The Reaper

Sixteen

John Neary, washing his car outside the house on Saturday afternoon, was surprised to see Burton Sands coming across the street as if to speak. They knew each other from the confirmation classes, and never usually exchanged a word outside. Neary had only to look at Burton in his flat cap and anorak to want to turn the other way. No doubt about it: the village bore was making a beeline for him.

"Did you hear? They've picked the new bishop," Burton said as if it was as vital to the nation as the choice of England striker.

"Have they?"

"He's from Radstock."

"Is he?" Neary carried on hosing his hub caps in the expectation that the man would soon go away.

"When I say 'they,' I mean the Dean and Chapter. They'll shortly announce a date for the Consecration." Sands was one of those irritating church-goers who took pride in knowing all the ecclesiastical terminology. "Then he'll be enthroned at Glastonbury and take possession of his see."

John Neary didn't even look up.

Burton wasn't discouraged. "It should be early next year. So things will soon be back to normal."

Neary couldn't think of any way his life had been made abnormal by the church politics at Glastonbury. He didn't care what was happening there.

Burton came to the point. "The new bishop will be able to confirm us. We'll all be going back to the rectory to brush up on the service. The rector promised us one more meeting."

"See you there, then," said Neary, spotting a chance to end the dialogue.

"Yes. Early January, I expect, if he remembers. Do you think we ought to remind him?"

Neary was beginning to think the only way to get rid of Burton Sands was to turn the hose on him.

"Someone should," continued Burton. "He'll have plenty on his plate over Christmas."

"Mm."

"And I'm not talking about turkey."

Neary lifted an eyebrow. Had he heard right? Was Sands making a joke?

Still he lingered.

"The bees hibernate at this time of year, do they?"

"What?" Neary was wholly thrown by this new avenue of conversation.

"Your bees. You still keep bees, don't you?"

The five hives in the back garden meant more to Neary than the garden itself, his house, his car, or-it has to be said-his confirmation. He pulled the hose from the car and let the water gush downwards in a stream that spread quickly along the street. When people mentioned his bees, it was usually to complain. Two of the hives had swarmed at the end of the summer. "What have my bees got to do with the new bishop?"

"Nothing," said Burton.

"How do you know about them?"

"The honey's got your label. I get it sometimes in the shop. It's good. Really good."

A rapid reassessment took place. Neary decided he may have misjudged Burton. If the man was a satisfied customer, he wasn't such a pain after all. "Last summer's crop was better than usual. We had some good dry spells."

"The bees don't like the damp?"

"A certain amount of water is necessary. You'll see them drinking at puddles in the spring. They carry the water back to the hive. But the sort of rain we get most summers isn't helpful."

"What happens in the winter? Do you leave some honey in the hives?"

"Certainly. They need it now. All through the winter they cluster on the combs inside the hive and live off their reserves."

"Sometimes if it's sunny in the winter, you see bees outside."

"They go out for a shit."

Burton gave him a long look. He'd been caught before by people taking advantage of his willingness to believe every statement.

"Call of nature, if you want it in polite language," Neary explained in all seriousness. "They don't like soiling the hive."

"You seem to know a lot about it."

"You have to, or you lose them."

"Any chance of seeing inside one of your hives?"

"No chance," said Neary. "Nothing personal, but you don't disturb them in the winter months. Are you thinking of taking it up?"

"Just interested," said Burton. "Do you get stung much?"

"You get a few when you start. Bees aren't usually aggressive unless you do something to upset them."

"You wear protective clothing?"

"Of course. And you have a smoke gun. It keeps them off you. They get a whiff of that and they panic a bit and eat their fill from the honey cells in the hive. Then they're docile."

"Some people are allergic to bee-stings," said Burton.

Neary said with caution, "True."

"It can be fatal."

"In rare cases. Fortunately, I'm not one of them. Beekeepers become immune after a while."

"It's called anaphylactic shock," Burton persisted doggedly with this rather negative line on beekeeping. "The air passages get constricted. The throat tightens. A single sting in the region of the throat can cause suffocation and unconsciousness in just a few minutes. I've been reading about it."

Neary went back to hosing the car again. Sooner or later people who talked to him about bees always got around to their nuisance value.

"People who know they're in danger from bee-stings keep anti-histamine ready just in case," Burton added.

"For God's sake. It's about a one in a million chance," Neary pointed out. "Bees don't attack people for no reason at all."

"I understand that," said Burton, following him around the car as he worked, without realising the risk he was exposed to from the hose. "But just suppose an evil-minded person wanted to kill someone else-someone they knew was allergic to bee-stings. Is there any way they could arrange for a bee to attack someone?"

"Arrange it?"

"Yes."

"Murder them, you mean? You're talking a load of cobblers, Burton."

"It's unlikely, I know, but could it be done?"

"No way. Bees have their own agenda. They don't sting to order."

Burton wasn't satisfied. "Suppose you trapped some inside a house. In a room-a bathroom, for instance-and this person with the allergy went in there to take a shower."

"Trapped bees wouldn't stay around the shower. They'd fly to the window. Why are you asking this?"

"Doesn't matter."

"It's a non-starter. If you're aiming to do away with someone, choose a more reliable weapon than a honey bee."

"I'm not aiming to do anything so wicked," said Burton in an offended tone. "It isn't me."

"Well, it wouldn't work anyway. Even if a bee was trapped, it would be trying to get away and someone with an allergy isn't going to go anywhere near it."

Still he persisted. "You can't think of any way it could be done?"

"1 told you, no." John Neary was firm. Even if he could come up with some freakish theory, he didn't want bees getting a bad name in Foxford.

Burton reluctantly gave up. "I'll see you at that confirmation rehearsal, then." He moved off, unsatisfied, frowning.

Rachel, too, was far from satisfied. Her "comfort" from Otis had not amounted to as much as she had hoped. His latest visit had disappointed her. The freshly baked scones hadn't worked any charm at all. It was too soon after Gary's death to expect a proposal of marriage, she kept telling herself, but she felt entitled to some show of affection behind closed doors. He'd only looked like relaxing when he got up to leave. And he'd made no arrangement to call again. She hadn't asked if he would. That would have been too humiliating.

Besides, he would need to see her from time to time about the accounts. And that was odd. He'd told her his aim would be to trouble her as little as possible. He had used his contingency fund to bank the surplus from the harvest supper and he could deal with various other amounts that were coming in.

Was it his reputation as a man of God that bothered him? Maybe. She had to keep reminding herself that priests can't behave like other men. There would be turmoil going on in his mind, the tug of loyalties between his faith and his animal passion. God, she hoped animal passion would win, and soon.

She wasn't helped by a visit later in the day from Cynthia, keen to know exactly what had happened. Cyn started on the uneaten scones as if she meant to clear the plate, whilst debriefing her with the thoroughness of a spymaster. "You're not telling me you didn't cry on his shoulder and get a cuddle? How did you pass the time, then? Not saying prayers, I bet."

"We drank coffee and talked about the way people find it difficult to approach a widow. It was all terribly serious."

"And totally boring, by the sound of it. What's bugging Otis? He fancies you something rotten, I know he does."

"Come off it, Cyn."

"If it didn't sound vulgar, I'd say it stands out."

Rachel sighed and tried to smile.

"It doesn't? You don't think so?" said Cynthia in disbelief.

"He's a clergyman."

"That doesn't make him frigid."

"He still behaved like a clergyman."

Cynthia paused, and flicked back some hair from her face. "Well, if he doesn't go for you, I'm revising my game-plan."

"What do you mean?"

"I was sure I didn't stand a snowball's, but I may think again now. We got on quite well at the harvest supper." She widened her eyes, watching Rachel for her reaction. "I'd say we clicked, actually. Has he ever said anything to you about me?"

"Not that I remember."

Cynthia looked away from Rachel, making calculations. "It must be getting on for two years since his wife died. He ought to be up for it by now. Someone's going to land him, so why not me ?"

Cynthia, riding roughshod as usual, with no regard for anyone's feelings.

"It's up to you," said Rachel, feigning indifference. She didn't seriously rate Cynthia as a rival.

"There isn't anyone else, is there?" Cynthia said. "I'd like to know where he goes on his day off. Do you think it's a woman?"

"Your mind, Cynthia! I keep telling you he's a clergyman."

She put out her tongue and blew a loud raspberry. "First and foremost, he's a bloke, ducky."

"Well, I don't think he'd behave like that." Not with anyone except me, Rachel thought privately, and not with me, yet awhile, she thought bleakly.

"Some people say he's not above a bit of sinning. And I mean worse things than a bit of parallel parking," Cynthia pointed out. "They say he's a serial murderer."

"Stupid. Owen Cumberbatch is a disgrace, spreading stories like that."

"Remember I told you it wouldn't be long before he accused Otis of having something to do with Gary's death? Well, it happened. He was dropping hints about it in the pub last week. More than hints, I'm told. He was saying your New Orleans-style funeral-not your funeral, Rach, know what I mean? — was put on to divert attention from what really happened."

Rachel's cheeks burned. She wanted to stop this dangerous talk, but she didn't know how.

Instead, Cynthia trundled on like a ten-ton tank. "The way it was done was typical Otis Joy, according to Owen. His modus operandi-did I say that right?"

Rachel shrugged, trying to keep her poise.

Cynthia explained, "It's a term the police use for the way a criminal goes to work. They know certain villains use Semtex, or sawn-off shotguns, or something."

"This was a funeral, for Heaven's sake," Rachel succeeded in saying.

"Yes, but what a funeral. Otis covers his crimes by making such a song and dance about the victim that you couldn't possibly suspect him. The big scene in church. The funeral oration that has everyone reaching for their Kleenex. That's the theory, anyway."

"It's bullshit. The jazz funeral was my suggestion. Otis didn't think of it."

"I know, darling. Do you think I'd be making a play for a serial murderer? I'd have to be out of my tiny mind. We both know Owen is full of wind and piss."

"The trouble is not everyone knows that. Throw enough mud, and some will stick."

For some time after Cynthia left, Rachel sat biting her fingernails, reflecting on the truth of her own words. If that detestable man Cumberbatch was putting it around that Otis had murdered Gary, people didn't have to believe the gossip before they started speculating on a possible motive. There was only one: Gary had to be removed so that Otis could marry her.

Had the story reached Otis's ears? It would explain why he was being ultra-cautious.

Mud sticks.

Yes.

Everything was clearer. He was protecting her reputation. Now that she viewed his actions in this light, she loved him more than ever. She understood. He was playing a long game, and she would have to play it the same way.

He was back.

Incredibly, Burton Sands was standing on John Neary's doorstep at eight-thirty in the evening like a Jehovah Witness trying to save one more sinner before bedtime.

"What is it now?"

"I've thought of something else."

"I'm quite busy, actually."

"Mind if I come in. It won't take long."

Neary would have liked to slam the door in Burton's face, but you don't do that sort of thing in a village, particularly to a fellow member of the confirmation class. He had little option but to do the Christian thing and miss the rest of the TV pro-gramme he'd been watching. He made way for Burton to step in.

Reluctantly, Neary pressed the mute button on the remote control.

"It's about the bees," said Burton.

"My bees?" He was ready to defend them.

"No. Any bees. They always have their queen, don't they? It all revolves around her, doesn't it? The hive, the honey, collecting the nectar?"

"It's Saturday night, Burton. Surely you haven't come round here for a lesson on beekeeping?"

"I'm right about the queen, aren't I?"

Neary sighed. "Pretty well. She exists to lay eggs. Thousands of them. None of the other bees can do that unless they're made into queens."

The brown eyes gleamed. "This is the point, then. What happens if you remove the queen from the hive and put her somewhere else? They're bound to go looking for her, aren't they?"

"What are you driving at? You're still on about using bees to kill someone?"

"If you took the queen into a house, and the bees came looking for her-"

"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."