Peter Lovesey - The Reaper

Burton reluctantly gave up. "I'll see you at that confirmation rehearsal, then." He moved off, unsatisfied, frowning.

Rachel, too, was far from satisfied. Her "comfort" from Otis had not amounted to as much as she had hoped. His latest visit had disappointed her. The freshly baked scones hadn't worked any charm at all. It was too soon after Gary's death to expect a proposal of marriage, she kept telling herself, but she felt entitled to some show of affection behind closed doors. He'd only looked like relaxing when he got up to leave. And he'd made no arrangement to call again. She hadn't asked if he would. That would have been too humiliating.

Besides, he would need to see her from time to time about the accounts. And that was odd. He'd told her his aim would be to trouble her as little as possible. He had used his contingency fund to bank the surplus from the harvest supper and he could deal with various other amounts that were coming in.

Was it his reputation as a man of God that bothered him? Maybe. She had to keep reminding herself that priests can't behave like other men. There would be turmoil going on in his mind, the tug of loyalties between his faith and his animal passion. God, she hoped animal passion would win, and soon.

She wasn't helped by a visit later in the day from Cynthia, keen to know exactly what had happened. Cyn started on the uneaten scones as if she meant to clear the plate, whilst debriefing her with the thoroughness of a spymaster. "You're not telling me you didn't cry on his shoulder and get a cuddle? How did you pass the time, then? Not saying prayers, I bet."

"We drank coffee and talked about the way people find it difficult to approach a widow. It was all terribly serious."

"And totally boring, by the sound of it. What's bugging Otis? He fancies you something rotten, I know he does."

"Come off it, Cyn."

"If it didn't sound vulgar, I'd say it stands out."

Rachel sighed and tried to smile.

"It doesn't? You don't think so?" said Cynthia in disbelief.

"He's a clergyman."

"That doesn't make him frigid."

"He still behaved like a clergyman."

Cynthia paused, and flicked back some hair from her face. "Well, if he doesn't go for you, I'm revising my game-plan."

"What do you mean?"

"I was sure I didn't stand a snowball's, but I may think again now. We got on quite well at the harvest supper." She widened her eyes, watching Rachel for her reaction. "I'd say we clicked, actually. Has he ever said anything to you about me?"

"Not that I remember."

Cynthia looked away from Rachel, making calculations. "It must be getting on for two years since his wife died. He ought to be up for it by now. Someone's going to land him, so why not me ?"

Cynthia, riding roughshod as usual, with no regard for anyone's feelings.

"It's up to you," said Rachel, feigning indifference. She didn't seriously rate Cynthia as a rival.

"There isn't anyone else, is there?" Cynthia said. "I'd like to know where he goes on his day off. Do you think it's a woman?"

"Your mind, Cynthia! I keep telling you he's a clergyman."

She put out her tongue and blew a loud raspberry. "First and foremost, he's a bloke, ducky."

"Well, I don't think he'd behave like that." Not with anyone except me, Rachel thought privately, and not with me, yet awhile, she thought bleakly.

"Some people say he's not above a bit of sinning. And I mean worse things than a bit of parallel parking," Cynthia pointed out. "They say he's a serial murderer."

"Stupid. Owen Cumberbatch is a disgrace, spreading stories like that."

"Remember I told you it wouldn't be long before he accused Otis of having something to do with Gary's death? Well, it happened. He was dropping hints about it in the pub last week. More than hints, I'm told. He was saying your New Orleans-style funeral-not your funeral, Rach, know what I mean? — was put on to divert attention from what really happened."

Rachel's cheeks burned. She wanted to stop this dangerous talk, but she didn't know how.

Instead, Cynthia trundled on like a ten-ton tank. "The way it was done was typical Otis Joy, according to Owen. His modus operandi -did I say that right?"

Rachel shrugged, trying to keep her poise.

Cynthia explained, "It's a term the police use for the way a criminal goes to work. They know certain villains use Semtex, or sawn-off shotguns, or something."

"This was a funeral, for Heaven's sake," Rachel succeeded in saying.

"Yes, but what a funeral. Otis covers his crimes by making such a song and dance about the victim that you couldn't possibly suspect him. The big scene in church. The funeral oration that has everyone reaching for their Kleenex. That's the theory, anyway."

"It's bullshit. The jazz funeral was my suggestion. Otis didn't think of it."

"I know, darling. Do you think I'd be making a play for a serial murderer? I'd have to be out of my tiny mind. We both know Owen is full of wind and piss."

"The trouble is not everyone knows that. Throw enough mud, and some will stick."

For some time after Cynthia left, Rachel sat biting her fingernails, reflecting on the truth of her own words. If that detestable man Cumberbatch was putting it around that Otis had murdered Gary, people didn't have to believe the gossip before they started speculating on a possible motive. There was only one: Gary had to be removed so that Otis could marry her.

Had the story reached Otis's ears? It would explain why he was being ultra-cautious.

Mud sticks.

Yes.

Everything was clearer. He was protecting her reputation. Now that she viewed his actions in this light, she loved him more than ever. She understood. He was playing a long game, and she would have to play it the same way.

He was back.

Incredibly, Burton Sands was standing on John Neary's doorstep at eight-thirty in the evening like a Jehovah Witness trying to save one more sinner before bedtime.

"What is it now?"

"I've thought of something else."

"I'm quite busy, actually."

"Mind if I come in. It won't take long."

Neary would have liked to slam the door in Burton's face, but you don't do that sort of thing in a village, particularly to a fellow member of the confirmation class. He had little option but to do the Christian thing and miss the rest of the TV pro-gramme he'd been watching. He made way for Burton to step in.

Reluctantly, Neary pressed the mute button on the remote control.

"It's about the bees," said Burton.

"My bees?" He was ready to defend them.

"No. Any bees. They always have their queen, don't they? It all revolves around her, doesn't it? The hive, the honey, collecting the nectar?"

"It's Saturday night, Burton. Surely you haven't come round here for a lesson on beekeeping?"

"I'm right about the queen, aren't I?"

Neary sighed. "Pretty well. She exists to lay eggs. Thousands of them. None of the other bees can do that unless they're made into queens."

The brown eyes gleamed. "This is the point, then. What happens if you remove the queen from the hive and put her somewhere else? They're bound to go looking for her, aren't they?"

"What are you driving at? You're still on about using bees to kill someone?"

"If you took the queen into a house, and the bees came looking for her-"

"Ain't necessarily so, Burton."

"Why not?"

"They can replace a queen very easily. When the queen dies, or leaves the hive, they make an emergency queen cell by enlarging a worker cell. The lava in there migrates into the bigger space and is specially fed with royal jelly-you've heard of that? — and turns into a queen. So there's an in-built procedure. They don't 'go looking,' as you put it. They make a new queen."