Peter Lovesey - The Reaper

"Self-preservation. Clergymen shouldn't take themselves too seriously."

"But you're brilliant at the job. You may be the Archbishop yourself one day. You deserve to be. You're doing so much for the church in this village."

"Running a parish is all I want, Rachel. It's a great high. You wouldn't believe the buzz I get from it. I don't want to be a bishop."

"But you must have some ambition to rise in the Church."

"I'm there," he told her with a conviction in his eyes and voice that she couldn't mistake for anything but the truth. "I've made it. I've moved mountains to get where I am, and nothing is going to shift me. Nobody had better try. This is all I could desire from life-or nearly all."

"What else?"

"I'd like to travel one day."

She'd hoped he would say he wanted to marry again, or start a family. Just a hint that he was of the same mind as she was. Was that too much to ask?

The missionary zeal had shifted from his face and all his attention was on her, and her hopes flickered again. "There's something I want to ask you, Rachel. I don't know if this is too soon to mention it."

"Yes?"

"Are you happy to carry on doing the parish accounts?"

John Neary, washing his car outside the house on Saturday afternoon, was surprised to see Burton Sands coming across the street as if to speak. They knew each other from the confirmation classes, and never usually exchanged a word outside. Neary had only to look at Burton in his flat cap and anorak to want to turn the other way. No doubt about it: the village bore was making a beeline for him.

"Did you hear? They've picked the new bishop," Burton said as if it was as vital to the nation as the choice of England striker.

"Have they?"

"He's from Radstock."

"Is he?" Neary carried on hosing his hub caps in the expectation that the man would soon go away.

"When I say 'they,' I mean the Dean and Chapter. They'll shortly announce a date for the Consecration." Sands was one of those irritating church-goers who took pride in knowing all the ecclesiastical terminology. "Then he'll be enthroned at Glastonbury and take possession of his see."

John Neary didn't even look up.

Burton wasn't discouraged. "It should be early next year. So things will soon be back to normal."

Neary couldn't think of any way his life had been made abnormal by the church politics at Glastonbury. He didn't care what was happening there.

Burton came to the point. "The new bishop will be able to confirm us. We'll all be going back to the rectory to brush up on the service. The rector promised us one more meeting."

"See you there, then," said Neary, spotting a chance to end the dialogue.

"Yes. Early January, I expect, if he remembers. Do you think we ought to remind him?"

Neary was beginning to think the only way to get rid of Burton Sands was to turn the hose on him.

"Someone should," continued Burton. "He'll have plenty on his plate over Christmas."

"Mm."

"And I'm not talking about turkey."

Neary lifted an eyebrow. Had he heard right? Was Sands making a joke?

Still he lingered.

"The bees hibernate at this time of year, do they?"

"What?" Neary was wholly thrown by this new avenue of conversation.

"Your bees. You still keep bees, don't you?"

The five hives in the back garden meant more to Neary than the garden itself, his house, his car, or-it has to be said-his confirmation. He pulled the hose from the car and let the water gush downwards in a stream that spread quickly along the street. When people mentioned his bees, it was usually to complain. Two of the hives had swarmed at the end of the summer. "What have my bees got to do with the new bishop?"

"Nothing," said Burton.

"How do you know about them?"

"The honey's got your label. I get it sometimes in the shop. It's good. Really good."

A rapid reassessment took place. Neary decided he may have misjudged Burton. If the man was a satisfied customer, he wasn't such a pain after all. "Last summer's crop was better than usual. We had some good dry spells."

"The bees don't like the damp?"

"A certain amount of water is necessary. You'll see them drinking at puddles in the spring. They carry the water back to the hive. But the sort of rain we get most summers isn't helpful."

"What happens in the winter? Do you leave some honey in the hives?"

"Certainly. They need it now. All through the winter they cluster on the combs inside the hive and live off their reserves."

"Sometimes if it's sunny in the winter, you see bees outside."

"They go out for a shit."

Burton gave him a long look. He'd been caught before by people taking advantage of his willingness to believe every statement.

"Call of nature, if you want it in polite language," Neary explained in all seriousness. "They don't like soiling the hive."

"You seem to know a lot about it."

"You have to, or you lose them."

"Any chance of seeing inside one of your hives?"

"No chance," said Neary. "Nothing personal, but you don't disturb them in the winter months. Are you thinking of taking it up?"

"Just interested," said Burton. "Do you get stung much?"

"You get a few when you start. Bees aren't usually aggressive unless you do something to upset them."

"You wear protective clothing?"

"Of course. And you have a smoke gun. It keeps them off you. They get a whiff of that and they panic a bit and eat their fill from the honey cells in the hive. Then they're docile."

"Some people are allergic to bee-stings," said Burton.

Neary said with caution, "True."

"It can be fatal."

"In rare cases. Fortunately, I'm not one of them. Beekeepers become immune after a while."

"It's called anaphylactic shock," Burton persisted doggedly with this rather negative line on beekeeping. "The air passages get constricted. The throat tightens. A single sting in the region of the throat can cause suffocation and unconsciousness in just a few minutes. I've been reading about it."

Neary went back to hosing the car again. Sooner or later people who talked to him about bees always got around to their nuisance value.

"People who know they're in danger from bee-stings keep anti-histamine ready just in case," Burton added.

"For God's sake. It's about a one in a million chance," Neary pointed out. "Bees don't attack people for no reason at all."

"I understand that," said Burton, following him around the car as he worked, without realising the risk he was exposed to from the hose. "But just suppose an evil-minded person wanted to kill someone else-someone they knew was allergic to bee-stings. Is there any way they could arrange for a bee to attack someone?"

"Arrange it?"

"Yes."

"Murder them, you mean? You're talking a load of cobblers, Burton."

"It's unlikely, I know, but could it be done?"

"No way. Bees have their own agenda. They don't sting to order."

Burton wasn't satisfied. "Suppose you trapped some inside a house. In a room-a bathroom, for instance-and this person with the allergy went in there to take a shower."

"Trapped bees wouldn't stay around the shower. They'd fly to the window. Why are you asking this?"

"Doesn't matter."

"It's a non-starter. If you're aiming to do away with someone, choose a more reliable weapon than a honey bee."

"I'm not aiming to do anything so wicked," said Burton in an offended tone. "It isn't me."

"Well, it wouldn't work anyway. Even if a bee was trapped, it would be trying to get away and someone with an allergy isn't going to go anywhere near it."

Still he persisted. "You can't think of any way it could be done?"

"1 told you, no." John Neary was firm. Even if he could come up with some freakish theory, he didn't want bees getting a bad name in Foxford.