Peter Lovesey - The Reaper

"There's no problem."

"I can't agree. If we do appoint someone else, they'll need to learn our ways of doing things."

"What do you mean, Rector?"

Otis Joy cleared his throat. "How we deal with my petty cash claims, for instance. You and I have an understanding, but a new treasurer may be uncomfortable with it."

"The Building Society account?"

"The contingency fund, yes."

"I'm sure whoever takes over will see the sense in it. A slight diversion from the norm, but good for the church, our church, anyway. I'll explain it fully when I hand over the books. I believe in giving it to them straight, and I'm sure you agree."

Joy didn't agree at all. The prospect of a new treasurer was alarming enough, and Stanley giving it to them straight would be calamitous. He was deeply perturbed. He could see everything unravelling. "It's not so simple."

"Why?" said Stanley.

"We don't know who they might appoint. It could be someone who doesn't appreciate the advantages of the fund."

Stanley shook his head. "Why shouldn't they? If they can't allow a man of the church some discretion what's the world coming to? I'm very clear about this, Rector. It doesn't matter a bean who takes over. I'm honour bound to show him the accounts in full, including your statements from the building society."

"I don't keep them."

"You don't?" Stanley blinked and stared.

"Have I committed a faux pas? I told you I'm hopeless with money."

Stanley Had turned a deep shade of pink. "I expect it's all right. No doubt it's all on computer somewhere. The new treasurer must have chapter and verse on everything we've done. You do see that?"

"In time, yes, but…"

"No, Rector. Forgive me, but this is an accounting matter. The handover is when you open the books and explain everything."

"But this doesn't have to be an overnight thing. We'll need a transition. A few months of working together."

"No. My mind is made up. A clean break. I'm through with the job. It's better for the new person to start without me looking over his shoulder."

Most people can be charmed, persuaded or threatened out of an unwise decision. There are just a few who are totally intractable.

"Even so," said Joy, realising he'd lost this one.

"Look at it this way," said Stanley. "If I dropped dead tomorrow, you'd be forced to appoint someone else."

Otis Joy sighed heavily. "And I thought We had years ahead of us." He took Stanley's glass to the cupboard and refilled it.

Stanley died in bed that night.

He was not found for two days. People came to the cottage, got no answer and went away. The paper-boy unthinkingly pushed the previous morning's Daily Telegraph through the letterbox to make way for the next one. The meter reader from SWEB made a note that this quarter would be another estimated reading. Bill Armistead, local organiser of Neighbourhood Watch, calling to offer sympathy about the break-in, assumed Stanley was having a lie-in. Even the police knocked at the door to check details of the stolen property and went away without doing anything.

The irony of all this was that the back door remained unlocked. Anyone could have walked in.

Finally the publican at the Foxford Arms remarked that Stanley hadn't been in for his usual for a couple of lunchtimes and Peggy Winner, who lived opposite, said she'd noticed his bedroom curtains had remained drawn. The publican said someone had better get over to the cottage and see if the old boy was all right.

Bill Armistead went around to the back door and walked in. Upstairs he found Stanley Burrows dead in bed. The doctor, when he came, confirmed that death must have been at least thirty-six hours earlier because the effect of rigor mortis had already come and gone.

The circumstances of Stanley's passing horrified everyone. It was assumed that the trauma of being burgled had brought on a heart attack, and for a time a lynch mentality took over. If the burglar had been identified for sure he would not have lasted long in the village. As it was, a number of youths came under strong suspicion and were treated with contempt by everyone who had known Stanley. Two of them were drop-outs from the new Sixth Form College, a point that would not have escaped the old headmaster.

The death was reported to the coroner, who ordered a post mortem. The analytical findings demonstrated that Stanley had died from the effects of amylobarbitone, a sedative, mixed with whisky. An inquest was arranged.

Suicide, then? This was even more shocking than the heart attack theory. No note was found, but it is common knowledge that you don't take barbiturates and alcohol together unless you want to do away with yourself. The idea of the heartbroken old man alone in his cottage mixing his fatal cocktail moved people to tears. They had known Stanley was in a state of shock after the burglary. They hadn't realised it amounted to black despair.

On Sunday, Otis Joy referred to the tragedy in church. "Stanley Burrows was a loyal member of this congregation for over thirty years. He served on the parish council as our treasurer, a very able treasurer. Stanley was a staunch friend to me, but of course most of you knew him much longer than I did, as your headmaster, or the headmaster of your children. His passing is hard for us to bear-the more so because of the tragic circumstances. I'm not going to speculate on what happened, and I urge you all-everyone in the village-to be restrained in your reaction. Stanley was a gentleman in every sense of the word. He, of all people, wouldn't wish this to lead to thoughts of revenge. He taught the virtues of civilised behaviour. Let us remember that as we pray for his immortal soul."

In his pew towards the back, Owen Cumberbatch exhaled loudly and impatiently. His sister, beside him, gave him a sharp dig in the ribs.

To end the service, the rector chose a hymn Stanley had often sung in school assemblies, "Lord dismiss us with thy blessing," and hands were dipping into pockets and bags for Kleenex long before the "Amen" was reached.

To Rachel, in her usual pew, the rector's words had been specially touching. He had this gift of striking exactly the right note for the occasion. On her way out of church she almost complimented him, and then decided it was inappropriate. Instead she smiled and put out her left hand (her right was still in plaster) and found herself holding two of his fingers and giving them a squeeze. He smiled in a restrained way. "I hope it's mending nicely."

"I expect so," she said.

"How long do you have to wear this?"

"Another four itching weeks."

"I've always said the best cure for an itch is to scratch it. Try a knitting needle."

"Well, it's not all bad," she managed to put in. "I got some lovely flowers out of it."

"Mind how you go, then. Watch out for Waldo's grave."

She was tempted to ask if he'd remembered what it was he wanted to see her about on the day of the accident, but that might have seemed pushy. She moved on.

By the lychgate she overheard a snatch of conversation she found mystifying. Bill Armistead was saying to Davy Todd, who kept the shop, "… out of order, totally out of order and told him so."

"Silly old bugger," said Todd.

"It's daft. He couldn't hold down a job like his, telling folk how to behave, praying and preaching, if he were up to things like that."

"Nobody could. What would be the point?"

"Mind, they do go off the rails, some of them."

"Yes, a bit of how's your father, drinking, gambling, but this is way beyond that. No, it's bullshit. Got to be. If he believes that, he wants his head testing."

Rachel edged around them and walked up the street. She couldn't believe anyone had been spreading malicious stories about Otis, and didn't want to find out.