The Reaper (19 page)

Burton looked the policeman up and down and decided the homicide of a bishop, on top of the other killings, might throw some doubt on his thesis. "He may have murdered his wife."

"Oh, come on."

Burton related the story of the fatal bee-sting and said how simple it would be to kill someone allergic to bees by using some trapped in a jam jar.

"I never heard anything so far-fetched in my life," said George. "Why would he want to murder his young wife, for God's sake?"

"If she found out too much about him ..."

"So now we have three murders pinned on the Reverend Joy: the sexton of Old Mordern, the late Mrs. Joy and Stanley Burrows."

"And another."

"Who's that?"

"Gary Jansen."

George shook his head. "Lord love us, Burton, you're away with the fairies. How is he supposed to have murdered Gary? The man died of heart failure. I've seen the death certificate."

"You can induce heart failure if you know about poisons."

"Poison, was it, this time? Are you certain it wasn't the killer bees?"

"You don't have to be sarcastic," said Burton. "You ought to be making notes. Stanley Burrows was poisoned—he swallowed some sort of drug, didn't he?—and I say Gary Jansen went the same way. The rector was seen with him on the day he died."

"Where?"

"In the street, outside the shop."

"By Owen Cumberbatch, you mean? Now there's an impartial witness."

"And, more important, Jansen went up to the rectory that afternoon."

"I didn't think they knew each other," said George.

"He was seen going through the gates by Ann Porter, one of the communion class. Joy could easily have slipped something in his drink."

"Poison, you mean?"

"Of course."

George Mitchell said in a tone that showed his tolerance was strained, "And why would the rector wish to do away with Gary Jansen?"

"Because Gary found something out."

"Ah." George gave an ironic nod that was lost on Burton.

"I'm not sure what it was, but they had strong words about it in the street and my guess is that they continued the argument up at the rectory."

"You're not sure what it was," said George with contempt, "but you're willing to guess. You're willing to destroy a good man's reputation on guesswork. Well, it doesn't cut ice with me, Burton. You've told me very little I don't know, and not a shred of substance."

"You could look at the parish accounts."

"We did."

"You did?"

"In connection with Stanley's suicide, and we found nothing wrong."

For a short interval Burton brooded on that. "It's what doesn't go through the books that you have to worry about," he said presently. "Did you notice how he grabbed the carol-singing money last night? Do you think that will appear in the accounts, every penny of it?"

George said in the same tone as before, conceding nothing, "This is all speculation, Burton, and it does you no credit. Let's lay our cards on the table. Everyone knows you're bitter about being passed over for treasurer. Why don't you let it rest?"

Burton's pale skin flushed bright pink. "Cards on the table, is it? All right, everyone knows you're in Joy's pocket. You're up to the rectory every Monday playing Scrabble with him."

"You'd better get out," said George.

"You shouldn't be dealing with this. I want to speak to someone else."

George stepped to the door and opened it. "Out."

nineteen

Two DAYS AFTER CYNTHIA went missing, Rachel asked George Mitchell if anything was being done to find her.

"She's a grown-up," George answered in his easy-going style. "She's at liberty to go off for a few days. Don't fret, my dear."

The patronising words enraged her. "I'm
not
fretting. I'm telling you something is wrong. It's totally out of character. Someone should look inside the house just in case—"

He stopped her. "Not much point, my dear. I looked in her garage and her car isn't inside. She's gone away for sure."

So he
had
taken some interest.

"I still think you should do something," she said, realising how lame it sounded. There was nothing anyone could do except wait for news of Cynthia.

A week from Christmas she felt none of the so-called festive spirit that harangued her every time she looked at the television or turned on the radio. Several people had already asked if she was spending Christmas Day in company and she said she preferred to be alone this year, which was not quite true. She had no desire to join in anyone's family party, but she was pretty certain Cynthia would have invited her up to Primrose Cottage. Cyn had been so supportive since Gary went, and she'd never spoken of her own family, so Rachel had assumed they would spend at least part of the holiday together.

Now she had to think again.

If only it could be managed without the rest of Foxford knowing, her ideal Christmas would be shared with Otis, after he'd finished his duties at the church. She didn't know his plans yet and she felt she couldn't ask.

BURTON SANDS was one of those dogged individuals who will not be put off. The meeting with George Mitchell had achieved little, but it had got him thinking. Maybe the policeman was right to say that clergymen didn't ever commit murder. It would make a mockery of their faith. Yet this didn't discourage Burton. Instead, it started him on a new tack, a brilliant one that would explain so much. What if Joy wasn't a clergyman at all, but a con-man who had somehow convinced the diocese he was ordained?

Lunchtime on Thursday found him in the reference section at Warminster Library, leafing through back numbers of the Wiltshire Times, trawling for information on Joy's background. Something must have appeared in the paper when the new incumbent arrived at Foxford. He found it quite soon, with an insufferably saintlike photo.

NEW RECTOR FOR FOXFORD

The new Rector of Foxford is to be the Rev. Otis Joy, the diocese announced this week. The Rev. Joy has been vicar of Old Mordern, near Chippenham, since 1998. He is 28, and a widower. After training at St. Cyriac's Theological College, Brighton, he was ordained in 1994, and served as curate at Old Mordern until the retirement of the incumbent, when he became the youngest vicar in the diocese.

"I am delighted to be coming to Foxford," the Rev. Joy said this week. "St. Bartholomew's is a church rich in history in a beautiful village. I look forward eagerly to carrying on the excellent ministry of my predecessor, Henry Sandford."

"And milking the funds," Burton said aloud and got an anxious glance from a woman at an adjacent table.

The mention of a theological college was a setback to his latest theory, unless Joy had made it up. Unfortunately there was something about Brighton that sounded possible. A man like Joy
would
choose a college in a popular seaside resort.

He looked up St. Cyriac's in the phone book, went to a payphone and called them. The term had finished and the students had gone down, he was told by someone who didn't sound very important in the college set-up. He explained that he just wanted a word with the archivist, or whoever looked after the records of former students. The young woman on the phone was cagy. The college wouldn't let anyone look at personal records, she said. Burton explained in the most convincing tone he could manage that he wasn't interested in personal details. It was only a matter of confirming things that were in the public domain, dates, and so on. Politely she said she didn't have a copy of the college registers. However, the librarian would be there on Saturday morning doing the annual stocktake and might be willing to help.

ST. CYRIAC'S wasn't really in Brighton. It was a Victorian mock gothic building sited high on the South Downs north of the town, right on the edge of the Devil's Dyke (Burton noted with grim satisfaction).

On the long drive from Foxford, he'd decided on his strategy. Evidently St. Cyriac's were hot on data protection, so he needed a compelling story.

The librarian was a canny, silver-haired Scottish lady, and Burton's confidence dipped when she began by saying, "I was advised that you were coming, and I'm afraid you've wasted your time. I'm not at liberty to divulge information about former students."

Burton said truthfully, "I've driven a hundred miles," and untruthfully, "and nobody told me this."

"That is unfortunate," she admitted, without actually giving an inch.

"I don't want to know anything confidential."

"Everything in student records is confidential."

"It's for a surprise party for our rector," he said with fine conviction for a man who usually told the truth. "You must have seen that television programme
This is Your Life.
Well, we're planning something like that for his thirtieth birthday."

Unmoved, she said, "I can't help."

"He's such a popular priest," said Burton, at the limit of his imagination to keep this going. "He preaches a fine sermon. So different in style from our last rector. Should have been an entertainer, really. He has a great fund of jokes, always in good taste and to the point."

Curiosity got the better of her. "What's his name?"

"Joy. Otis Joy."

Her expression miraculously softened. "I remember Otis Joy."

"You do?"

"He was a saucy birkie, as we say north of the border, very popular. We all had a soft spot for Otis."

"So you were here when he was?"

"Yes, indeed. And is he really coming up to thirty soon?"

"Next year, if we've got it right."

She slid out a computer keyboard from a recess under her desktop. By a strange twist, Joy's charming ways had come to Burton's aid. "You're right," she said, staring at her monitor. "I think of him as no more than a lad. He was younger than the average when he entered college. Most of our entrants have had work experience in other careers, but Otis had more confidence than any of his year."

"Hadn't he been in work?"

"Apparently not. He came to us from Canada, and he'd done some training for the ministry over there, according to this. He knew his Bible better than any student of his year. But I don't think he's Canadian by birth. He didn't have any accent that I recall, though it wouldn't surprise me if he was Irish. He had a touch of the blarney, for sure. No, it says here he was born in Norwich."

"When?"

"You know that," she told him sharply. "The seventeenth of March, nineteen seventy."

"Of course."

"I wonder what took him to Canada," she mused aloud, forgetting all about confidentiality. "He was at Milton Davidson Memorial College, Toronto, until ninety-three. Was he only with us a year, then? I can picture him more clearly than some who stayed for three."

"When was he ordained?" Burton asked.

"Nineteen ninety-four."

"That's certain, is it? The ordination?"

"Absolutely certain. I was there, praying for them all." She frowned at the question and another of Button's theories went out of the window.

CHRISTMAS CREPT up quickly, ambushing everyone, and Rachel found herself at midnight mass, the service nobody wanted to miss, in her usual pew, shoehorned between young men with beer on their breath. All the extra chairs from the parish hall were brought in, and still some people stood at the back. The youngest choirboy, singing "Away in a manger," was impossible to see as he threaded his way up the narrow aisle between chairs at the ends of the pews. Behind the choristers, Otis sported the glittering hand-worked cope that always came out on this holy night.

The carol ended and he started speaking the time-honoured words of the liturgy without any amplification. His voice resonating through the church made Rachel feel very emotional. When her favourite carol, "O little town of Bethlehem" was sung, and she reached that line about the hopes and fears of all the years, her eyes moistened and there was a lump in her throat. She knew far too much about hopes and fears.

After everyone filed out at the end, Otis stood in the porch as usual shaking hands, making a point of not missing anyone. Short of sneaking out through the vestry there was no escape, and when Rachel's turn came he clasped her right hand between both of his and said, "Ah, Rachel, shall I see you at Morning Service tomorrow?"

She hadn't intended going, because it was a family service and she would feel conspicuous. He must have seen the hesitation in her eyes when he added, "Wearing your treasurer's hat."

She took a moment to fathom what he meant. She was thinking of hats, literally. "If you want."

"Please."

She moved on, still without fully understanding. Surely he didn't want to hand over the offertories from the spate of Christmas collections. The money would be more secure in the church safe until the banks reopened.

Outside under a starry sky, the beginnings of a frost glistened on the headstones. People lingered on the path, wishing each other Christmases happy, merry, peaceful, great and wonderful. But what can you wish someone who has recently buried her husband? Rachel slipped past them all and went home. She was dreaming of a Joyful Christmas and she didn't think it was likely.

SHE WAS in church as requested on Christmas morning and heard Otis give a short and surprising sermon pitched mainly at the children. "Some of you are asking if there really is a Father Christmas, and 1 don't have to tell you boys and girls, today of all days, that of course there is. Of course! And can anyone tell me his real name?"

There was a chorus of answers, some of them correct.

Otis raised his thumbs. "Right. Santa Claus. Or Saint Nicholas, to say it in full. Saint Nicholas was a very kind bishop who lived an awfully long time ago, and we are told he was one of the wise members of the Council of Nicaea who met to write down what Christians believe. There was a man called Arius who was trying to put about some ideas that were wrong, and the story goes that Bishop Nicholas socked him on the jaw. I don't know if that's true, but I do know that Nicholas helped to write the Creed that we said this morning. Who can tell me the first words of the Creed?"

The Sunday school teachers must have done a good job because "I believe in God the Father" was clearly audible in the mix of replies.

"Yes, and the Creed is still used by Christians everywhere, and not just in the Church of England. So whether you are Protestant, Roman Catholic or pastern Orthodox, you speak the words that Santa Claus approved each time you come to church. That's a good enough reason to believe in him, isn't it? Because he was so wise and generous, he became the children's saint, your special saint, and it is an ancient custom in some countries for someone to dress up as a bishop, as Santa Claus, around Christmas time, and give small presents to good children. It's the custom we adopted, and long may it continue. Happy Christmas, Santa. Happy Christmas to you all."

At the end, Rachel waited in her pew and was the last to leave except for Geoff Elliott, who was right out of earshot, collecting hymnbooks from the lady chapel. Otis smiled when she reached him. "Glad you came," he said.

She smiled. "So am I.I loved the sermon."

He looked thoughtful. "When I was a little kid in the children's home, we had a visit each Christmas from a guy dressed up as St. Nick. He wore a mitre and a false beard and carried a crook and each of us was given a present that we had to share with the others. I got the same thing two years' running,
Bible
Stories for Little Folk.
Didn't matter, because we had to give them in at the end of the day to be used in the reading class."

"Not much of a Christmas."

"The nuns enjoyed it. A noggin with old Nick. How are you spending today? Quietly?"

She nodded.

"Alone, I mean?"

"Yes."

"Then you won't mind if I call about tea-time?"

Elated, she said, "I'd love to see you. Come earlier if you can."

"I have some other visits to make. People who've had a rough time of late. Some of the old folk. The kids in hospital. I guess I'll be with you about four-thirty to five."

"Poor you."

"Not poor at all," he said. "This is the best day of the year. I'm privileged." And he obviously meant it.

"Will you get a Christmas lunch?"

"Lunches all the way if I could eat them." He held up his hands. "No, Rachel. I know my limits."

Every pulse in her body pounding, she moved on air all the way back to the cottage, planning what she would cook, wear, do with her hair. She had come alive again and Otis was forgiven for being so distant in recent days. The remark about the treasurer's hat must have been just a blind in case people overheard. He'd chosen to see her, of all the people in the parish, on this of all days. Ah, the transforming magic of Christmas!

The time went amazingly fast. So much had to be packed in: tidying up, dusting, lighting a wood fire, showering, shampooing, ironing her silk top, dressing, defrosting cakes, adjusting the lighting, rearranging the Christmas decorations, choosing the right CDs, putting away the photos of her mother and father. There it was—four-thirty—and she was just about ready in her black leather pants and crimson top, with her hair loose and the lights winking on the little Christmas tree and the fire glowing nicely.

It was closer to five-fifteen when he came, still in his clerical shirt and dark suit. "My," he said when he saw her. "I should have changed."

She'd been over her first words many times. "I expect you're awash with tea so I thought you'd go for a small scotch."

He showed how small, with his thumb and forefinger almost touching.