The Reaper (9 page)

A bit OTT?

Not for Otis. Hang the expense. She'd get a vintage red and see if it went to his head.

EARLY THE next morning while most of Foxford was sleeping, Otis Joy drove out of the village in his old Cortina and headed south, humming "All things bright and beautiful." Along the quiet Wiltshire roads rabbits were nibbling at the verges. Freshly drilled wheat fields testified to autumn, yet still it felt like summer. The sun was showing above the downs and the sky was so clear that he could see the fading of the moon. He was wearing jeans and a check shirt. No dog-collar on his day off.

As usual he took the A350 through Warminster and down into Dorset by way of Shaftesbury. He was at Blandford Forum by eight. There, he left the main road and drove into the town and stopped for breakfast at a small cafe that was open from seven-thirty and known to a few locals and early-morning travellers.

He went in and sat at his favourite table by the window, with a good view down the street. They even had the morning papers.

The woman who took the orders and did the cooking as well at this time of day came out of the kitchen holding a menu, saw who it was, smiled and said, "Well, you won't be needing this. Your usual, is it?"

"Of course," said Joy.

She smiled. "Lovely morning. And how are you, Mr. Beggarstaff?"

nine

SHE FELT TERRIFIC IN the dress. She had found it in Northumberland Passage, in a shop she didn't know existed. Calf-length and loose-fitting, raw silk in a colour they called bronze, with hints of scarlet in the weave, it wasn't drop-dead, but it oozed style. Which wasn't wasted on Otis Joy. He made no comment when he arrived, yet the glint in those deep-set eyes said enough.

Rachel thought it a pity he hadn't left the clerical collar at home this evening. True, it was only the token strip of white above a pale grey shirt. Otherwise he was casual, but smart, in a dark green jacket and cream trousers fashionably loose in the fit.

He was holding a carton stacked high with account books.

She suggested they did the business part first and he looked mildly surprised as if he couldn't think what the other part was. She told him she had some nibbles to warm up for later and he gave her another glance.

The business part.

She had a coffee table ready for him to spread out the books and she'd placed it in front of the sofa. She would sit beside him and make nothing of it. No other arrangement would work. The sofa was a four-seater that dominated the room, so it wouldn't be a squeeze. The only problem was the enormous soft cushions that threatened to suck you in like a swamp as they took your weight. She let him find out for himself. He sank in some way and then struggled against
it
and managed to perch precariously on the edge. Without fuss Rachel took her position next to him.

He busied himself leaning over the box to lift out the contents, and they made a daunting collection. When everything was on the table he picked up the main account book, a huge leather-bound volume as big as the lectern Bible in church, and opened it. "Here we go, then. You see how simple it is? The income—that's the money from the offertory, renting out the church hall, fund-raising events and all the rest—goes on this side, and we have the debits on the left, here, with columns for the diocesan quota, petty cash, postage, printing, stationery, insurance, wafers and wine for the eucharist and so forth."

"They're beautifully kept," she remarked.

"Stanley was a tidy writer."

"My figures are going to look crude after his."

"Doesn't matter as long as they add up. Have you got a calculator? Stanley never bothered with one. A bit old-fashioned. Like the elderly civil servant at the Treasury who advised every government since the war." j , He'd lost her momentarily, laying the ground for one of his funny stories.

"Brilliant man. Genius with figures. He could analyse a balance sheet quicker than any computer. Only whenever he was asked for advice he'd first of all go to the safe in his office, unlock it and take out a scrap of paper and look at it. Then he'd fold it and put it back and close the safe before summing up the state of the nation's finances. On the day he died, the people he worked with rushed to the safe and took out the piece of paper. It said, 'Debits on the left, credits on the right.' "

She gave a polite smile. The joke wasn't one of his better ones.

He said, "If you'd like a calculator, get one on expenses."

"I'm sure we've got one. I might have to charge the church for some new batteries."

"Fine. Enter it in the petty cash book. Now look at these regular payments. They're covered by standing orders at the bank."

She studied the columns of figures, trying to focus, and thinking, God, I've got him on my sofa close enough to ... and we're talking about standing orders. "Your own expenses don't amount to much."

"True." He didn't elaborate.

We're mature, sexually experienced adults sitting here like virgins on a first date because he's in holy orders and I'm married. Pulling a clergyman must be the ultimate challenge. God, she thought, I must keep that wild streak of mine in check.

"Have we cracked it?" he asked.

"Mm?"

"Is it clear to you?"

"So far. I won't make too much of a mess of it, I hope. What else do I need to know?"

"One step at a time."

"If you don't mind, I'd like to get the full picture." Just a hint that he was patronising her.

"Sure." He smoothed his hands along the tops of his thighs. He was unusually tense and it distracted from the things he was saying. "No pressure at all until early next year. We work to the calendar year, so in January we make sure everything is in shape and hand the books, receipts and so on to the auditors. The audited accounts are ready for the February meeting of the PCC."

"And I must be ready for questions."

"Possibly, but I doubt it. The whole thing went through on the nod last time. And after they approve them, we present them to the Annual Parochial Church Meeting."

"That's all?"

"There are some statistical returns for the diocese that we don't need to bother with at this stage. I'll give you all the help I can."

"Thanks."

They looked at the petty cash book and the box file containing the vouchers and invoices. It was all immaculately sorted in transparent folders. At one stage the chequebook fell on the floor and they both reached for it and their hands touched.

Electric.

She handed the chequebook to him and he returned it to the file without actually looking at her.

"Happy so far?"

She nodded. "Except for one thing."

He said with a note of caution, "Yes?"

"I'm puzzled why you put me up for this when Burton Sands is a professional accountant."

He continued to rearrange the books. "The PCC made the decision, Rachel."

"At your suggestion."

"Well, that's true." Now he turned to her, and their faces were tantalisingly close. His hazel eyes locked with hers, slipped away and then returned. "I wanted you for this. I know you'll do it well. The others simply agreed with me."

"Why me?" she pressed him.

He turned aside, clearly reluctant to say more. "This job doesn't really require a professional. What matters is how it's handled. The right touch."

She wished she had waited until after the wine to ask that question. She might have got the answer she was fishing for.

She said the eats should be ready and he said he hadn't expected anything, but he sprang up and offered to help with the carrying.

"Wine?" he said when she gave him the tray with the glasses.

"You do drink red, I hope? I thought you must, so I opened it before you came."

"An act of faith."

"You do drink it?"

"When I get the chance."

The savouries smelt delicious. She took them from the oven and followed him in from the kitchen and reclaimed her place beside him on the sofa.

He was sitting further back, slightly more relaxed. "Let's drink to your success."

"Yours," she said. "You talked them into it."

"Ours, then." They touched glasses and drank. "Hey, this is a cut above, isn't it? What are we drinking?"

"Chateauneuf-du-Pape, ninety-six."

"Papist? Doubly wicked." He reached for a filo-wrapped bite. "You shouldn't have."

"It's a treat for me. Gary's a beer drinker. I don't buy wine normally. One or two glasses and I get bosky."

"Bosky.
That's an old-fashioned word."

Old-fashioned situation, she thought, a man and a woman sharing a sofa, sitting up primly like this. "I expect you're very level-headed."

"I wish. I'm not a regular drinker either. Can't afford it. There's a cellar in the rectory where Waldo Wallace made his beer, but now it just has cobwebs and old copies of the Church Times."

"It must be difficult being a priest. At certain times, I mean."

He gave the wrong answer. Totally off message. "Not at all. I wouldn't change it for the world. It's a real high being a front man for God."

"Yes, but there must be times ..."

"You can't compare it with ordinary jobs, Rachel. I could earn more cleaning windows, yes, but what I do is immensely satisfying. Even if you put aside the spiritual highs, I have the status, the dressing up, the preaching, the sense of being needed. I get invitations all the time. I can't say I always strike lucky as I have tonight—your hospitality, I mean—but I meet people, lovely people."

"They can't all be lovely. There must be some you'd rather not spend time with."

"Not many." His eyes flashed. "And if I play my cards right, I can get the PCC to outvote them."

She had another try to get him off this topic. "Being good all the time must be a strain. Everyone knows who you are."

He laughed. "I'm not good
all
the time. Good at covering up. That's the first thing you learn."

She smiled back, doing all she could to fan this faint spark. "I expect your sins are very tame compared with other people's."

"Don't count on it. But I never talk about them. Bad public relations. May I have another of these? They're yummy."

"And a drop more wine?"

"Only if you join me."

"I'll fetch the bottle."

"No. Let me." He was definitely lightening up.

When he sat down again he was closer to her. Their faces almost touched when he turned to speak. "There's one more thing I'd like to mention."

"Yes?"

"About the books."

The bloody books. She couldn't believe it. "Oh, I thought we'd—"

He talked across her, as if he hadn't a clue what she was leading up to, or trying to. "An arrangement I had with Stanley that I hope you'll go along with. It's to do with the quota we pay to the diocese. Did I tell you about the quota?"

"I know what it is."

"A large chunk of our income, that's what it is, Rachel, and they've hiked it up in recent years. I don't mind shelling out what I think is fair, but small country parishes like ours pay way over the odds."

"Shame." Flippant she may have sounded, sarcastic even, but she didn't need church politics at this stage of the evening.

"That's putting it mildly." He missed her reaction completely. "And the more successful you are in fund-raising, the more they penalise you. So I talked it over with Stanley and we opened a new account called the contingency fund. I use it for my expenses—which is why they're so modest."

"The
what
fund?"

"Contingency. A sort of hedge against the unexpected."

"I didn't notice it in the books," she said, beginning to pay attention.

"No, you wouldn't. That's the point. It's separate from the bank stuff. A building society account."

"And it doesn't go through the books?"

"Exactly."

"Is it legal?"

"All above board, yes. It's in my name. They tax the interest at source."

"But if it's church money ..."

"It goes on church expenses."

She wasn't at all sure about this. "But where does the money come from?"

"Extras. There are always dribs and drabs that come in late after something like the fete. Instead of inflating our bank account I put them into the contingency fund."

She was alerted to something irregular now. "There must be a statement to show how much is in there."

"Among these things? No. We don't want the diocese making waves and putting up the quota, do we?"

"Is that certain to happen?"

"Certain as the Creed. Some churches have been forced to close because they can't pay their way. People have worshipped in St. Bartholomew's for a thousand years. We can't let it go just because in the twenty-first century the Diocesan Board of Finance is too grasping." It was a passionate speech. Not the one Rachel had hoped to hear, but strong in emotion.

She was uneasy. She didn't like the sound of this contingency fund. She would be treasurer, and treasurers carried the can.

She must have sighed, or perhaps her face gave too much away, because he placed his hand over hers. "Rachel, you see the point of this, don't you?"

She turned to look at him, responding to his touch.

Those amazing eyes of his were wide in anticipation, melting her.

She nodded, telling herself sometimes you have to go with the flow. "Yes, I see."

And now their faces were so close that it seemed the most natural thing for their lips to meet lightly, as if to seal an understanding, and so they did.

The hell with the contingency fund.

As they drew apart she grabbed the back of his neck with her good arm, pulled him towards her again and kissed him with passion, pressing her lips hard against his. He responded by leaning towards her, pushing her firmly back into the corner of the sofa. Their mouths relaxed and found a better position. His fingertips were on her face, stroking her cheek, a light, sensuous touch that thrilled her. Then the fingers moved across her neck and over her breast.

This is it, she thought. I'm seducing a priest. I'll pay for this on Judgement Day and I don't give a toss.

There was a crash. Not the gates of Heaven being slammed. Just his leg or hers nudging the coffee table and knocking over the wine bottle.

He drew back and looked behind him.

"Oh, no!"

He sat right up and so did she.

The bottle was on the floor, on its side. He grabbed it up. A large stain was spreading over the mushroom-coloured carpet.

She said automatically, "Oh, Jesus!" Then: "It's all right." It wasn't. She ran out to the kitchen and fetched a sponge and warm water.

When she came back he was trying to clean splashes off the account books with a handkerchief. She knelt and rubbed at the carpet with her one good hand. The stain was the size of a saucer.

"I think I'm only making it worse."

"Want me to try? There must be something you use for wine stains. Salt?"

She shook her head, attacking the stain past the point when she was making any difference. She was putting off the moment when they faced each other again. They'd messed up in every sense.

He suggested she let the stain dry and use a commercial stain-remover. He'd stopped trying to clean up the books.

"They're not too bad," he said. "It can't be helped. I'm really sorry about the carpet."

"My own fault," said Rachel. "Made a right idiot of myself."

"Don't say that. Don't say anything. Let's have a pact. No blame, no regrets, no thoughts of what might have been, right?"