Peter Lovesey - The Reaper

"He is our rector," Cynthia Haydenhall said at the bring-and-buy coffee morning Otis Joy had asked to be excused from. "We expect him to be above reproach." She had become cooler towards Joy since he left her out of his tea party after the fete.

"There's no reason to think he's doing anything to be ashamed of," said Stanley.

Over by the door, Owen Cumberbatch rolled his eyes as if to suggest that the complacency of these people was beyond belief.

His sister, whose inescapable toffee crispies were being offered around, was quick to say, before Owen opened his mouth, "I think our rector is the best thing that ever happened to Foxford. We've had some dull old sticks at the rectory in recent years. He treats the job as if he enjoys every minute. It's infectious. That's why the church is full on Sundays."

Mr. Prior, the eighty-year-old sidesman, came in on the end of the conversation. "What's that? Who's infectious?"

"Our rector, according to Miss Cumberbatch," said Cynthia unhelpfully.

"Is that where he is today-having treatment?" asked Mr. Prior.

So another rumour was hatched.

Between the raffle, the sale and the fifty pence entrance fee, seventy pounds was raised for the church. At the end of the morning, Stanley took it home in a brown paper bag.

He was in for a shock. A burglar had entered his cottage while he was out. Ninety-two pounds was stolen, together with a video-recorder, a Waterford rose-bowl-the last memento of his grandparents-his ivory chess-set and the silver clock he had been given by the school on the day he retired.

George Mitchell, the local policeman, came eventually. He asked to see the place where the break-in had happened and Stanley had to admit that he never locked his back door. Living in the village, he'd thought he was safe. People in villages trust each other. So the thief had just opened the door and walked in. PC Mitchell clicked his tongue and shook his head. He told Stanley he had better not mention to the insurance people that the house was left open. Stanley said he didn't see why it should become an insurance claim if the police did their job and the property was recovered. PC Mitchell shook his head and told him to get real and said theft was the most commonly reported offence. The chance of catching anyone was about one in a hundred. They didn't have the manpower to hunt down petty thieves. Stanley was outraged. He pointed out that it must have been a local person who knew about the bring-and-buy sale and had chosen a time when the cottage was empty. PC Mitchell agreed and said someone would take fingerprints, but if he were in Stanley's shoes he would file that insurance claim.

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."