead of the village shop," Peggy said, to be conversational. "I suppose we're all guilty of that, and one of these days we'll lose our shop."

"Why wasn't I chosen?"

He wasn't willing to talk about the village shop. "That's not for me to say," Peggy guardedly said.

"I was better qualified."

"In book-keeping, you mean? True, but there are other considerations."

"Such as?"

The intensity of the young man put Peggy off her stroke. Before she knew it, she was giving him the inside information she had meant to keep to herself. "Mrs. Jansen was the rector's candidate. That has to count for something. After all, he has to work with her."

"She's treasurer to the parish, not to him," Sands pointed out.

"Yes, but in practice ..."

"You don't want someone who's in the rector's pocket. You want an independent treasurer."

"I'm sure she isn't in his pocket, as you put it." In his trousers, maybe, Peggy thought in passing. "And I'm confident she'll do the job conscientiously."

Burton Sands took a sip of coffee and flicked his tongue around his lips. "Someone hinted to me that she got the job because the rector fancies her."

Peggy laughed as if she hadn't heard a whisper of the rumour. She believed it, but she had to be discreet. "Even if it was true, which I doubt, it wouldn't be the first time a woman got the job for her good looks. How can anyone tell?"

"He's a man of God. He's not supposed to look at women in that way."

"Oh, come on, Burton," said Peggy impulsively. "Lighten up. Vicars are only human."

"If she was given the job because the rector lusts after her, then it's little short of deplorable."

"You sound like the Old Testament. I didn't say that was why she got the job. Don't put words in my mouth."

"Especially as she's married."

"You'd better watch what you say."

"1 don't mind speaking out if it's the truth."

"But is it?"

He looked into the dark dregs of his coffee as if the answer was there. "I'll find out. When I start on something I always see it through. Always."

She could believe him. He looked obsessive. If by some mischance this man got together with Owen Cumberbatch, the result would be explosive.

He pushed the cup to one side and said, "I'm going back to the office now."

She made some polite and untrue remark about the pleasure of being with him. He didn't reply.

After he'd gone she had some anxious moments going over what she'd said and wondering if he would spread it around. When her coffee and scone were served, she finished them and hardly noticed.

WHEN GARY finally discovered the stain on the carpet and said, "What happened here, for Christ's sake?" Rachel gave him most of the truth, explaining about her new responsibility as treasurer to the PCC and how the rector had wanted to show her the account books and she had felt obliged to offer refreshment in the shape of wine and finger food.

"You what?" he said with a glare. America hadn't mellowed him at all.

"He wanted to go over the figures. You can't do that in ten minutes. I had to offer something and it was a choice of coffee or wine. I decided wine was easier. Coffee's such a performance and you can't serve instant to a guest."

"So you bought a posh Wine and knocked the bottle over. Clumsy cow."

Blocking out the insult, she went into her prepared bit. "That's it. So embarrassing, too. I could have died! Most of the stain has gone as you see. There's just this tidemark at the edge. We can buy a small rug and cover it."

"Not out of my money, we won't."

"Have you got another suggestion?"

"Work some bloody overtime and pay for a new carpet. How come you got lumbered as treasurer anyway, dozy bitch? You're crap with figures—you know you are."

Let it pass, she told herself, though she felt the crude words like a series of body blows. He wants me to react. "I don't do much for the church. It was hard to say no. He took so much trouble when I broke my arm, driving me to hospital and everything."

"Don't do much for the church? You're there every Sunday putting our hard-earned in the plate. Isn't that enough?"

"Most of them do a lot more. The choir, the flower rota, bell-ringing, helping with Sunday school. I've never done any of that."

"You rattle a box for Christian Aid."

"That's nothing. Some people have prayer meetings in their homes every week."

His eyebrows shot up. "Don't even think about it, right?"

She could have mentioned that his jazz friends came and played their music when she was trying to watch the gardening programmes, but she didn't want a row. He was working up to something and he could get violent. She'd been pushed around before; not blows, exactly, but strong, frightening pushes.

He actually started a new conversation. "Speaking of the vicar—"

"Rector."

"His name is Otis Joy, right?"

"So?"

"Bloody stupid name."

"If you say so."

"But memorable. There can't be more than one pillock with a name like that—or so I thought. Now listen to this. There were these Canadians staying in our hotel. Good blokes. Three of them, from Toronto. We had a few Buds with them, got talking, as you do. I don't know how we got around to funny names, but we did. My old doctor, Screech, and that dentist of yours called Root."