The Reaper

Eighteen

After the build-up he'd given the carol singing, there was puzzlement when the rector failed to appear on Tuesday evening. Almost everyone else was there in warm clothes, some carrying lanterns, some their musical instruments. For twenty minutes they waited in the crisp evening air outside the church door. "Happen he's not well," somebody suggested, so Peggy Winner offered to knock at the rectory door. She got no reply. The place was in darkness. Then George Mitchell remembered that this was normally the rector's day off.

"I expect he's gone off for the day and forgotten," said Peggy.

"Not our rector," said George, who had become a staunch supporter through the Scrabble sessions. "He's not the forgetful sort. 1 reckon he's held up somewhere. Trouble with the car, most like." People tended to believe George because he was a policeman.

"Where would he have gone?" a woman asked.

Nobody could say.

"He gets up very early on his days off," Burton Sands said as if early rising was suspicious behaviour. "He could be miles away."

"Disposing of another one," murmured Owen Cumberbatch.

"What did you say?" said George Mitchell.

"Nothing at all, old boy. Not a word."

They decided to start without the rector. If he turned up late, he would hear the singing and know where to look for them. They walked to the first group of houses and started with a good rallying carol, "O Come, all ye faithful."

"Knowing Otis and his flare for the dramatic, this is all set up for a huge surprise," Peggy confided to Rachel after the last chorus was sung and the boxes rattled at the doorsteps. "He's going to come up the street in a minute dressed as Santa Claus."

"I doubt it," said Rachel. "Santa isn't part of the real Christmas story."

"The Angel of the Lord, then," said Peggy, laughing. "With plastic wings and a ruddy great halo."

Rachel didn't smile. Otis's absence worried her. And she was also puzzled as to why Cynthia hadn't turned out. She'd promised to be there.

During the walk from the first carol-stop to the second, and aided by the hipflasks being passed around, a subtle change took place. The singers, representing at least three-quarters of those who filled the church on Sundays, started to chat with a frankness they never managed after service, and much of the chat was critical of the rector.

"It's bad of him to let us, down," Peggy remarked to Rachel. "He's such a card normally. We need him to keep us cheerful."

"I expect he'll turn up," Rachel said. "He never misses church events."

"Well, he shouldn't, should he?" Peggy said. "It's his job. Where does he go on his days off?"

"Don't ask me," said Rachel.

"Do you think he's got a woman tucked away somewhere?"

The question was beneath contempt. Rachel clicked her tongue and looked away.

"No offence, love. It's just that you've seen a little more of him than some of us-through doing the accounts, I mean- and I wondered if he gave any clues."

"We don't talk about personal matters."

Norman Gregor, the churchwarden, at the head of the group with Geoff Elliott, was saying, "This isn't very good. He should have phoned."

"It's no disaster, Norman," said Elliott. "It's not like a service. We can cope."

And Burton Sands said in confidence to Mitchell, "When there's an opportunity, I'd like to talk to you about the rector. I think he ought to be investigated."

"Have you been talking to Owen by any chance?" said George.

They had reached one of the farms along the route. Picking their way with the help of torches, they trudged along the track to the house. The dim shapes of silent, seated sheep could just be seen over the drystone walls.

"We get a mince pie here," Norman Gregor reminded the others.

"What do you think-'While shepherds watched'?" suggested Geoff Elliott, who had assumed the role of choirmaster.

It seemed appropriate, so the brass section played the opening bars.

After five minutes of lusty singing and fifteen consuming the farmer's wife's heated mince pies, they moved on. Owen Cum-berbatch had a fresh theory about the rector's absence, and was happy to tell anyone who would listen except George Mitchell. "Detained by the police, 'helping them with their inquiries,' as they charmingly put it. They had to catch up with him eventually, didn't they? You can't go on eliminating innocent people and expect to get away with it."

Peggy would have none of it. "He's a man of God, Owen. They don't go in for murder."

"Plenty of it in the Bible, dear," said Owen.

Rachel wished someone would murder Owen.

They moved on steadily through their repertoire, stopping at all the traditional points, and still the rector hadn't joined them. Almost two hours after the start they ended up at the Foxford Arms.

"He's probably sitting inside with a smile on his face," said Peggy.

"He'll owe us a drink if he is," said Norman Gregor.

But he was not in the pub. Unkind things might have been said at this end of the evening if Joe Jackson had not been standing just inside the door behind a steaming punchbowl. Normally a solemn figure, he was wearing reindeer horns and an apron made to look as if he was wearing a corset. He ladled generous glasses for everyone except the children, who were given their own non-alcoholic concoction. And there were more mince pies that most people passed by.

The singing started up again. Not carols. "Nellie Dean," because everyone knew the words. Then Joe Jackson, who had a good bass voice and hadn't used it singing carols, gave them an old gallows song, "Salisbury Plain," followed by "Barbara Allen," the ballad of the fair maid who ignored the man who died of love for her, and then, full of remorse, died herself.

"Lovely tunes, but such morbid songs," said Peggy Winner. "Can't you give us something more cheerful? Rachel's slipped off home already. I'm sure it was the singing put her off."

Joe said in a huff, "If it's something cheerful you want, ask George for 'The Laughing Policeman.' "

Sarcasm often misses the mark. Peggy took Joe at his word. "Would you, George?"

George Mitchell pretended to need persuading, but everyone knew that once asked he would get up and give his party piece. Nobody minded that he wasn't much of a singer. It was a treat to hear the law making an ass of itself.

It wasn't Joe Jackson's choice of songs that drove Rachel away. She'd left feeling strangely dissatisfied because the evening had lacked the two people who had urged her to join in. She was mystified why Cynthia hadn't turned out, and decided to call on her before it got too late. But when she got to Primrose Cottage the place was in darkness. Cynthia couldn't have gone to bed ill because the bedroom curtains weren't drawn. Odd. The silly woman had been so gung-ho and joky about going around in the dark with Otis Joy. What could have cropped up that was more of an attraction?

Feeling let down, she returned up the street to her own cottage.

Just before reaching the village shop she was dazzled by headlights. She stepped aside in case the driver hadn't seen her. The car was coming at a speed that was downright dangerous at night in a village. She thought it was going straight through, but the brakes screeched and it came to a halt outside the pub. A male figure got out and went inside as if desperate for a drink before the place closed. He need not have hurried. On the carol-singing night the Foxford Arms always remained open long after the official closing time.

When she got closer she saw that the car was Otis's Cortina. So he'd only just got back.

Curious as she was to know where he'd been, she didn't go back into the pub.

She would have heard Otis Joy telling the carollers, "I don't know how to face you all. I let you down badly. One of those things you can't possibly predict. A woman dropped dead in front of me. You can't walk away from that, can you, whoever you are? And if you happen to be a minister of the church, well… It was very sudden. Mercifully she didn't know much about it, poor soul, but the sight of her could have been upsetting for others. You do what you can to cope with an emergency like that, and of course it takes longer than you can spare. And I wasn't near a phone. I suppose I ought to get one of those mobiles, and you can bet if I do I won't find another occasion to use it. Anyway, I do apologise to you all. How did it go?"

They told him the singing had been well received and people had been generous all round the village. Geoff Elliott had just counted the money and bagged it up-over two hundred pounds.

"I'd like to put in a fiver myself," said Otis at once. "Where's Geoff?"

Elliott waved from across the room. Otis went over, produced a five pound note and offered to take care of the money overnight. "I don't see our treasurer here."

"Rachel? She left earlier. She was with us for the carols."

"Good. I'm glad she's getting involved in village life again."

He left soon after, cashbags in hand. It had been a harrowing day, he said, and he was due at the school to take class six for scripture in the morning.

The story of the woman who had dropped dead put a premature end to the singsong. It would have been insensitive to start again. Many of the carol party were getting, up to leave, among them PC George Mitchell. I s "So when can we talk?" Burton Sands pressed him.

"What about?" said George as if he hadn't heard Burton's earlier approach.

"You know …" Burton's eyes shifted to the door. The rector was outside starting his car.

George said slowly, spacing his words, "If it's anything more than tittle-tattle, come and see me at the station tomorrow. If not, I suggest you forget about the whole thing."

Burton reddened and reached for his coat.

Before daylight Rachel took a walk to the other end of the village and saw that Cynthia's curtains were still pulled back as if she hadn't slept there. No lights showed in Primrose Cot- tage. The morning paper had been delivered and was half sticking out of the letterbox.

She went back and tried phoning. Cynthia's voice on the answerphone told her to wait for the signal and then leave a message.

"It's not like her to go off without telling anyone," she said later in the shop.

"Some family crisis, I expect," said Davy Todd in his unflustered way. When the Day of Judgement arrived, Davy would still open the shop and put out the newspapers.

"She could have gone away for Christmas," said the girl who helped in the mornings.

"She'd have cancelled the papers," Davy pointed out. "She's very well organised, is Mrs. Haydenhall. I reckon she'll be back some time today. We thought the rector was missing yesterday, and he came back."

Quick to follow up, Rachel asked what explanation Otis had given and was told about the woman dropping dead and throwing his plans into confusion. It was such an original excuse that it had to be true.

"Did he say where this happened?"

"No one asked him," said Davy. "So we still don't know where he goes on Tuesdays. He's entitled to some privacy, I say, same as the rest of us."

"Of course," said Rachel.

Her concern about Cynthia increased after hearing about the woman who dropped dead. Suppose she'd collapsed in the house and nobody knew. Poor Stanley Burrows had lain dead in his cottage for at least two days before anyone thought to look inside.

"Burton," said George Mitchell after listening impassively to the list of appalling crimes laid at the door of the rectory, "this is not respectful."

He was with Burton Sands in one of the interview rooms at Warminster Police Station. Sometimes people called at George's cottage in Foxford to report things, but this was the official place, and Burton was determined to do things by the book.

"He's not entitled to respect if he did these things," the dour young man insisted.

"Ah, but he is until proved guilty, and we're a long, long way from that. What's your motive?"

"Mine? It's not my motive you should be questioning. I'm doing what a responsible citizen should, informing you what I know."

George gave it to him straight. "Nothing. That's what you know. There's plenty you suspect, but I can't arrest a man on suspicions alone. A man of the cloth."

"That's the real objection, isn't it?" said Burton, flushing all over his freckled skin. "He's a clergyman, so he must be innocent."

"I never heard of one who murdered people."

"So he gets away with it, time and again."

"You're just repeating yourself," said George. "Where's the evidence? The Crown Prosecution Service would fall about laughing at what you've told me so far."

"The evidence is in the parish accounts," said Burton obdurately. "If I could get hold of the books and do an audit I'd prove he's an embezzler. He robbed the last parish he was in, and he's robbing this one."

"You don't know that."

"But I do. They had such a shortfall at Old Mordern that the bishop personally investigated."

"While the Reverend Joy was vicar there?"

"No, after he left."

"Could have been the new vicar, then. And if it was investigated, why wasn't he charged with fiddling the books-if he did?"

"Because Bishop Marcus died-or was killed-before it came out."

"Who told you this, about the bishop investigating?"

"One of the congregation there."

"Owen Cumberbatch?"

"No, a woman I met there. She was arranging flowers the day I visited."

George let his breath out slowly. "You've actually been to his last parish checking up?"

"I knew nobody else would," Burton said with a red-eyed stare.

"Don't sling mud in my direction, laddie," George checked him. "What did this woman tell you?"

"She said Bishop Marcus personally inspected the Old Mordern books before he died. And made copies of everything."

"What for?"

"She thought it was because they asked for a reduction in their quota-the money the diocese gets-but I know better. It was because the bishop was on to the Reverend Joy."

"Next you'll be telling me he murdered the bishop."

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."