Peter Lovesey - The Reaper

"Was Otis Joy a flirt?"

She looked uncomfortable with the word. "I'm sure he wasn't. He was always open-hearted and outgoing and ready with a joke and that could be mistaken for encouragement, 1 suppose. But no, he never overstepped the mark, and I'm sure it never crossed his mind. Certain women hover around vicars, buttering them up, always have and always will."

"Even married vicars?"

"You must have seen it going on. It means nothing usually."

This was becoming frustrating for Burton Sands. He said with some impatience, "Is he a ladies' man, or isn't he? You said he was charismatic, like Kennedy."

"Oh I see." She blushed. "No, I didn't mean anything like that."

This was not so productive as he had hoped. "What did you mean, then? Good-looking?"

"I meant charming and friendly, but that doesn't imply that he misbehaved. I never heard a whisper of anything like that."

"But if women found him attractive …"

"I can't answer for other women." She blushed deeply. "This is becoming rather distasteful."

"It's not meant to be."

She went back to her flower-arranging. "I don't like talking this way about the poor man. It's unfair. He moved to another parish after his wife died and I hope he's happy there. I really do."

If her little speech was meant to draw a line under the conversation, it failed. Doggedly, Burton pressed his case. "Let's suppose he found someone else. You wouldn't mind?"

"That's his business entirely. He's still young. Why shouldn't he marry again in time? I think a vicar should have a wife supporting him if possible."

"Some don't," said Burton. He moved towards the altar, his hand curving over the padding on the communion rail. "This wants replacing."

"So does everything else if you look closely," she said, pleased to change the subject. "Unfortunately the funds won't run to it. We're rather a poor parish."

"I can't think why. You said it was well-supported when the Reverend Joy was here."

"Yes, but the upkeep is too much for a small community like ours. We never had any left over for jobs like that, and we lost our sexton, Mr. Skidmore. He was very good at keeping the church in good order."

"Lost him?"

"Quite literally. It's a mystery. He disappeared one day and nothing has been heard of him since."

Burton felt a prickling of excitement. "When did this happen?"

"About two years ago."

"In the Reverend Joy's time?"

"It was. He was a crusty old character, Fred, a bit sharp with visitors. He dug the graves and polished the communion vessels and cut the grass and brushed the path. He's officially a missing person, but most of us think he must be dead. He had no life outside the village. His cottage is still just as he left it, boarded up now. I suppose they'll do something about it in time."

"How does someone disappear?" said Burton.

"That's the mystery. Time goes on, and no one does anything about it. They ought to look in the reservoir, in my opinion. He could have drowned."

"He'd come to the surface."

"Well, I can't think where else he could be. Perhaps his mind went, and he wandered off. He was a bit strange at times."

"You won't be paying his wages any more," Burton pointed out. "You could get someone else."

"I don't think we could afford it any more. I know, because my husband is on the PCC. We had such a shortfall-is that the word? — that the bishop took a personal interest in our finances earlier this year."

"Really? The bishop?"

"Bishop Marcus."

"The one who died in the quarry."

"You heard about that?"

"He was our bishop, too." Burton was silent for a moment, digesting all the information he'd learned. "So the bishop asked to see the books?"

"He came here personally and made copies of everything. We were hoping it would lead to a reduction in our quota, but we haven't heard anything. I don't suppose we will now."

"I can't think why you're short of funds," said Burton, thinking professionally now. "Otis Joy was a popular vicar, you said? He must have had good congregations."

"The best I can remember."

"Then the collections must have been healthy enough. That's your regular source of income."

"1 suppose it's just that people aren't particularly generous here."

"You ought to have a fabric fund."

"I wouldn't know about that."

"I'm an accountant. I can tell you, you ought to have a fabric fund. By that, I don't mean curtains and things. I mean a fund for upkeep of the building generally."

"Quite a lot is done by volunteers," she said.

"Not enough," said Burton tartly. "You've got to manage these things on a businesslike footing. Who's your treasurer?"

"Old Mr. Vincent. Perhaps that's the trouble," she said thoughtfully. "He's been in the job for years and years. He's nearly ninety now."

"Is he competent to do the job at that age?"

"It's not for me to say."

"Someone ought to ask the question. You'd better mention it to your husband if he's on the PCC." Burton was working himself up to quite a lather of indignation, reminded painfully of his own grievance. "That's half the trouble with the modern church, well-meaning people doing jobs incompetently, and everyone too well-behaved to speak out. What did you say your name is; ? "

"I didn't say it." The flower-arranging lady wished she had never started this.

"Well, whoever you are, madam, I tell you this: it's up to the lay people like you and me to ask questions and blow whistles if necessary, or the clergy get away with murder."

She nodded, doing her best to humour him. She had not seen such intensity in a young man before.

Rachel took a phone call from Otis one Thursday morning in November. He asked how she was.

Heart pumping at the sound of his voice, she said with all the calm she could dredge up, "So, so. I'm trying to get on with things. No sense in feeling sorry for myself." As she spoke, she was thinking but I wouldn't mind some sympathy from you.

"I'm sure you're right. Are people helping out?"

"Some are."

He was quick to say, "Some aren't, you mean?"

"Some find me scary now."

"Scary?"

"I've been touched by death. It's some primitive fear that I'll spread the bad luck to them."

"It can't be that, Rachel. They're stuck for the right words, that's all. Hang in there. They'll lighten up."

Hang in there. She smiled at the phrase, from a clergyman. Shouldn't he have been telling her about the patience of Job?

He told her, "I was about to invite myself for coffee and a chat. How are you placed?"

How was she placed? Over the moon, now. "Come whenever you like."

"Tomorrow morning?"

Twenty-four hours away. She had an urge to say, "Why not now?" but she stopped herself. No doubt he had his day filled with choir practice and hospital visits and ecumenical meetings.

He was saying, "A simple cup of instant, right? That's what I drink all the time. I don't want you going to any trouble."

She managed to sound casual and light-hearted. "All right. Instant, in a chipped mug."

"And not so much as a digestive biscuit."

The first sign of the festive season, winking lights on the fir tree outside the Foxford Arms at the end of November, was not widely welcomed. It came too soon for most villagers. The shops and streets of Frome and Warminster had been decorated since the beginning of the month; out here, people liked to believe they didn't need to rush things.

"It's all about the cash register," Owen Cumberbatch said in the bar, where he held forth nightly. "Pack the customers in at all costs."

"No, it isn't, not here it isn't," insisted the publican, Joe Jackson. "It's no busier here tonight than any other day. It's about bringing a little joy into the village. Lord knows, we've had an unhappy few months, what with poor old Stanley passing on, and then that fellow Gary Jansen. Let's try and cheer ourselves up."