Peter Lovesey - The Reaper

"I don't remember that."

"You've got a short memory. After the fete, when you didn't get invited back for a cup of tea," Rachel reminded her. "That was a laundry-basket offence, you told me."

The colour flooded into Cynthia's cheeks. "Lawdy! Did I? Well, I think the man is absolutely gorgeous. I could pleasure him at breakfast, lunch and tea, but it's unrequited passion up to now. He doesn't give me any encouragement at all. It's you he fancies."

Now Rachel blushed. "Oh, come on."

"I can see it in the way he looks at you. His eyes follow you long after you've gone by. Now that you're a merry widow, he'll be on the case. Just see if he isn't. Listen, hand me that ruddy cushion. There isn't room in that chair for both of you."

As she passed it across, Rachel read the message on the reverse: Bad Girls Go Anywhere. "You say the daftest things, Cyn."

"Want a bet? Has he been round to comfort you?"

"Of course not."

"He will. It's his job, comforting widows."

"He has more important things to do."

"Nonsense. You're top priority. If I were you, I'd bake some cakes and have a bottle of vino ready. But he won't be round today. I was up early. Saw him drive past about six-thirty. He's taking the day off, I reckon. Generally it's Tuesday when he goes missing, but he had the funeral yesterday, so he took today instead. Where he goes in that old banger of his I couldn't tell you. But we've been over that before, haven't we? He's a man of mystery, our rector."

"He's entitled to some life of his own. Who are these enemies you mentioned? Burton Sands, I suppose?"

"Him, yes. And Owen."

"Owen who?"

"Miss Cumberbatch's brother."

"The fat man? I don't think I've ever spoken to him."

"Well, don't. He spreads the most hair-raising gossip about poor Otis being a serial murderer."

Rachel spilled tea into her saucer. "That's horrible."

"Of course it's horrible and quite impossible, but Owen Witters on about it to anyone daft enough to j listen. He's a prize bullshitter, pardon my French. You mention a place and Owen Cumberbatch has been there. Name some famous person and he knows them personally. No, to be accurate, he usually names them first."

"Why is he spreading lies about the rector?"

"Says he knew him in his previous parish. Where was it? St. Saviour's at Old Mordern."

"Where's that?"

"Near Chippenham, I think."

"What's he got against Otis?"

"Apart from being a serial killer?" Cynthia shook with laughter. "I wouldn't know, darling."

They both laughed, since the notion of Otis killing anyone was so preposterous.

"Next he'll be claiming Otis murdered your Gary."

Rachel caught her breath and felt a spasm through her body. "He'd better not." Her cheeks were burning and her heart pumped harder. To hear it suggested that Gary could have died of anything except natural causes was deeply alarming and had to be dealt with immediately. "Listen, Cynthia. If anyone in this village-Owen or anyone else-spreads a vicious rumour like that, I'll sue them."

"Otis would have to sue him, poppet," Cynthia pointed out. "It wouldn't be you he was defaming."

IN SPITE of aching all over from the gardening, Rachel couldn't get to sleep that night. Cynthia's casual linking of Gary's name with murder had devastated her. Where had the woman got such an idea? There was no reason for any suspicion about the death. Everything was watertight. Gary had been treated for a heart problem only days before he died. The doctor was satisfied, the medical certificate written, the death certificate collected, the curry disposed of, the monkshood eradicated and the corpse buried. She'd given Gary the best funeral anyone ever had in Foxford. She ought to be untouchable.

How infuriating, then, how bloody unfair, if rumours started just through Owen Cumberbatch's malicious gossip. No, get this straight, she thought. Owen hadn't said anything. It was Cynthia anticipating things that might conceivably enter Owen's head. It was Cynthia who had hit the button-good-hearted, ever-cheerful, yappy Cynthia. And this time she wasn't even trying to make mischief. She'd come out mindlessly with the truth-or at least a half-truth. Gary was a victim of murder.

Rumour was so insidious. Mud sticks. If this came to the ears of old Dr. Perkins, he could start thinking back and questioning his diagnosis.

Am I panicking? she thought.

Maybe this was the reaction kicking in, the depression everyone was warning her about. The numbness of the first shock was passing, and she was becoming prey to her own nerves.

She mustn't let it get to her. She'd done everything right up to now. All she had to do was hold her nerve and make sure Cynthia held her tongue.

She sat up, put on the light and took one of the sleeping pills Dr. Perkins had prescribed for her. Sensibly, she forced her thoughts onto another track: her future life with Otis after they married. Some drastic updating would be necessary in the rectory and she hoped Otis was generous with money-one aspect of his character she knew nothing about. Starting with the kitchen, which was hopelessly old-fashioned, she began planning the changes she would make.

When she finally drifted into sleep, she had totally reorganised the kitchen and was mulling over colour schemes for the main reception room.;

At lunchtime the next day a stranger walked into the Three Golden Cups in the North Wiltshire village of Old Mordern and asked for a lemonade. The five or six local men in the bar turned and stared. Sometimes a driver would ask for low alcohol lager or a shandy, but lemonade, for a man, was pretty unusual. Yet this stranger had the look of a lemonade drinker, a humourless, freckled face, a rigid don't-even-ask stance and carroty hair out of the nineteen fifties, short back and sides with a parting. He was in a blue pinstripe with waistcoat and striped tie. A doorstep evangelist, maybe.

He was Burton Sands, taking a day from his annual holiday allowance in the hope of discovering more about Otis Joy's relations with women. He was confident that a history of philandering was behind the appointment of Rachel Jansen as PCC treasurer. So the visit wasn't about evangelism, but it was a mission. His grudge against the rector of Foxford filled his mind. He had no clear idea at this stage how he would use any information he acquired. He just needed it like some people need affection.

"Nice day," he said to no one in particular.

"Anything to eat, sir?" asked Ben, the landlord. "The specials are on the board."

"Eat? 1 don't think so."

"Pies are good," said a bearded man known locally as Nelson through some small seafaring experience he'd once unwisely revealed to this sarcastic bunch. "Mary in the kitchen is famous for her pies."

"Just the lemonade, thank you."

It was becoming clear that this stranger to the pub was good value. Nelson said, "You shouldn't drink on an empty stomach." He could be just as sarcastic as the rest. "Got far to go, have you?"

"I'm from Foxford."

"Foxford down Warminster way?" said Ben. "Our last vicar went there, didn't he?"

Someone confirmed it.

"Popular young chap," added Ben. "Name of Joy."

Burton couldn't have wished for a better lead-in. "The Reverend Joy. Yes, I know him. He's quite popular in Foxford," he said as if he couldn't fully understand the reason.

"Church was full here when he were vicar," said Nelson. "Are you a church-goer, young man?"

"Yes, I am."

"I thought so. You'll pardon me for saying so, but you have the look of one of the faithful."

"I don't know how you tell," said Burton naively, ignoring the sly smiles and wanting to get the conversation back to Otis Joy. "He's an excellent preacher."

"Helped my business on a Sunday lunchtime," said Ben the landlord. "They came here after the service, thirsty from singing all they hymns."