The Reaper (5 page)
Stanley didn't tell the police or anyone else that the stolen cash was church money waiting to be banked. He should have paid it in the previous day, only it had been a fine afternoon and he'd mown the lawn instead. Now he was conscience-stricken.
As soon as PC Mitchell left, Stanley drove to the bank in Glastonbury and drew a hundred in cash from his personal account. So as not to make the transaction obvious, he passed the next twenty minutes sitting on a bench looking at the Abbey ruins. Then he returned to the bank, picked a different teller and paid ninety-two pounds of his own money into the church account together with the seventy raised at the bring- and-buy. No one would find out he had been so careless. But he decided after all he would no longer continue as treasurer.
He called at the rectory the same evening. Unfortunately Otis Joy had still not returned from his day out.
THE LOCAL policeman may have treated the incident lightly, but the rest of Foxford did not. Burglaries were rare in the village. The last had been three years ago, when a series of garages were raided at night, and a number of power tools taken. Professional thieves were responsible that time, the local CID had decided. A spate of similar crimes had been going on in Wiltshire villages all through the summer. A gang operating out of Bristol was suspected. Amateur or professional, the outcome was the same. No arrest.
Nobody doubted that Stanley's burglary was a local job. It was common knowledge that he lived alone and had some nice things in his cottage. And the whole village knew he never missed a church social event.
Cynthia Haydenhall was convinced unemployed youths were to blame. She said in the shop next morning that if she were the police she would raid three houses on the council estate and she could guarantee she would recover Stanley's property. "We all know who these petty thieves are. You see them hanging about the street looking for trouble. In times past we had a village constable who dealt with them. My gran told me about an incident during the war when they had bins in the street for collecting waste food for pigs. Pig-bins, they were called. Someone was tipping up the bins at night, looking for scraps, or something, and making a disgusting mess. The village bobby lay in wait and caught one of the local youths in the act. Grabbed him by the collar and marched him straight to his parents' house, woke them up and ordered the father to thrash his son's bare backside in front of the entire family, little sisters as well."
"It sounds a bit extreme," said the shopkeeper, Davy Todd. "He was probably hungry. It weren't as if he was robbing anyone.
"It taught him a valuable lesson," Cynthia said in a way that defied anyone to argue. "I often think of it."
Davy Todd made no comment.
"It didn't do much good," an old woman piped up from behind the greetings cards. "If that's Bobby Hughes you're speaking of, he's done three stretches since for robbery with violence. He's coming up to seventy and he's never learned."
"Some folk think we should bring back the stocks," said Davy Todd. "Not to mention the ducking-stool."
Cynthia took this as personal and left.
STANLEY FOUND the rector at home when he called at lunchtime.
Otis Joy invited him in and put a supportive arm around his shoulders. "I heard what happened yesterday. Devastating. What's the world coming to?"
He went to a cupboard in his office and poured a couple of whiskies.
Stanley wasn't there for small talk. He stated his decision. "The burglary is a great shock. I'm afraid it's altered everything, Rector. My confidence has gone. Someone younger must take over."
Joy was unprepared for this. "Don't say that, Stanley. We can't let them win."
"It's brought me to my senses. Stupid old buffer, thinking I can do the job until I pass away. I'm a security risk at my age."
Joy leaned forward, concerned, without any show of alarm. "You didn't lose any church money?"
"No, it was all my own," Stanley said, sending up a prayer to be forgiven.
"Because if you did, I'll gladly make it up from the contingency fund. That's what it's for."
A shake of the head from Stanley.
"In fact, I'd like to help you anyway," Joy decently offered. "How much did you lose?"
Stanley blinked, shocked by the suggestion. "That's church money. I'm not here for help, Rector. I just want to tender my resignation."
"This minute?" Now Joy's voice had a suggestion of panic. He took a slug of whisky.
They talked on for some time, with Stanley resisting every appeal to reconsider.
"Well, I'll have to think," said the young rector, "and, er..."
"Pray?"
"Good thought. Yes, pray. Coming out of the blue like this, it's a shock, a real facer. We're going to need time to find the right man or woman. That won't be easy."
"There are plenty of able people," Stanley pointed out. "All you want is someone with a grasp of elementary accounting and a commitment to the church. I can say from experience, it's commonsense stuff."
"That may be so, but the choice is crucial. The whole thing will have to go through the PCC." Otis Joy rolled his eyes upwards. "And then there's the problem of handing over."
"There's no problem."
"I can't agree. If we
do
appoint someone else, they'll need to learn our ways of doing things."
"What do you mean, Rector?"
Otis Joy cleared his throat. "How we deal with my petty cash claims, for instance. You and I have an understanding, but a new treasurer may be uncomfortable with it."
"The Building Society account?"
"The contingency fund, yes."
"I'm sure whoever takes over will see the sense in it. A slight diversion from the norm, but good for the church, our church, anyway. I'll explain it fully when I hand over the books. I believe in giving it to them straight, and I'm sure you agree."
Joy didn't agree at all. The prospect of a new treasurer was alarming enough, and Stanley giving it to them straight would be calamitous. He was deeply perturbed. He could see everything unravelling. "It's not so simple."
"Why?" said Stanley.
"We don't know who they might appoint. It could be someone who doesn't appreciate the advantages of the fund."
Stanley shook his head. "Why shouldn't they? If they can't allow a man of the church some discretion what's the world coming to? I'm very clear about this, Rector. It doesn't matter a bean who takes over. I'm honour bound to show him the accounts in full, including your statements from the building society."
"I don't keep them."
"You don't?" Stanley blinked and stared.
"Have I committed a
faux pas?
I told you I'm hopeless with money."
Stanley Had turned a deep shade of pink. "I expect it's all right. No doubt it's all on computer somewhere. The new treasurer must have chapter and verse on everything we've done. You do see that?"
"In time, yes, but..."
"No, Rector. Forgive me, but this is an accounting matter. The handover is when you open the books and explain everything."
"But this doesn't have to be an overnight thing. We'll need a transition. A few months of working together."
"No. My mind is made up. A clean break. I'm through with the job. It's better for the new person to start without me looking over his shoulder."
Most people can be charmed, persuaded or threatened out of an unwise decision. There are just a few who are totally intractable.
"Even so," said Joy, realising he'd lost this one.
"Look at it this way," said Stanley. "If I dropped dead tomorrow, you'd be forced to appoint someone else."
Otis Joy sighed heavily. "And I thought We had years ahead of us." He took Stanley's glass to the cupboard and refilled it.
STANLEY DIED in bed that night.
HE WAS NOT FOUND for two days. People came to the cottage, got no answer and went away. The paper-boy unthinkingly pushed the previous morning's
Daily Telegraph
through the letterbox to make way for the next one. The meter reader from SWEB made a note that this quarter would be another estimated reading. Bill Armistead, local organiser of Neighbourhood Watch, calling to offer sympathy about the break-in, assumed Stanley was having a lie-in. Even the police knocked at the door to check details of the stolen property and went away without doing anything.
The irony of all this was that the back door remained unlocked. Anyone could have walked in.
Finally the publican at the Foxford Arms remarked that Stanley hadn't been in for his usual for a couple of lunchtimes and Peggy Winner, who lived opposite, said she'd noticed his bedroom curtains had remained drawn. The publican said someone had better get over to the cottage and see if the old boy was all right.
Bill Armistead went around to the back door and walked in. Upstairs he found Stanley Burrows dead in bed. The doctor, when he came, confirmed that death must have been at least thirty-six hours earlier because the effect of rigor mortis had already come and gone.
The circumstances of Stanley's passing horrified everyone. It was assumed that the trauma of being burgled had brought on a heart attack, and for a time a lynch mentality took over. If the burglar had been identified for sure he would not have lasted long in the village. As it was, a number of youths came under strong suspicion and were treated with contempt by everyone who had known Stanley. Two of them were drop-outs from the new Sixth Form College, a point that would not have escaped the old headmaster.
The death was reported to the coroner, who ordered a post mortem. The analytical findings demonstrated that Stanley had died from the effects of amylobarbitone, a sedative, mixed with whisky. An inquest was arranged.
Suicide, then? This was even more shocking than the heart attack theory. No note was found, but it is common knowledge that you don't take barbiturates and alcohol together unless you want to do away with yourself. The idea of the heartbroken old man alone in his cottage mixing his fatal cocktail moved people to tears. They had known Stanley was in a state of shock after the burglary. They hadn't realised it amounted to black despair.
On Sunday, Otis Joy referred to the tragedy in church. "Stanley Burrows was a loyal member of this congregation for over thirty years. He served on the parish council as our treasurer, a very able treasurer. Stanley was a staunch friend to me, but of course most of you knew him much longer than I did, as your headmaster, or the headmaster of your children. His passing is hard for us to bear—the more so because of the tragic circumstances. I'm not going to speculate on what happened, and I urge you all—everyone in the village—to be restrained in your reaction. Stanley was a gentleman in every sense of the word. He, of all people, wouldn't wish this to lead to thoughts of revenge. He taught the virtues of civilised behaviour. Let us remember that as we pray for his immortal soul."
In his pew towards the back, Owen Cumberbatch exhaled loudly and impatiently. His sister, beside him, gave him a sharp dig in the ribs.
To end the service, the rector chose a hymn Stanley had often sung in school assemblies, "Lord dismiss us with thy blessing," and hands were dipping into pockets and bags for Kleenex long before the "Amen" was reached.
To Rachel, in her usual pew, the rector's words had been specially touching. He had this gift of striking exactly the right note for the occasion. On her way out of church she almost complimented him, and then decided it was inappropriate. Instead she smiled and put out her left hand (her right was still in plaster) and found herself holding two of his fingers and giving them a squeeze. He smiled in a restrained way. "I hope it's mending nicely."
"I expect so," she said.
"How long do you have to wear this?"
"Another four itching weeks."
"I've always said the best cure for an itch is to scratch it. Try a knitting needle."
"Well, it's not all bad," she managed to put in. "I got some lovely flowers out of it."
"Mind how you go, then. Watch out for Waldo's grave."
She was tempted to ask if he'd remembered what it was he wanted to see her about on the day of the accident, but that might have seemed pushy. She moved on.
By the lychgate she overheard a snatch of conversation she found mystifying. Bill Armistead was saying to Davy Todd, who kept the shop, "... out of order, totally out of order and told him so."
"Silly old bugger," said Todd.
"It's daft. He couldn't hold down a job like his, telling folk how to behave, praying and preaching, if he were up to things like that."
"Nobody could. What would be the point?"
"Mind, they do go off the rails, some of them."
"Yes, a bit of how's your father, drinking, gambling, but this is way beyond that. No, it's bullshit. Got to be. If he believes that, he wants his head testing."
Rachel edged around them and walked up the street. She couldn't believe anyone had been spreading malicious stories about Otis, and didn't want to find out.
TH E SENIOR churchwarden, Geoff Elliott, spoke to the rector after everyone else had gone. "It may seem indecently soon to be speaking of this, but we'll need a new treasurer now."
"Spot on, Geoff," said Joy. "The sooner the better."
"We churchwardens can act in a temporary capacity, but we need someone to take on the job properly. For the sake of continuity, he ought to come from within the PCC, as Stanley did."
"Is that a problem?"
Elliott cleared his throat. "I've, er, sounded out the others and nobody is too confident of taking it on. You need someone good at figure work. We have the power to co-opt, of course."
"And you have someone in mind?"
"That young fellow Sands is a chartered accountant, I understand."
"Burton Sands?" said the rector, unable to disguise his horror. "He's in my confirmation class. He isn't confirmed yet."
"He will be, won't he?"
"Well, as it isn't by selection, yes. I wouldn't have thought of him for treasurer myself."
"He's a regular church-goer. A serious young man. Very stable, I would think. And we can be sure he understands how to draw up a balance sheet."
"I don't doubt that."
You solve one problem and another rears its head. Joy could not in his wildest dreams imagine himself disclosing the existence of the contingency fund to Burton Sands. Neither did he wish to operate extra accounts without the treasurer's knowledge. That had been the problem in the last parish, ending with the visit from the bishop. Far better to find someone cooperative, like Stanley. What a crying shame Stanley had ruled himself out.
"Is there a problem with Burton?" Elliott asked.
"I wouldn't put it so strongly. It's just a feeling I have that he may upset people. He's a prickly character. A parish treasurer needs tact. He'd be dealing with ordinary folk who get things in a muddle or forget to ask for receipts or hand in money later than they should. I don't know how Burton would measure up."
"Well, of course we need someone you can work with, Rector."
"I can work with anyone, but... Let me think about this before we ask him. There may be someone we've overlooked."
"He's the only accountant in the congregation."
"But Stanley wasn't an accountant. As he remarked to me once, almost anyone could do the job. It's commonsense stuff."
"But a lot easier if you're a trained accountant," said Elliott stubbornly. "In the meantime, Norman Gregor and I will plug the gap."
"Top stuff," said Joy, and added optimistically, "Who knows? Maybe you'll find it's a doddle."
"It's only until we get someone permanent," Elliott stressed. "We're thinking of days rather than weeks. And we can't do much without the account books."
"Take them over as soon as you want. It's just a matter of collecting them from Stanley's cottage."
"The books aren't there, Rector. The police have them."
Joy's face twitched into stark horror.
"The police?"
"You know PC Mitchell—George, from the cottage with the willow growing in the front. He also acts as the coroner's officer. He took possession of the books. I think it's to make sure they're in order, just in case something worried Stanley enough to make him suicidal."
Joy shook his head. "If anything made him suicidal, it was the burglary."
"They have to do the job properly."
"George Mitchell should have come to me."
Eliott's face coloured deeply. "My fault, Rector. He explained to me what he was doing and I ought to have mentioned it to you before this."
ONE OF Otis Joy's strengths was speed of action. Burton Sands as treasurer? No way.
There had to be a better candidate, someone more approachable, more co-operative and who saw the sense in not rocking the boat. Numerate, of course, but they didn't need to be a maths professor. The rector's candidate. No parish council would dare veto the rector's choice.
But who?
None of those deadbeats on the PCC wanted the responsibility. The nominee had to come from the congregation at large. A number of treasurer-like faces came to mind as Joy mentally scanned the line-up he saw every Sunday from his pulpit. There was no shortage of people who had worked in offices and probably on committees as well. Unfortunately not one of them struck him as suitable. He couldn't predict how they would react to the contingency fund.
Stanley—God rest his soul—had never asked to see a statement from the building society. Even Stanley might have been perturbed to know that the deposits were never less than a hundred pounds a week and the withdrawals about the same. A steady sixty from the hire of the church hall for bingo, bridge, boy scouts, table-tennis and line-dancing. Thirty to fifty for a wedding, baptism or funeral. Extra from the coffee mornings, the fete, the safari suppers and whatever. Bits and bobs from the "upkeep of the church" boxes and the sale of pamphlets. It all came in the form of notes and coins that went straight into the building society. You don't want loose change lying about the rectory or you run the risk of theft, as Stanley Burrows had discovered.
The right choice was crucial.
Who can find a virtuous woman
7
,
states the Book of Proverbs,
for her price is far above rubies.
Finding the right treasurer was about as difficult. And now that Joy thought about it, a woman was not a bad idea, virtuous or not.
THE CORONER'S officer in his police uniform called at the rectory about four in the afternoon. A civilised time. It was a golden September day and Otis Joy brought tea and cake into the garden. Not coconut pyramids, but a fine three-layer chocolate cake, a gift to the rector (with twenty-four pounds and a few pence in extra takings) from the recent coffee morning.
"It's about Stanley, of course?" he said striking the right note between chirpiness and respect for the dead;
"Only a few questions, Rector." PC George Mitchell was a Wiltshireman through and through, in his fifties now, calm, slow of speech, with a faint smile that rarely left him. The rector had long since learned to respect the intelligence behind soft West Country accents. "He was quite well known to you, I expect?"
"As one of the Church Council? Naturally."
"Treasurer."
"And a good one. He held the office for many years, didn't he? Long before I came."
"A demanding job, would you say?"
Otis Joy smiled and pointed to the piece of cake on PC Mitchell's plate.
Mitchell took a moment to see the point, then let his mouth relax into the start of a smile.
"It never depressed him, so far as I know," said Joy. "Is that what you're wondering?"
"The books appear to be in order. Up to date."
"They would be. Stanley was methodical, as a treasurer should be." He signalled a shift in tone by putting down his cup and saucer. "Nobody informed me you were taking away the church accounts. I have to say I take a dim view of that."
"I was acting for the coroner," said PC Mitchell without apologising. "We don't upset people for the sake of it, but when all's said and done, we have the job to do and the power to carry it out."
"When will we get them back?"
"Today, if you like. We've finished with them."
"Barking up the wrong tree, then?"
"We bark up all the trees, Rector."
A wasp was hovering over Otis Joy's cake. "The cause of Stanley's death is obvious, isn't it?"
"Not so much as you'd think. He didn't leave a note. That's unusual, him being so methodical."
"Surely the burglary ..."
"In my job, you learn not to make assumptions. I just assemble the facts for the coroner. When did you last see Stanley?"
The wasp had settled on the cake. It wouldn't move, even when a paper napkin was waved over it. "Now you're asking. I'm hopeless at remembering."
"But I expect you keep a diary. You'd need to, with all the things you have to do."
"Good thought. Did Stanley keep one?" Joy suggested as a diversion.
"None that we found." PC Mitchell leaned across and flicked the wasp off Joy's piece of cake with his fingernail, killing it outright. "I'd like to see yours."
"1 could fetch it if you like." The offer was half-hearted.
Mitchell gave a nod.
"But I can't let you take it away. I depend on it."
There was no reaction from the coroner's officer.
In the security of his study, Otis Joy turned to the relevant page of the diary. He was ninety-nine per cent sure he hadn't made a note of Stanley's visit on the day of his death. Stanley had not made an appointment. He had come at lunchtime, fretting over the burglary. The chance of anyone having seen him was slight. Mercifully the rectory was not overlooked. It stood at the end of a lane behind the church.
As he thought, there was no record of the visit in the diary.
Back in the garden, George Mitchell had finished his slice of cake, and was biting into a plum he had picked.