The Reaper (17 page)

"Ain't necessarily so, Burton."

"Why not?"

"They can replace a queen very easily. When the queen dies, or leaves the hive, they make an emergency queen cell by enlarging a worker cell. The lava in there migrates into the bigger space and is specially fed with royal jelly—you've heard of that?—and turns into a queen. So there's an in-built procedure. They don't 'go looking,' as you put it. They make a new queen."

Burton looked unconvinced. "What about when they swarm?"

"That's usually when the colony outgrows the space in the hive. They rear a new queen, and the old queen leaves with a portion of the colony and they find a new place to nest. They have the queen with them. They're not swarming in search of her."

"Could you lure a swarm into a house, through a bathroom window, say?"

Neary was becoming impatient. "What's this about, Burton? Are you wanting to do away with a rich aunt? Because there are easier ways than persuading bees to do it for you."

Sands twitched at the suggestion and then said in his earnest manner, "This is confidential, but I heard about a case of a woman who was stung by a bee while taking a shower. She was allergic to them, and she died. It's possible that the husband wanted her out of the way. He's said by some people to be a murderer, but no one knows for sure. He's very clever."

"He'd have to be, to do it with bees. Is he a beekeeper?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Forget it, then. He's innocent."

But he would not forget it. "Isn't there a substance that attracts bees?"

"Pheromone. It's produced by the bees, by the Nasonov, or scent gland. They fan their wings to disperse it and attract other workers, for example when they find the entrance to a new nest."

"Is it used by beekeepers?'

"You mean to attract the colony to a new hive?"

"Yes."

"It can be. I believe it's produced synthetically and sold."

"And if an evil-minded person obtained some and smeared it around a bathroom, would it bring some bees there?"

"Could do. But you still have to persuade them to sting, and that's not guaranteed. A bee that stings a person is going to leave behind its sting mechanism and part of its viscera. That kills the bee inside twenty-four hours. They don't sting for the hell of it. Not usually."

"There are exceptions?"

"You do get aggressive colonies sometimes."

"Killer bees?"

"They're something else. African. We don't get killer bees here."

"But you just said—"

"All I'm saying is that certain strains are more likely to sting than others. It's to do with their genetic make-up, but they're also made more angry when the nectar isn't flowing due to bad weather. And some crops such as oil-seed rape have an effect when they work them in isolation."

"If you knew of a colony like that, and you had some of that synthetic stuff—"

Neary was unwilling to join in Burton's theory. "Listen, if I wanted someone to get stung I wouldn't fiddle about trying to attract the bees to the scene of the crime."

"What would you do?"

"Use a jam jar."

"What?"

"To catch some. Then I'd take them up to the bathroom and hold the open end against my victim's flesh. If she's taking a shower, as you suggest, and I'm married to her, she'd be an easy target. They'll sting, all right, being trapped. If she's allergic, she's not going to stay conscious for long. Much simpler."

"That certainly is," said Burton with admiration. "I don't know why I didn't think of it. The murderer needn't be a beekeeper at all. He's only got to go out to the garden and catch a bee in a jar."

"He'd have to be a right bastard to do that to his wife."

Burton agreed. "He would."

seventeen

DURING THE WEEK A notice typical of the rector appeared on the board outside the church: "BEAT THE CHRISTMAS RUSH. SEE YOU HERE ON SUNDAY." And at Morning Service, he gave good value as usual, telling of the small boy who got the words of the Lord's Prayer muddled and said, "Forgive us our Christmases, as we forgive those that Christmas against us." In a sense the boy got it right, he said, "Because it's not a bad idea to ask God to forgive us our Christmases. And maybe he will if we've taken time out to worship him—*-which is my cue to appeal for the best turn-out ever for the carol; singing around the village in aid of church funds. You don't have to be a good singer. Everyone can give it a belt, and if you really have no voice at all just knock on doors and rattle a tin. This is when we show the rest of the village how to have a good time celebrating the true meaning of Christmas. If we do it in the right spirit, some will surely get the message and think, 'Hey, that lot aren't so po-faced after all. I might give church a try.' "

After the service, Rachel managed once again to slip out unseen, squeezing behind a couple who were telling Otis about their trip to the Holy Land. She couldn't bear the formality of shaking hands when she really wanted to be hugged and kissed.

She didn't escape Cynthia, who caught her before the lych-gate.

"I saw you giving him the go-by. What is it between you two—have you crossed him off your visiting list?"

"He was talking to the Cartwrights."

"Come off it, darling. You didn't even give a wave as you went by. Listen, if you don't watch out some of us are going to throw our hats in the ring—or something more intimate."

"I'm not stopping you," Rachel said.

"Beg pardon?"

"I said I'm not stopping you. It's a free country."

"Don't be like that. I was only kidding. Are you turning out for the carols?"

"I may give it a miss this year."

"Better not. It's much better if you get back in the swing of things."

She recalled Otis saying much the same thing.

Cynthia was saying, "It's always a fun evening."

"You're going?"

"Out in the dark with Otis? Try and keep me away. You never know who you might bump into."

She warmed to Cynthia's hearty optimism. "All right, I'll come—if only to see how you make out."

"Brill. Let's have tidings of comfort and joy. You can have the comfort..."

THERE WAS an overnight peppering of snow and the old Cortina was reluctant to start this morning. Too many short trips on parochial duties: the battery was weak. Otis Joy tried the starter a third time, and got the motor stuttering into action. One day he might get something better than this old runabout. Unlike most men, he'd never taken much interest in cars. He knew of a more exciting way to spend money. Anyway, the long drive to come would recharge the battery nicely. Yours and mine, old friend, he thought.

He cruised out of the rectory gates humming "The holly and the ivy," enjoying being awake at an hour when most people hadn't even thought of getting out of bed. It would be an hour or more before he could turn off the headlamps. So he wasn't aware of the smart blue Renault that followed him out of the village and along the A350 keeping at a distance. It was just a pair of lights in the rear-view mirror.

After his usual treat of a cooked breakfast at the cafe in Blandford Forum and a few more miles of driving in daylight he did notice one blue vehicle steadily fifty yards behind. Nothing to worry about, he decided. On this narrow stretch between Blandford and the coast everyone drove in convoy or risked death.

The further he got towards the coast, the better he felt. The carols got livelier. "God rest ye, merry gentlemen"—what he could remember of the words—kept him going for a while, followed by a quick-tempo version of "I saw three ships come sailing in." This was Tuesday, his own day to spend as he liked—or at least until the carol-singing round the village. He didn't think of what he was doing as an escape, but simply a,precious blank page in his diary, a chance to relax. Happily he had never regarded his church duties as drudgery. They were his purpose in life, uniquely satisfying. But he needed a break once a week doing something else. Six days shalt thou labour and do all thy work.

The blue car remained behind him after the roundabout linking with the A35, and he still didn't attach any importance to it. He couldn't see who the driver was because the sun was up with that silvery light you get in winter and everyone had their sun shields down. So he drove all the way to Hamworthy and his usual spot beside Holes Bay without suspecting anyone had tracked him here. And when a boat man gets to the coast, he doesn't spend time looking around the car park. Cobb's Marina was not so swanky as the Poole Harbour Yacht Club at Salterns, yet some fine boats were berthed here, valued in big bucks, and his own craft was one of the most admired.

A fellow owner greeted him as soon as he opened the car door. "Nice day, Bill."

"A bit fresh, Terry," he responded, reaching behind for his crew cap. He was well known here from his regular visits, but not as the Reverend Otis Joy. To the yachting crowd he was Bill Beggarstaff. If you're going for an assumed name, don't choose Smith or Jones. People are readier to accept you if the name is memorable.

"Not so choppy, though," said Terry. "Thinking of taking her out?"

"I doubt it. I don't have much time today."

"But you'll fit in a beer at lunch?"

"I expect so."

"Not long to Christmas. Are you coming down then?"

"Christmas is a busy time for me."

He gathered a few things from the car and carried them across to the marina and out along the pontoon where the love of his life, his sports cruiser, was moored with the largest boats.

The
Revelation
was a gleaming white forty-footer, Italian-made, only two years old, in immaculate condition, with radar arch and an echo sounder. In his black quilted blouson, canvas pants and boots, "Bill Beggarstaff" was a familiar figure here each Tuesday keeping his property spruce and seaworthy.

After a check to see that everything was as he'd left it—apart from a few seagull-droppings that he wiped off—he went aboard and below to the saloon. Some heat would be a good idea, and then coffee. He had just switched on the air system when he heard steps above. Someone had come aboard.

He assumed it was Terry. You don't board other people's boats unannounced, but as they'd just had the snatch of conversation it was excusable.

This wasn't Terry. A woman opened the saloon door and came down the steps, bold as the first crocus. Otis had so fully disengaged himself from Foxford that he needed a moment to register who she was.

Cynthia Haydenhall.

His two worlds collided horribly.

The last time he'd spoken to Mrs. Haydenhall was at the harvest supper, when she was all sparkle and cleavage. This morning she was in a striped sweater and jeans but she had the same predatory look.

"Morning, Rector."

He said, "I don't understand."

"Nor me," she said, her big blue eyes swivelling at the luxury of the surroundings. "I wondered how you spent your days off, but I never pictured this."

"Mrs. Haydenhall—"

"Cynthia."

"How did you ...?"

"I watched you get out of your car and walk across to the marina. I was certain it was you, so ..." She stopped, sighed, and said, "No, I'd better come clean. I followed you from Foxford."

"The blue car?"

"Yes. The Renault. You spotted me, then. It's a damned liberty. Nothing can excuse it."

"You got up early, specially to follow me?"

"Absolutely. May I sit down?" She sank onto one of the shaped leather cushions. "I don't want you thinking I'm a stalker, Otis. Being furtive isn't my style at all. My curiosity got the better of me, so I thought what the hell, I'll trail him all the way and find out where he goes each Tuesday. And now that I know, I can't creep away without even saying hello."

Otis didn't give a toss for the social niceties. He was livid with himself for being so careless. Too angry even to plan his next move. "Coffee?"

She flashed a wide, gratified smile. "Please. I had to sit in my car and wait when you stopped for breakfast in Blandford."

Trying to keep his fury in check, he stepped into the galley, switched on the kettle and spooned coffee into two mugs. "And is the curiosity satisfied now?" He sounded calm, even though he had this electric storm in his head.

"Not yet, if you want the truth," said Cynthia candidly. "If you don't mind me asking, do you own this?"

"She's mine, yes."

"Must have cost a bomb."

"All my savings and a bit more."

"Wow!"

"That's my choice. I like boats."

"You never mention it in the village."

"No reason to."

"It's your bolt-hole?"

"My home, actually. The rectory belongs to the Church."

"I can't get over it—a country clergyman with a gorgeous boat like this, or do I call it a ship? I mean, boats this size are made for millionaires, or the mafia."

He laughed.

"Do they know you down here?"

"By a different name. I don't parade around in the dog-collar. Milk and sugar?"

"Black, please. No sugar."

His brain was in overdrive. He had to deal with this emergency. Get a grip, Otis, he told himself. "Did you, er, tell anyone you were planning to follow me this morning?"

"Certainly not," she said with injured virtue. "I can be very discreet. I wouldn't dream of giving you away, Otis, if that's what you're thinking."

That's what I'm thinking, he chanted in his mind like a response to the litany.

She drew a line along the table with her fingertip, looking down. "I'll be only too happy to share your secret. I thought when we sat together at the harvest supper that we were on a wave-length. Didn't you feel the same?"

She was making a pitch. God, how blind he'd been. "It was fun, great fun, but I didn't expect it..."

"... to lead to anything?" She eagerly completed the sentence for him. "Well, I didn't either, but I've thought a lot about you since. Too much. I didn't want to force the pace. Maybe you were only being sociable?"

He handed her the mug. "Friendly."

Unhappy with the word, her eyes narrowed. "Friendly, yes, you were." She hesitated, and shot him a look that conveyed some apprehension. "You might be offended at this question. Do you have a friend down here in Poole?"

He frowned. "What gives you that idea?"

She added, "I thought, with the boat, you might..."

"You're right," he said, and watched her face fall.

"There
is
someone?"

"No, but I am offended."

"Oh."

"I don't have a secret love."

A sigh of satisfaction escaped her and she babbled on tactlessly, "Because there's no end of village gossip about your days off."

"I'm sure," he said without giving anything away. "And if you were seen aboard my boat, they'd have more to get their tongues wagging, wouldn't they?"

"No one's going to see us down here."

That "us" activated him like a switch. If he gave this woman the least encouragement she'd soon be tearing off her clothes or his. Far worse, she'd carry the tale back to Foxford. He took a long sip of coffee and said, "How would you like a sea trip?"

"Whee!" piped Cynthia. "I'd adore it."

"Just out into Poole Bay and back. I don't have too much time today. Must get back for the carols."

"Me, too."

"You'll need warmer clothes unless you want to stay below."

"I've got a thick coat in the car."

"Right. While you collect it, I'll start her up. Ever done any crewing?"

"You're joking."

He went up to the cockpit and watched her go to the car park and across to the blue Renault he hadn't looked for when he parked his own car. Nobody could have seen her except possibly Terry, and he'd gone off to his own boat, an Ocean 38 berthed at the other end of the pontoon. Nobody else was about. These cold December days deterred all but the hardiest of sailors.

He knew what he must do. He started the twin engines—so much more responsive than his old car—and looked at the time. The one drawback about this marina was that you had to coordinate times with the opening of Poole Bridge every two hours. The next slot was within the half-hour.

She came aboard again in a long fur coat wholly unsuitable for sea cruising.

"That may get wet if you go aft," he warned.

"It's only a cheap thing," she told him. "You didn't think it was real?"

"Want to sit in the captain's seat, then?"

He showed her the two seats in front of the controls in the covered cockpit. She pulled the coat off her shoulders. "It's really warm in here. This is
so
exciting, Otis." She brandished a silver hipflask. "I keep this in the car for emergencies and men I fancy."

He went down to loosen the mooring lines, then cast off and rejoined her. The
Revelation
got under way in a stately exit from the marina and into the Back Water Channel, well marked by stakes and leading to Poole Harbour. Approaching the lifting bridge he gave three toots.

"Would that be Poole on our left?" Cynthia asked, getting his attention with her hand on his arm.

"To port."

"You're really up with this sailoring lark, darling. The only port I know is Sandeman's."

He pretended he hadn't heard. "You'll see the customs steps and the Town Quay presently. Oyster Bank Beacon up ahead marks the edge of the mud we don't want to visit."

She offered him the hipflask. "It's Courvoisier."

"No thanks."

"I hope you don't mind me asking, but isn't it expensive running a boat this size on your stipend?"

"Iniquitous," he agreed. "The berthing fees alone would horrify you."

After some thought she said with a strong note of doubt, "I suppose if this is the only thing you spend your money on ..."

"Right."

He steered into the Main phannel with its wide curve around the east side1 of Brownsea Island.
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