Peter Lovesey - The Reaper

They told him the singing had been well received and people had been generous all round the village. Geoff Elliott had just counted the money and bagged it up-over two hundred pounds.

"I'd like to put in a fiver myself," said Otis at once. "Where's Geoff?"

Elliott waved from across the room. Otis went over, produced a five pound note and offered to take care of the money overnight. "I don't see our treasurer here."

"Rachel? She left earlier. She was with us for the carols."

"Good. I'm glad she's getting involved in village life again."

He left soon after, cashbags in hand. It had been a harrowing day, he said, and he was due at the school to take class six for scripture in the morning.

The story of the woman who had dropped dead put a premature end to the singsong. It would have been insensitive to start again. Many of the carol party were getting, up to leave, among them PC George Mitchell. I s "So when can we talk?" Burton Sands pressed him.

"What about?" said George as if he hadn't heard Burton's earlier approach.

"You know …" Burton's eyes shifted to the door. The rector was outside starting his car.

George said slowly, spacing his words, "If it's anything more than tittle-tattle, come and see me at the station tomorrow. If not, I suggest you forget about the whole thing."

Burton reddened and reached for his coat.

Before daylight Rachel took a walk to the other end of the village and saw that Cynthia's curtains were still pulled back as if she hadn't slept there. No lights showed in Primrose Cot- tage. The morning paper had been delivered and was half sticking out of the letterbox.

She went back and tried phoning. Cynthia's voice on the answerphone told her to wait for the signal and then leave a message.

"It's not like her to go off without telling anyone," she said later in the shop.

"Some family crisis, I expect," said Davy Todd in his unflustered way. When the Day of Judgement arrived, Davy would still open the shop and put out the newspapers.

"She could have gone away for Christmas," said the girl who helped in the mornings.

"She'd have cancelled the papers," Davy pointed out. "She's very well organised, is Mrs. Haydenhall. I reckon she'll be back some time today. We thought the rector was missing yesterday, and he came back."

Quick to follow up, Rachel asked what explanation Otis had given and was told about the woman dropping dead and throwing his plans into confusion. It was such an original excuse that it had to be true.

"Did he say where this happened?"

"No one asked him," said Davy. "So we still don't know where he goes on Tuesdays. He's entitled to some privacy, I say, same as the rest of us."

"Of course," said Rachel.

Her concern about Cynthia increased after hearing about the woman who dropped dead. Suppose she'd collapsed in the house and nobody knew. Poor Stanley Burrows had lain dead in his cottage for at least two days before anyone thought to look inside.

"Burton," said George Mitchell after listening impassively to the list of appalling crimes laid at the door of the rectory, "this is not respectful."

He was with Burton Sands in one of the interview rooms at Warminster Police Station. Sometimes people called at George's cottage in Foxford to report things, but this was the official place, and Burton was determined to do things by the book.

"He's not entitled to respect if he did these things," the dour young man insisted.

"Ah, but he is until proved guilty, and we're a long, long way from that. What's your motive?"

"Mine? It's not my motive you should be questioning. I'm doing what a responsible citizen should, informing you what I know."

George gave it to him straight. "Nothing. That's what you know. There's plenty you suspect, but I can't arrest a man on suspicions alone. A man of the cloth."

"That's the real objection, isn't it?" said Burton, flushing all over his freckled skin. "He's a clergyman, so he must be innocent."

"I never heard of one who murdered people."

"So he gets away with it, time and again."

"You're just repeating yourself," said George. "Where's the evidence? The Crown Prosecution Service would fall about laughing at what you've told me so far."

"The evidence is in the parish accounts," said Burton obdurately. "If I could get hold of the books and do an audit I'd prove he's an embezzler. He robbed the last parish he was in, and he's robbing this one."

"You don't know that."

"But I do. They had such a shortfall at Old Mordern that the bishop personally investigated."

"While the Reverend Joy was vicar there?"

"No, after he left."

"Could have been the new vicar, then. And if it was investigated, why wasn't he charged with fiddling the books-if he did?"

"Because Bishop Marcus died-or was killed-before it came out."

"Who told you this, about the bishop investigating?"

"One of the congregation there."

"Owen Cumberbatch?"

"No, a woman I met there. She was arranging flowers the day I visited."

George let his breath out slowly. "You've actually been to his last parish checking up?"

"I knew nobody else would," Burton said with a red-eyed stare.

"Don't sling mud in my direction, laddie," George checked him. "What did this woman tell you?"

"She said Bishop Marcus personally inspected the Old Mordern books before he died. And made copies of everything."

"What for?"

"She thought it was because they asked for a reduction in their quota-the money the diocese gets-but I know better. It was because the bishop was on to the Reverend Joy."

"Next you'll be telling me he murdered the bishop."

Burton looked the policeman up and down and decided the homicide of a bishop, on top of the other killings, might throw some doubt on his thesis. "He may have murdered his wife."

"Oh, come on."

Burton related the story of the fatal bee-sting and said how simple it would be to kill someone allergic to bees by using some trapped in a jam jar.

"I never heard anything so far-fetched in my life," said George. "Why would he want to murder his young wife, for God's sake?"

"If she found out too much about him …"

"So now we have three murders pinned on the Reverend Joy: the sexton of Old Mordern, the late Mrs. Joy and Stanley Burrows."

"And another."

"Who's that?"

"Gary Jansen."

George shook his head. "Lord love us, Burton, you're away with the fairies. How is he supposed to have murdered Gary? The man died of heart failure. I've seen the death certificate."

"You can induce heart failure if you know about poisons."

"Poison, was it, this time? Are you certain it wasn't the killer bees?"

"You don't have to be sarcastic," said Burton. "You ought to be making notes. Stanley Burrows was poisoned-he swallowed some sort of drug, didn't he? — and I say Gary Jansen went the same way. The rector was seen with him on the day he died."

"Where?"

"In the street, outside the shop."

"By Owen Cumberbatch, you mean? Now there's an impartial witness."

"And, more important, Jansen went up to the rectory that afternoon."

"I didn't think they knew each other," said George.

"He was seen going through the gates by Ann Porter, one of the communion class. Joy could easily have slipped something in his drink."

"Poison, you mean?"

"Of course."

George Mitchell said in a tone that showed his tolerance was strained, "And why would the rector wish to do away with Gary Jansen?"

"Because Gary found something out."

"Ah." George gave an ironic nod that was lost on Burton.

"I'm not sure what it was, but they had strong words about it in the street and my guess is that they continued the argument up at the rectory."

"You're not sure what it was," said George with contempt, "but you're willing to guess. You're willing to destroy a good man's reputation on guesswork. Well, it doesn't cut ice with me, Burton. You've told me very little I don't know, and not a shred of substance."