Peter Lovesey - The Reaper

The senior churchwarden, Geoff Elliott, spoke to the rector after everyone else had gone. "It may seem indecently soon to be speaking of this, but we'll need a new treasurer now."

"Spot on, Geoff," said Joy. "The sooner the better."

"We churchwardens can act in a temporary capacity, but we need someone to take on the job properly. For the sake of continuity, he ought to come from within the PCC, as Stanley did."

"Is that a problem?"

Elliott cleared his throat. "I've, er, sounded out the others and nobody is too confident of taking it on. You need someone good at figure work. We have the power to co-opt, of course."

"And you have someone in mind?"

"That young fellow Sands is a chartered accountant, I understand."

"Burton Sands?" said the rector, unable to disguise his horror. "He's in my confirmation class. He isn't confirmed yet."

"He will be, won't he?"

"Well, as it isn't by selection, yes. I wouldn't have thought of him for treasurer myself."

"He's a regular church-goer. A serious young man. Very stable, I would think. And we can be sure he understands how to draw up a balance sheet."

"I don't doubt that."

You solve one problem and another rears its head. Joy could not in his wildest dreams imagine himself disclosing the existence of the contingency fund to Burton Sands. Neither did he wish to operate extra accounts without the treasurer's knowledge. That had been the problem in the last parish, ending with the visit from the bishop. Far better to find someone cooperative, like Stanley. What a crying shame Stanley had ruled himself out.

"Is there a problem with Burton?" Elliott asked.

"I wouldn't put it so strongly. It's just a feeling I have that he may upset people. He's a prickly character. A parish treasurer needs tact. He'd be dealing with ordinary folk who get things in a muddle or forget to ask for receipts or hand in money later than they should. I don't know how Burton would measure up."

"Well, of course we need someone you can work with, Rector."

"I can work with anyone, but… Let me think about this before we ask him. There may be someone we've overlooked."

"He's the only accountant in the congregation."

"But Stanley wasn't an accountant. As he remarked to me once, almost anyone could do the job. It's commonsense stuff."

"But a lot easier if you're a trained accountant," said Elliott stubbornly. "In the meantime, Norman Gregor and I will plug the gap."

"Top stuff," said Joy, and added optimistically, "Who knows? Maybe you'll find it's a doddle."

"It's only until we get someone permanent," Elliott stressed. "We're thinking of days rather than weeks. And we can't do much without the account books."

"Take them over as soon as you want. It's just a matter of collecting them from Stanley's cottage."

"The books aren't there, Rector. The police have them."

Joy's face twitched into stark horror. "The police?"

"You know PC Mitchell-George, from the cottage with the willow growing in the front. He also acts as the coroner's officer. He took possession of the books. I think it's to make sure they're in order, just in case something worried Stanley enough to make him suicidal."

Joy shook his head. "If anything made him suicidal, it was the burglary."

"They have to do the job properly."

"George Mitchell should have come to me."

Eliott's face coloured deeply. "My fault, Rector. He explained to me what he was doing and I ought to have mentioned it to you before this."

One of Otis Joy's strengths was speed of action. Burton Sands as treasurer? No way.

There had to be a better candidate, someone more approachable, more co-operative and who saw the sense in not rocking the boat. Numerate, of course, but they didn't need to be a maths professor. The rector's candidate. No parish council would dare veto the rector's choice.

But who?

None of those deadbeats on the PCC wanted the responsibility. The nominee had to come from the congregation at large. A number of treasurer-like faces came to mind as Joy mentally scanned the line-up he saw every Sunday from his pulpit. There was no shortage of people who had worked in offices and probably on committees as well. Unfortunately not one of them struck him as suitable. He couldn't predict how they would react to the contingency fund.

Stanley-God rest his soul-had never asked to see a statement from the building society. Even Stanley might have been perturbed to know that the deposits were never less than a hundred pounds a week and the withdrawals about the same. A steady sixty from the hire of the church hall for bingo, bridge, boy scouts, table-tennis and line-dancing. Thirty to fifty for a wedding, baptism or funeral. Extra from the coffee mornings, the fete, the safari suppers and whatever. Bits and bobs from the "upkeep of the church" boxes and the sale of pamphlets. It all came in the form of notes and coins that went straight into the building society. You don't want loose change lying about the rectory or you run the risk of theft, as Stanley Burrows had discovered.

The right choice was crucial.

Who can find a virtuous woman7 , states the Book of Proverbs, for her price is far above rubies. Finding the right treasurer was about as difficult. And now that Joy thought about it, a woman was not a bad idea, virtuous or not.

The Coroner's officer in his police uniform called at the rectory about four in the afternoon. A civilised time. It was a golden September day and Otis Joy brought tea and cake into the garden. Not coconut pyramids, but a fine three-layer chocolate cake, a gift to the rector (with twenty-four pounds and a few pence in extra takings) from the recent coffee morning.

"It's about Stanley, of course?" he said striking the right note between chirpiness and respect for the dead;

"Only a few questions, Rector." PC George Mitchell was a Wiltshireman through and through, in his fifties now, calm, slow of speech, with a faint smile that rarely left him. The rector had long since learned to respect the intelligence behind soft West Country accents. "He was quite well known to you, I expect?"

"As one of the Church Council? Naturally."

"Treasurer."

"And a good one. He held the office for many years, didn't he? Long before I came."

"A demanding job, would you say?"

Otis Joy smiled and pointed to the piece of cake on PC Mitchell's plate.

Mitchell took a moment to see the point, then let his mouth relax into the start of a smile.

"It never depressed him, so far as I know," said Joy. "Is that what you're wondering?"

"The books appear to be in order. Up to date."

"They would be. Stanley was methodical, as a treasurer should be." He signalled a shift in tone by putting down his cup and saucer. "Nobody informed me you were taking away the church accounts. I have to say I take a dim view of that."

"I was acting for the coroner," said PC Mitchell without apologising. "We don't upset people for the sake of it, but when all's said and done, we have the job to do and the power to carry it out."

"When will we get them back?"

"Today, if you like. We've finished with them."

"Barking up the wrong tree, then?"

"We bark up all the trees, Rector."

A wasp was hovering over Otis Joy's cake. "The cause of Stanley's death is obvious, isn't it?"

"Not so much as you'd think. He didn't leave a note. That's unusual, him being so methodical."

"Surely the burglary …"

"In my job, you learn not to make assumptions. I just assemble the facts for the coroner. When did you last see Stanley?"

The wasp had settled on the cake. It wouldn't move, even when a paper napkin was waved over it. "Now you're asking. I'm hopeless at remembering."

"But I expect you keep a diary. You'd need to, with all the things you have to do."