The Reaper (15 page)

His first impression was of the cold interior. Then of another sort of bleakness, a sense of neglect, or at least austerity. The velvet curtains that were meant to act as a draught excluder over the door had lost the nap in patches where hands had drawn them across. He was standing on a strip of plain cord matting worn thin by years of use and fraying in places. It linked with another strip along the length of the aisle. He was puzzled. Lively, well supported churches replace fabrics when they get shabby. Even the altar cloth wanted replacing. The linen looked clean, yet it had obviously been laundered a few times too many. In structure this was a fine church with some strikingly beautiful stained windows. All it wanted was some redecoration and some money spent on the soft fabrics. True, there were some nicely worked kneelers hanging under the pews, but they would have been donated by the women who made them. The things that were the responsibility of the parish council were crying out for replacement.

He heard a movement. A woman was at work arranging white and yellow chrysanthemums in a large, chipped vase below the pulpit.

She spoke a greeting and Burton responded and offered to turn on the lights. The chance of a civilised conversation about the former vicar was surely better here than in the pub. He wished he'd thought of it earlier. Of course he couldn't have relied on anyone being inside.

"You should have seen it last weekend when we had the Harvest Festival," the woman said. "It looked a lot more homely then." She was tall and slim, in her sixties, and wearing a green apron and gardening gloves. "Do you know the church?"

"My first time," answered Burton.

"It doesn't have much of a history compared to some in the area, but we like it to be seen at its best."

"You've lived here some time?"

"Over twenty years. We came from London originally. You can probably tell I'm not local."

"Seen some vicars come and go, then?" This was the height of subtlety by Burton's standards.

"That's for sure. They're listed on the board by the door. I've known four different ones in my time here."

He walked over to the board and said aloud, "Otis Joy. There's a fine name." This time, he was going to pretend he hadn't even heard of the man. He would learn more that way. The people in the pub might have said more if he hadn't revealed that he was from Joy's present parish.

"A fine man, too," said the flower-arranger. "He had charisma in abundance. Like that President Kennedy."

Another notorious womaniser, thought Burton. Was that significant? "I happened to notice the name Joy outside on one of the headstones."

"That would be his wife's grave, poor soul. She was French, a charming young lady with a kind word for everyone, and always beautifully turned out."

"What happened?"

"It was dreadful. One of those chance events that bring tragedy when you least expect it. She was stung by a bee."

"And it killed her?"

"Very quickly. Some people are allergic to bee-stings, apparently, and she was one of them. The rector found her dead in the shower. When they did the post mortem they found this bee-sting. The pathologist said a bee must have got into the shower-compartment and been trapped somehow and attacked Mrs. Joy when she stepped inside."

"Strange."

"Not really. You see, there was a lavender hedge all round the rectory, close to the walls, and the bees are really drawn to lavender, if you've ever noticed. They come to it in hundreds on a sunny day. It was hot and the shower room window was open. A combination of things."

"Why would a bee go in the shower?" said Burton, deeply suspicious.

"I don't know. Perhaps she had some scented soap in there."

"I never heard of bees being interested in soap."

"Lavender soap."

"When did this thing happen?"

"Shortly before Otis moved away. We were sorry to see him go, but we all said it was a good thing he went. Too many unhappy associations in that vicarage for him."

"Yes, it's understandable." Burton made a huge effort to sound sympathetic.

"The Church of England put in another shower for the new vicar. There was nothing wrong with the old one, but they changed it, just the same."

"Very considerate."

"Speaking for myself," she said, "I wouldn't take a shower there now, knowing what happened. Showers frighten me, anyway, ever since I saw that Hitchcock film. Oh, what was it called?"

"Why would you take a shower in the vicarage?"

She frowned, thrown by his way of taking every statement literally. "I'm not speaking personally. I don't visit there. I was just putting myself in the position of the new vicar or his wife."

"You said it happened shortly before he left. Was he due to leave anyway?"

"No, he could have stayed on for years. We liked him. It was his wife's death that caused him to ask the Church for a move. The people here did their best to help him through the bereavement, cooking for him, and so forth, but it's difficult."

"Why?

"I mean for ladies wanting to help out. Tongues wag, you know."

"Why?" asked Burton, interested.

"If you're seen calling top often at the vicarage."

"What do you mean?"

"It's obvious, isn't it? The young, good-lopking vicar suddenly alone in the world. There's always the suspicion that someone who bakes him a pie has an ulterior motive,"

"Flirting?"

"Or something like it."

"Was Otis Joy a flirt?"

She looked uncomfortable with the word. "I'm sure he wasn't. He was always open-hearted and outgoing and ready with a joke and that could be mistaken for encouragement, 1 suppose. But no, he never overstepped the mark, and I'm sure it never crossed his mind. Certain women hover around vicars, buttering them up, always have and always will."

"Even married vicars?"

"You must have seen it going on. It means nothing usually."

This was becoming frustrating for Burton Sands. He said with some impatience, "Is he a ladies' man, or isn't he? You said he was charismatic, like Kennedy."

"Oh I see." She blushed. "No, I didn't mean anything like that."

This was not so productive as he had hoped. "What did you mean, then? Good-looking?"

"I meant charming and friendly, but that doesn't imply that he misbehaved. I never heard a whisper of anything like that."

"But if women found him attractive ..."

"I can't answer for other women." She blushed deeply. "This is becoming rather distasteful."

"It's not meant to be."

She went back to her flower-arranging. "I don't like talking this way about the poor man. It's unfair. He moved to another parish after his wife died and I hope he's happy there. I really do."

If her little speech was meant to draw a line under the conversation, it failed. Doggedly, Burton pressed his case. "Let's suppose he found someone else. You wouldn't mind?"

"That's his business entirely. He's still young. Why shouldn't he marry again in time? I think a vicar should have a wife supporting him if possible."

"Some don't," said Burton. He moved towards the altar, his hand curving over the padding on the communion rail. "This wants replacing."

"So does everything else if you look closely," she said, pleased to change the subject. "Unfortunately the funds won't run to it. We're rather a poor parish."

"I can't think why. You said it was well-supported when the Reverend Joy was here."

"Yes, but the upkeep is too much for a small community like ours. We never had any left over for jobs like that, and we lost our sexton, Mr. Skidmore. He was very good at keeping the church in good order."

"Lost him?"

"Quite literally. It's a mystery. He disappeared one day and nothing has been heard of him since."

Burton felt a prickling of excitement. "When did this happen?"

"About two years ago."

"In the Reverend Joy's time?"

"It was. He was a crusty old character, Fred, a bit sharp with visitors. He dug the graves and polished the communion vessels and cut the grass and brushed the path. He's officially a missing person, but most of us think he must be dead. He had no life outside the village. His cottage is still just as he left it, boarded up now. I suppose they'll do something about it in time."

"How does someone disappear?" said Burton.

"That's the mystery. Time goes on, and no one does anything about it. They ought to look in the reservoir, in my opinion. He could have drowned."

"He'd come to the surface."

"Well, I can't think where else he could be. Perhaps his mind went, and he wandered off. He was a bit strange at times."

"You won't be paying his wages any more," Burton pointed out. "You could get someone else."

"I don't think we could afford it any more. I know, because my husband is on the PCC. We had such a shortfall—is that the word?—that the bishop took a personal interest in our finances earlier this year."

"Really? The bishop?"

"Bishop Marcus."

"The one who died in the quarry."

"You heard about that?"

"He was our bishop, too." Burton was silent for a moment, digesting all the information he'd learned. "So the bishop asked to see the books?"

"He came here personally and made copies of everything. We were hoping it would lead to a reduction in our quota, but we haven't heard anything. I don't suppose we will now."

"I can't think why you're short of funds," said Burton, thinking professionally now. "Otis Joy was a popular vicar, you said? He must have had good congregations."

"The best I can remember."

"Then the collections must have been healthy enough. That's your regular source of income."

"1 suppose it's just that people aren't particularly generous here."

"You ought to have a fabric fund."

"I wouldn't know about that."

"I'm an accountant. I can tell you, you ought to have a fabric fund. By that, I don't mean curtains and things. I mean a fund for upkeep of the building generally."

"Quite a lot is done by volunteers," she said.

"Not enough," said Burton tartly. "You've got to manage these things on a businesslike footing. Who's your treasurer?"

"Old Mr. Vincent. Perhaps that's the trouble," she said thoughtfully. "He's been in the job for years and years. He's nearly ninety now."

"Is he competent to do the job at that age?"

"It's not for me to say."

"Someone ought to ask the question. You'd better mention it to your husband if he's on the PCC." Burton was working himself up to quite a lather of indignation, reminded painfully of his own grievance. "That's half the trouble with the modern church, well-meaning people doing jobs incompetently, and everyone too well-behaved to speak out. What did you say your name is;
? "

"I didn't say it." The flower-arranging lady wished she had never started this.

"Well, whoever you are, madam, I tell you this: it's up to the lay people like you and me to ask questions and blow whistles if necessary, or the clergy get away with murder."

She nodded, doing her best to humour him. She had not seen such intensity in a young man before.

fifteen

RACHEL TOOK A PHONE call from Otis one Thursday morning in November. He asked how she was.

Heart pumping at the sound of his voice, she said with all the calm she could dredge up, "So, so. I'm trying to get on with things. No sense in feeling sorry for myself." As she spoke, she was thinking but
I wouldn't mind some sympathy from you.

"I'm sure you're right. Are people helping out?"

"Some are."

He was quick to say, "Some aren't, you mean?"

"Some find me scary now."

"Scary?"

"I've been touched by death. It's some primitive fear that I'll spread the bad luck to them."

"It can't be that, Rachel. They're stuck for the right words, that's all. Hang in there. They'll lighten up."

Hang
in there.
She smiled at the phrase, from a clergyman. Shouldn't he have been telling her about the patience of Job?

He told her, "I was about to invite myself for coffee and a chat. How are you placed?"

How was she placed? Over the moon, now. "Come whenever you like."

"Tomorrow morning?"

Twenty-four hours away. She had an urge to say, "Why not now?" but she stopped herself. No doubt he had his day filled with choir practice and hospital visits and ecumenical meetings.

He was saying, "A simple cup of instant, right? That's what I drink all the time. I don't want you going to any trouble."

She managed to sound casual and light-hearted. "All right. Instant, in a chipped mug."

"And not so much as a digestive biscuit."

THE FIRST sign of the festive season, winking lights on the fir tree outside the Foxford Arms at the end of November, was not widely welcomed. It came too soon for most villagers. The shops and streets of Frome and Warminster had been decorated since the beginning of the month; out here, people liked to believe they didn't need to rush things.

"It's all about the cash register," Owen Cumberbatch said in the bar, where he held forth nightly. "Pack the customers in at all costs."

"No, it isn't, not here it isn't," insisted the publican, Joe Jackson. "It's no busier here tonight than any other day. It's about bringing a little joy into the village. Lord knows, we've had an unhappy few months, what with poor old Stanley passing on, and then that fellow Gary Jansen. Let's try and cheer ourselves up."

A voice from the outer reaches called out, "Well said, Joe."

"Did I hear you say drinks on the house, dear boy?" said Owen.

"No, you didn't. I've got a living to make like everyone else. You'll get your glass of punch on the carol-singing evening, if you go round the village with the choir, that is."

"When's that?"

Sometimes people forgot how recent an arrival Owen was. He seemed to have been telling his stories for ever.

"About ten days before Christmas. They go round the houses collecting money for the Church."

"And mince pies," added PC George Mitchell from his seat by the fire, "and the odd glass of something warm. It's a good evening."

"You can count on me, then," said Owen. "I've sung with the best."

"The Three Tenors?"

Owen disregarded that. "My good friend Sir Geraint Evans wanted me to go professional, but I had other plans at the time. I can still hit top C when I want to."

"We don't want any of that. You'll frighten the livestock," said Joe Jackson. "You'll be better off carrying one of the lanterns."

The friend of the famous found it difficult to comprehend why people failed to warm to him in this village. He shifted the focus of the discussion. "I expect OJ joins the carol-singers?"

"OJ?"

"The rector."

At one of the three tables grandiosely called the dining area, Burton Sands paused over the microwaved steak pie he was quietly consuming. Burton's week had been thrown into disarray by his visit to Old Mordern. He'd come to the pub because he hadn't been shopping for food. At the mention of the rector he put down his knife and fork and leaned back in his chair so as not to miss a word.

"Wouldn't surprise me if he turns it into another jam session," Owen went on.

"Get away!" said someone.

"He's not one to be troubled by tradition. You've seen it for yourself. Anyone who can turn a funeral into the Twelfth Street Rag isn't going to think twice about trampling on people's feelings."

"That wasn't his doing," said George Mitchell. "That was the widow wanted that."

"Bollocks, dear boy. She'd never have thought of that in her state of grief. Typical Otis Joy, that was."

"What do you know about it?"

The buzz of conversation around the bar stopped suddenly, enabling Burton Sands to overhear every scrap of gossip about the rector.

Owen Cumberbatch claimed smugly, "I happen to know the way the man works, his
modus operandi.
He's a master of deception. If you or I had something dodgy to cover up, we'd do it quietly when no one was around. Not that fellow. He does it with a bloody fanfare. Everyone cheers and says what a great bloke he is. Showmanship, dear boy."

"What's he got to hide?" said Joe Jackson.

"There you go," said Owen, snapping his fingers. "You're blind, you lot. I knew a fellow once—a very good friend of mine—called Borra. He was the world's greatest pickpocket. This was in my circus days."

"Here we go," some voice said from the dark.

"When I was no more than a lad," Owen went on, unfazed. "Borra was doing it legitimately, as an act. He'd invite several of the audience into the ring and sit them on chairs in full view, under the spotlights, and riot only empty their pockets, but remove ties, wristwatches, braces, even, arid the poor suckers wouldn't feel a thing, wouldn't know it had been done. That's what OJ is doing to you lot, and you're the mugs who can't see it, because he distracts you with all the razzmatazz."

"What's he up to?"

Owen spread his hands and smiled.

"Come on," said Jackson. "We're waiting to hear."

Over in the dining area, Burton Sands was so eager to hear that he'd abandoned his pie and turned right round in his chair.

Owen shook his head and picked up his drink. "There's none so blind as those that will not see."

It was out of character, but he refused to say any more. Normal conversation was restored.

Presently, Burton Sands materialised at Owen's elbow and offered him a drink, a fateful moment, this coming together of bombast and calculation, for Owen was happy to say in private what he'd been unwilling to tell the whole pub. Mostly, Burton listened, trying not to betray his amazement at the litany of wickedness Owen was only too happy to repeat for him. Not merely fiddling the funds, not just philandering with the ladies of the parish, but murder, serial murder. Burton's festering suspicions of Otis Joy were justified, according to this man. His head reeled. A clergyman who killed his own wife, a sexton, a PCC treasurer, and maybe others?

"And you seriously think he kills people when they find out about his embezzlement?"

"Without a doubt, dear boy."

Burton hesitated on the brink of the chasm of evil that had just opened up. "I heard a rumour that prior to Bishop Marcus's death, he was investigating Joy."

Up to this moment Owen hadn't made any connection between Otis Joy and the death of the bishop. However, no one was his equal at claiming other people's gossip as his own. "Spot on. I heard it, too. And you wonder if he had anything to do with the bishop's death? You bet your life he did."

"It isn't far from here, that quarry," Burton said, more to himself than Owen.

Owen was thinking fast. "Easy enough to dress it up as a suicide."

Burton was appalled. In a wicked, wicked world, surely this was beyond all.

He left the pub soon after with eyes as wide as a bushbaby's.

Twenty minutes later, Owen got off the stool and collected his coat and Russian fur hat—the last relic, he liked to tell people, of his days as an undercover servant of the Queen—without noticing PC George Mitchell leave his place by the fire and fol- low him out. The first he was aware of it was a firm grip on his upper arm outside the pub door.

"A quiet word, Owen."

"Here?" Owen's face was turning strange colours in the lights of the Christmas tree.

"I'll walk with you."

They started along the road.

"Normally I don't take much notice of things said in pubs," Mitchell told him, "but you went overboard in there tonight. It was close to slander."

"Slander?" said Owen. "Not me? I'm a truth-teller, through and through."

"You know who I am?"

"I do, indeed."

"With me, you'd better stick to facts."

"I intend to."

"What is it about the rector, then? What were you getting at?"

Owen was less fluent at this point of the evening. "The rector? You mean... ? What
do
you mean?"

"You were saying the jazz at Gary Jansen's funeral was his doing."

"In a way, in a way," Owen hedged.

"As if he had some ulterior motive."

"Did I?"

"You talked about a
modus operandi."

"Well, yes."

"As if he was up to something criminal."

"I can't
prove
anything."

"You made it up, because you don't like the man."

"No, no. I wouldn't do that."

"So you do know something."

"Things I pick up here and there, that's all."

"Such as?"

Owen sighed heavily. There was no pleasure in giving up his scant information this way. "Well, I knew him before, in his former parish. No one can deny that wherever Otis Joy goes, sudden deaths take place. His young wife. The sexton. He comes here and what happens? The church treasurer drops dead."

"People die unexpectedly every day," said George.

"Yes, but they aren't all closely connected with one man. Then Gary Jansen goes."

"You can't link Gary Jansen with these others. He didn't even go to church."

"His widow does. She's the new treasurer."

George hesitated, weighing what had just been said. "What are you saying? That it has to do with money?"

"I don't honestly know. All I can tell you is that I saw Gary Jansen on the day he died talking to the rector outside the village shop and it didn't look to me as if they were on about the weather, or the state of the world. Serious things were being said."

"By Gary?"

"Oh, yes. He was doing most of the talking. And the rector didn't like what he was hearing."

"Is that it?" said George. "That's your case against the rector? You saw him talking to Jansen?"

"On the day he died," Owen repeated.

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning they weren't unknown to each other, those two, just because Gary wasn't a church-goer. Gary said something that got up Joy's nose. I don't know what it was. But just suppose he found out a couple of things about Joy's past. Wouldn't Joy want him out of the way, and quickly?"

"Owen, this is a crock of shit."

"Do you mind?"

George stopped and grabbed Owen's coat-front and pulled him almost nose to nose. "And if you go on repeating it, people are going to get stroppy with you and I'm not going to guarantee your safety. Do you follow me? So cut the crap."

RACHEL MADE scones for Otis and the whole cottage filled with the smell of baking. She was sure from her visit to the rectory kitchen that he was no cook himself. The shelves had looked bare except for tins and cereal packets. No doubt he lived on convenience foods. Impressing a man with her cooking might not do much for her feminist credentials, but she was sure she could make a real difference to his quality of life. She wondered if his wife—the one who had died so tragically—had been a good cook. It wasn't certain. The French make a big deal of their culinary skills, but they often go out to eat.

The right way was to be subtle about it. Let the scones make their own suggestion.

He arrived on time, buoyant as usual, saying it was a peach of a day for the time of year. Rachel thought he was overplaying the heartiness a bit, probably to gloss over (what happened the last time he came. To avoid more embarrassment on the sofa, she asked if he minded coffee in the kitchen, and he was in there like a terrier scenting rabbit.

They faced each other across the kitchen table, formal as privy councillors. "We agreed instant coffee," he reminded her as she reached for the cafetiere.

"That was a joke."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"You secretly wanted real coffee?"

"No, I mean if you can joke at a time like this, you're winning. Here's one you may not have heard: the first pair ate the first apple. Geddit?"

She managed a smile, but she didn't want this to be a laugh- in. She said straight out, "There wasn't any love between Gary and me. I'd be lying if I said there was."

He shifted awkwardly on his chair.

She had to say more now she had started. "You must have realised. But it's still a shock, becoming a widow, I mean. Well, you understand. You lost your wife suddenly, didn't you?"

He looked even more uncomfortable. He was bound to respond seriously. "It wasn't so much the way I felt in myself. There was grief, but I could handle that. It was the reaction of other people—like you told me on the phone. They cut you. They don't know what to say, most of them, so they stay clear."

She nodded. "You feel as if you've got the plague."

"It doesn't last long. Do the things you normally would and they'll be more relaxed with you. Christmas is coming up. Make a point of joining in things, the carol concert, the midnight service. Parties, if you want."

"So soon?"

"We've left the Victorian age behind. I mean, you don't have to overdo it. I wouldn't walk around waving a sprig of mistletoe."

"Not this Christmas," she said.

She hoped for a positive response. Certainly his eyes opened wider. Too wide. He looked startled. Otis Joy was shockable.

"These are great," he said, holding up a piece of scone, but Rachel wasn't to be sidetracked. She was more in control than when he last came here. Disposing of Gary had strengthened her.

"It must have been different for you, losing your wife."