The Reaper (7 page)
"But they have to show he was depressed."
"That's no problem usually. Bishops are under a lot of stress. Someone will say he was overworked and worried about his health, or the state of the world. It's the best way to handle a sensitive case like this."
"Maybe," said Rachel, not entirely convinced.
"For the sake of the Church."
"And his family, I reckon. Did he have a wife?"
"No, but there are two sisters in their seventies. They wouldn't want the sordid details in the papers."
The facts were clear. Little else of substance needed saying, but Cynthia plainly didn't want to leave it.
"Of course, you know why some men want to be humiliated like that, don't you? I've heard the excuse that it goes back to the public school system, canings, and so on, but it goes much deeper than that. It's all about guilt. They're men with troubled consciences. Their minds are filled with lustful thoughts about women, and they feel so guilty that the only remedy is a good thrashing. It's the natural thing, really—for men of that sort, anyway. I don't think women are like that at all. Suffering is built into our lives, our monthly cycles, childbirth. Guys don't have any of that. They need punishing."
"You sound as if you wouldn't mind dishing some out," ventured Rachel, as the wine talked.
Cynthia smiled and took another sip, becoming skittish. "Why not, if they're attractive men? I could name a few bottoms I wouldn't mind beating."
"Bishops?"
"God, no. They'd be flabby and covered in pimples."
"Who, then? Name them. You said you would." Rachel could be just as shameless as Cynthia at stoking up the girl-talk.
"I said I
could.
I didn't say I would."
"Go on," she coaxed her.
Cynthia hid most of her face behind the wineglass. "Michael Owen, Leonardo DiCaprio, Johnny Depp."
"I thought you were talking about people we know."
"I couldn't"
"Couldn't do it or couldn't say?"
"You've made me all flustered now."
"Never. Attractive men, you said. Are there any in Foxford?"
"Several. All I'm willing to say is that they're under thirty and not at all like the bishop." Cynthia reached for the bottle and filled her glass again. "My idea is that they deserve a good beating and have to report to me and bend over my laundry basket for me to administer six of the best. And I make it sting."
"Wow!" said Rachel. The detail of the laundry basket gave Cynthia's whimsy unexpected substance. This was a full-blown fantasy. "So what have they done to deserve this?"
"Oh, passed me in their car without offering me a lift. Or ignored me in the village shop."
"You're very severe."
Cynthia smirked. "Only on the ones I secretly fancy. If I'm feeling lenient I wait for a second offence. It's only in my head, so it doesn't really hurt anyone."
Rachel was imagining some innocent bloke accepting an invitation to a meal in Cynthia's cottage.
"The other day, after the church fete, when you didn't get invited back to the rectory did you ... ?"
"Take it out on the rector? You bet I did. He got a right seeing-to."
"Oh, Cynthia!"
"Well, it wasn't very nice of him, considering all the work I do for the church. You're going to tell me it wasn't deliberate, just an oversight, and perhaps it was, but he ought to have thought of me first—well, among the first."
"Hey," said Rachel, "do you think he knows about the bishop? Would they tell him?"
"I'm sure he doesn't. The clergy are the last people they would tell. It might undermine their respect for bishops in general."
"Or give them ideas."
"I don't think Otis is in any danger of going the way of the bishop," said Cynthia. "I hope not, anyway."
Yes, ducky, thought Rachel, it would ruin your steamy little fantasy if he enjoyed being whacked.
Soon after, with no sign of another bottle being opened, Cynthia got up and left, no doubt to startle someone else with her privileged information.
BAD NEWS FOR THE confirmation class. Their service was postponed because of the death of the bishop. Immediately Burton Sands demanded to know why another bishop couldn't take over. The church was an inefficient organisation if it couldn't cope with a sudden death. There were over a hundred diocesan and suffragen bishops in the country and surely one of them could step in.
This bloke is a pain, thought Otis Joy before answering patiently, "In theory you're right, Burton. There's nothing to stop us inviting another bishop, but this is our diocese, and we think it's rather special, like a family. It wouldn't be the same without our own bishop."
"But our own bishop died last week. The one who confirms us is going to be a stranger, whoever he is."
"Or she," chipped in Ann Porter.
"There's no such thing as a woman bishop in the C of E," said Neary.
"So what's the delay?" asked Sands, not wanting to get into
that
debate.
"These things can't be rushed," said Joy. "All kinds of consultation has to take place."
"And praying," John Neary helpfully reminded him.
"Praying as well, yes."
"Would you go for it?" Ann Porter asked.
"Go for...?"
"Bishop."
"Me?" Joy laughed. "I'm just a baby. They won't take anyone under thirty. That's official. What's more, you have to be of good character."
"Is that a problem in your case?"
"Major problem, yes. The dean and chapter wouldn't want a serial sinner like me."
There were smiles all round the class. He was a breath of fresh air, this rector.
Sands chipped in now. He was interested in the age barrier. "If you're the right man it shouldn't matter how old you are. Big business has the vision to promote young people to top positions, so why shouldn't the Church?"
"Interesting question, and if I wanted someone to fight my corner I'd choose you, Burton, but I'm happy as I am. Bishoping is boring. I steer clear of things that don't excite me much, like committees. I like what I do."
"Is it really exciting, being Rector of Foxford?" Ann asked.
"I wouldn't change it for the world."
This was scheduled as the last of the confirmation classes, but Joy suggested he called another one in the week before the service, whenever that might be, just to remind everyone how it went.
At the end, Sands lingered after the others, wishing to say something, his entire body language confrontational. "You'll be wanting a new treasurer for the PCC."
"Yes."
"Responsible job."
"Very."
"Someone asked me if I'd be willing to put myself forward. I don't suppose it matters that I'm not confirmed yet."
Joy was quick to say, "That's no problem, Burton. You're in the pipeline, so to speak."
"Right."
"The only hiccup is that I've already spoken to someone else."
The brown eyes narrowed. "Who's that?"
"I'd rather not say until they make their decision."
"But I'm a chartered accountant."
"I know. Isn't it crazy, us overlooking you? Maybe at some future time."
"Are you saying you don't want me?"
"Not at all. I didn't know you were up for it, that's all."
"It's up to you, is it?"
"No, the PCC appoints the treasurer. Obviously I'm in a tricky position since I've talked to someone else already. Didn't expect you to come forward. It's not a plum accounting job."
"I want to do it. What happens? Do we have an election, or what?"
"You're set on this?"
Sands nodded.
Dead set Otis Joy thought grimly. "You'd better speak to someone else on the council like Geoff Elliott."
"I already did. He's the one who asked me."
Difficult. "Did he? I see. No problem, then."
Sands was still unwilling to leave it. "As a candidate for the job, I'd like to look at the books."
"The annual statement? That gets published at the end of April. Anyone can have a copy."
"I said the books. The account books."
"What for?"
"To see what really goes on. The statement you're talking about is just a summary. Tells you what they want you to know."
Joy made light of it. " 'What really goes on'? I hope you're not suggesting I eat the communion wafers on the quiet."
"It's a reasonable request, isn't it?"
"Sounds reasonable to me, yes, but we don't even know for sure if there's more than one person applying for the post."
"I am. That's the point." His freckled face had become ominously pink.
"OK, Burton, I'll talk to the PCC. See what the form is."
Burton Sands had no conception of the risk he was running. Joy watched him leave the rectory, rather as the hangman watches a condemned man in the exercise yard, taking stock. He looked at his watch. It was after eight, not too late to make a phone call to his first choice for treasurer.
Rachel, alone in her cottage, thought this might be Gary to say he'd arrived safely in New Orleans. Over there it was still afternoon.
In US style she gave a cheery, "Hi."
"Hi, there." Definitely not Gary. "That
is
Rachel?"
"Yes."
"Otis here. The rector."
"Oh. I was expecting a call from my husband. He's in America."
"Sorry to disappoint you."
Disappoint me? You're joking, she thought.
"1 can call again at a better time," he added.
"No, don't. Gary's got all night to get through—if he remembers. Knowing him, he won't."
"You're alone, then? I was hoping to come round and talk about something."
"That's all right."
"It's getting late. There's never a right time, is there?"
"Now's fine by me."
"Ten minutes, then?"
"I'll get the kettle on."
Or should I have offered to open a bottle, her wilder self suggested when she'd put down the phone. Wow! Alone with Otis after dark. What would Cynthia say to this?
Cynthia. Panic seized her. What if the rector had got wind that gossip was being spread about the bishop and was trying to put a stop to it? Cringe!
Bloody Cynthia. To be lumped with her as a village blabbermouth was horrible.
She barely had time to freshen her face when the doorbell chimed.
He was in one of those grey shirts with a little strip of dog-collar across his throat. Formal, by his standards. She was so fearful of what he would say that she avoided eye contact.
"Tea or coffee, Rector?"
"How kind. Whatever."
The perfect cue for the wine bottle, but she chickened out. Merlot didn't fit the butter-wouldn't-melt image she had to project.
He came through to the kitchen, insisting she shouldn't make the tea alone. She'd forgotten about her fractured arm. For a few minutes they talked about Gary's trip. You would think she'd been to New Orleans herself the way she listed its attractions while busying herself with the cups and saucers, desperate to put off the moment when he came to the point:
Then he managed to get in with: "You won't mind me saying this, Rachel. I feel I know you better than many other women in the village."
She felt the hairs rise on her unplastered arm.
He went on: "I guess it's because we've shared in a couple of awkward moments, like the evening you caught me starkers except for an apron."
"And my pratfall in the churchyard, which was worse," she said before he could.
"I wasn't there when you fell over," he gallantly said. "When I arrived you were sitting on Waldo's grave with everyone around you. What I'm trying to say is that your calmness under fire is impressive. Cake stalls at the fete, door-to-door collections, a broken wrist—you take it all in your stride."
"No use getting in a flap," she said, wondering how this linked up with gossip about the bishop.
"Exactly. Thing is, I'm on the lookout for someone with a sure touch and a calm temperament."
No reprimand, then.
Her face must have lit up, because he said, "You'll do it?"
"What?"
"The job of parish treasurer. I started to mention it the other day when I asked if you had any experience of book-keeping."
Reeling at how mistaken she had been, she succeeded in saying, "But I told you I don't have any."
"This is kids' stuff, Rachel. You don't need a degree in accountancy, just a steady personality. Stanley Burrows had it. He was no mathematician. Couldn't even use a calculator. I'd rather have someone like you than a busybody who throws a spanner in the works every time we need a ten-pound float for a Sunday School outing."
She let him fill the teapot, wondering what had got into his head. Was she deluding herself, or did he fancy her like crazy?
"I might be willing to give it a go if someone could help me at the beginning," she said after a moment. "There's no one I can ask, with Stanley gone."
"Ask me. I'll spend as long as you wish going over the books." His golden-brown eyes glittered encouragement and that sexy voice of his made it sound like a come-on.
"Thanks."
He carried the tray into the living room.
There, he spotted her copy of the play and asked about her acting, bombarding her with questions that sounded as if he really wanted to know. It was like being on a first date, and she basked in his interest, telling him everything, from the walk-on as a maid in an Ayckbourne comedy with the Frome Troupers to her great week as Portia in the prize-winning production at the Merlin. She made him laugh about the battles over the choice of play, of how transparent people are when pushing their choice—the would-be St. Joans being pressed reluctantly into bimbo parts in bedroom farces.
"How I sympathise," he said. "It must be hellish for actors having to go downmarket. You know the story of Julie Andrews. I can't say how true it is, but she's supposed to have gone around wearing a badge that said 'Mary Poppins is a Junkie.' "
Rachel had relaxed enough to laugh at that.
"All these egos fighting it out," he said. "This is fascinating stuff. I want to see the next show. October, you said. I'll be there. Front stalls. And I want to hear all the backstage goss, whose lines are cut and who demands a better costume. It's always a lot more fun than the play itself."
"From a safe distance," she said, "but not if you're in the thick of it."
"You can tell me. I can keep a secret better than most."
She smiled. "OK."
"I haven't kept up with die stage since I was ordained. It's a pity, but there isn't time for everything. And we do get a certain amount of theatre in church. Dressing-up, for one thing. And making an entrance."
"Speaking lines."
"And trying to hold an audience."
"Singing."
"Not my strong point, Rachel. The Sung Eucharist is an ordeal for me, and worse, I'm sure, for the congregation. Thank heaven there's no dancing in the C of E—not in the churches I've known, anyway."
"Like Hare Krishna?"
"Or whirling Dervishes. I'm not a pretty mover."
In this self-mocking mood, he seemed open to the kind of question Rachel put next. "What led you to become a priest? Was it a calling?"
"In a way it was. A Road to Damascus thing. I was raised as a Catholic. Went to a Jesuit school. When I was in my early teens I went to a C of E wedding at a church tucked away in the country and heard the vicar conducting the service in the simple, lovely words of the sixteen sixty-two Prayer Book—'Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder'—and I thought, magic! This is what I must do. My future was decided that morning. Of course it was a hard slog in theological college learning the doctrine, but I never wanted anything else."
"Even though the words have been modernised?"
"They changed them a long time before I was ordained. I understand the reason and I don't knock it. As you know I still make a point of using the traditional liturgy one Sunday each month. Some people come specially for that service. I never see them otherwise."
She ventured into another personal area. "You've got the ideal name for the work you do."
"My name?" He smiled. "I've taken some stick for it, but people remember it, which isn't a bad thing. I can tell you a story of how it came about, but I can't guarantee it's true. The midwife at my birth was a West Indian called Miss Pushmore."
"No!"
"Really. People
do
get names that fit their jobs. And the story goes that at the critical moment Miss Pushmore cried out, 'O, 'tis joy, it's a boy!'—but I don't believe that one. And I don't believe the other story either."
"What's that?"
"That my parents didn't realise what they were doing when they named me. It's more likely, isn't it, that they were feeling playful when they were going through the possible names, and had a laugh about Otis and then decided it sounded rather good and took it seriously?"
"You never asked them?"
"They died when I was this high."
"Oh."
"At seven, I was shipped off to a children's home in Ireland. The nuns didn't call us by our names much. It was a case of 'You, boy. Hold out your hand.' "
"I'm sorry.
"Don't be. It paid off in the end. Learned my Bible from the nuns. Served me in good stead."
"Otis is distinguished. I like it," Rachel told him, wanting to hear more about his personal history, but not by probing.
"Then feel free to use it. I've already dropped into the habit of calling you Rachel." He looked at the clock on the wall. "I should be off. Thanks so much for the tea. And, more importantly, for agreeing to let me put you up for treasurer."
"If you're sure you want me."
"That's why I'm here. Between you and me, I wouldn't say anything about your inexperience to other people in the village. Let them think you're confident you can handle it with ease." He picked up the tray and carried it through; to the kitchen.
She followed. "Does it h|ave to be confirmed by the Parish Council?"
"Yes, and there may be another name bandied about, but you have my support, which ought to swing it."
She was alarmed by that. "Someone else is up for it?"
He put down the tray, turned and reached out, placing both hands on her upper arms. "My dear, you don't have to do a thing. It's pure formality. The PCC has to have a couple of names to consider so that it doesn't look like a fix."