Peter Lovesey - The Reaper

"I expect he's gone off for the day and forgotten," said Peggy.

"Not our rector," said George, who had become a staunch supporter through the Scrabble sessions. "He's not the forgetful sort. 1 reckon he's held up somewhere. Trouble with the car, most like." People tended to believe George because he was a policeman.

"Where would he have gone?" a woman asked.

Nobody could say.

"He gets up very early on his days off," Burton Sands said as if early rising was suspicious behaviour. "He could be miles away."

"Disposing of another one," murmured Owen Cumberbatch.

"What did you say?" said George Mitchell.

"Nothing at all, old boy. Not a word."

They decided to start without the rector. If he turned up late, he would hear the singing and know where to look for them. They walked to the first group of houses and started with a good rallying carol, "O Come, all ye faithful."

"Knowing Otis and his flare for the dramatic, this is all set up for a huge surprise," Peggy confided to Rachel after the last chorus was sung and the boxes rattled at the doorsteps. "He's going to come up the street in a minute dressed as Santa Claus."

"I doubt it," said Rachel. "Santa isn't part of the real Christmas story."

"The Angel of the Lord, then," said Peggy, laughing. "With plastic wings and a ruddy great halo."

Rachel didn't smile. Otis's absence worried her. And she was also puzzled as to why Cynthia hadn't turned out. She'd promised to be there.

During the walk from the first carol-stop to the second, and aided by the hipflasks being passed around, a subtle change took place. The singers, representing at least three-quarters of those who filled the church on Sundays, started to chat with a frankness they never managed after service, and much of the chat was critical of the rector.

"It's bad of him to let us, down," Peggy remarked to Rachel. "He's such a card normally. We need him to keep us cheerful."

"I expect he'll turn up," Rachel said. "He never misses church events."

"Well, he shouldn't, should he?" Peggy said. "It's his job. Where does he go on his days off?"

"Don't ask me," said Rachel.

"Do you think he's got a woman tucked away somewhere?"

The question was beneath contempt. Rachel clicked her tongue and looked away.

"No offence, love. It's just that you've seen a little more of him than some of us-through doing the accounts, I mean- and I wondered if he gave any clues."

"We don't talk about personal matters."

Norman Gregor, the churchwarden, at the head of the group with Geoff Elliott, was saying, "This isn't very good. He should have phoned."

"It's no disaster, Norman," said Elliott. "It's not like a service. We can cope."

And Burton Sands said in confidence to Mitchell, "When there's an opportunity, I'd like to talk to you about the rector. I think he ought to be investigated."

"Have you been talking to Owen by any chance?" said George.

They had reached one of the farms along the route. Picking their way with the help of torches, they trudged along the track to the house. The dim shapes of silent, seated sheep could just be seen over the drystone walls.

"We get a mince pie here," Norman Gregor reminded the others.

"What do you think-'While shepherds watched'?" suggested Geoff Elliott, who had assumed the role of choirmaster.

It seemed appropriate, so the brass section played the opening bars.

After five minutes of lusty singing and fifteen consuming the farmer's wife's heated mince pies, they moved on. Owen Cum-berbatch had a fresh theory about the rector's absence, and was happy to tell anyone who would listen except George Mitchell. "Detained by the police, 'helping them with their inquiries,' as they charmingly put it. They had to catch up with him eventually, didn't they? You can't go on eliminating innocent people and expect to get away with it."

Peggy would have none of it. "He's a man of God, Owen. They don't go in for murder."

"Plenty of it in the Bible, dear," said Owen.

Rachel wished someone would murder Owen.

They moved on steadily through their repertoire, stopping at all the traditional points, and still the rector hadn't joined them. Almost two hours after the start they ended up at the Foxford Arms.

"He's probably sitting inside with a smile on his face," said Peggy.

"He'll owe us a drink if he is," said Norman Gregor.

But he was not in the pub. Unkind things might have been said at this end of the evening if Joe Jackson had not been standing just inside the door behind a steaming punchbowl. Normally a solemn figure, he was wearing reindeer horns and an apron made to look as if he was wearing a corset. He ladled generous glasses for everyone except the children, who were given their own non-alcoholic concoction. And there were more mince pies that most people passed by.

The singing started up again. Not carols. "Nellie Dean," because everyone knew the words. Then Joe Jackson, who had a good bass voice and hadn't used it singing carols, gave them an old gallows song, "Salisbury Plain," followed by "Barbara Allen," the ballad of the fair maid who ignored the man who died of love for her, and then, full of remorse, died herself.

"Lovely tunes, but such morbid songs," said Peggy Winner. "Can't you give us something more cheerful? Rachel's slipped off home already. I'm sure it was the singing put her off."

Joe said in a huff, "If it's something cheerful you want, ask George for 'The Laughing Policeman.' "

Sarcasm often misses the mark. Peggy took Joe at his word. "Would you, George?"

George Mitchell pretended to need persuading, but everyone knew that once asked he would get up and give his party piece. Nobody minded that he wasn't much of a singer. It was a treat to hear the law making an ass of itself.

It wasn't Joe Jackson's choice of songs that drove Rachel away. She'd left feeling strangely dissatisfied because the evening had lacked the two people who had urged her to join in. She was mystified why Cynthia hadn't turned out, and decided to call on her before it got too late. But when she got to Primrose Cottage the place was in darkness. Cynthia couldn't have gone to bed ill because the bedroom curtains weren't drawn. Odd. The silly woman had been so gung-ho and joky about going around in the dark with Otis Joy. What could have cropped up that was more of an attraction?

Feeling let down, she returned up the street to her own cottage.

Just before reaching the village shop she was dazzled by headlights. She stepped aside in case the driver hadn't seen her. The car was coming at a speed that was downright dangerous at night in a village. She thought it was going straight through, but the brakes screeched and it came to a halt outside the pub. A male figure got out and went inside as if desperate for a drink before the place closed. He need not have hurried. On the carol-singing night the Foxford Arms always remained open long after the official closing time.

When she got closer she saw that the car was Otis's Cortina. So he'd only just got back.

Curious as she was to know where he'd been, she didn't go back into the pub.

She would have heard Otis Joy telling the carollers, "I don't know how to face you all. I let you down badly. One of those things you can't possibly predict. A woman dropped dead in front of me. You can't walk away from that, can you, whoever you are? And if you happen to be a minister of the church, well… It was very sudden. Mercifully she didn't know much about it, poor soul, but the sight of her could have been upsetting for others. You do what you can to cope with an emergency like that, and of course it takes longer than you can spare. And I wasn't near a phone. I suppose I ought to get one of those mobiles, and you can bet if I do I won't find another occasion to use it. Anyway, I do apologise to you all. How did it go?"