Peter Lovesey - The Reaper

"When?"

"You know that," she told him sharply. "The seventeenth of March, nineteen seventy."

"Of course."

"I wonder what took him to Canada," she mused aloud, forgetting all about confidentiality. "He was at Milton Davidson Memorial College, Toronto, until ninety-three. Was he only with us a year, then? I can picture him more clearly than some who stayed for three."

"When was he ordained?" Burton asked.

"Nineteen ninety-four."

"That's certain, is it? The ordination?"

"Absolutely certain. I was there, praying for them all." She frowned at the question and another of Button's theories went out of the window.

Christmas crept up quickly, ambushing everyone, and Rachel found herself at midnight mass, the service nobody wanted to miss, in her usual pew, shoehorned between young men with beer on their breath. All the extra chairs from the parish hall were brought in, and still some people stood at the back. The youngest choirboy, singing "Away in a manger," was impossible to see as he threaded his way up the narrow aisle between chairs at the ends of the pews. Behind the choristers, Otis sported the glittering hand-worked cope that always came out on this holy night.

The carol ended and he started speaking the time-honoured words of the liturgy without any amplification. His voice resonating through the church made Rachel feel very emotional. When her favourite carol, "O little town of Bethlehem" was sung, and she reached that line about the hopes and fears of all the years, her eyes moistened and there was a lump in her throat. She knew far too much about hopes and fears.

After everyone filed out at the end, Otis stood in the porch as usual shaking hands, making a point of not missing anyone. Short of sneaking out through the vestry there was no escape, and when Rachel's turn came he clasped her right hand between both of his and said, "Ah, Rachel, shall I see you at Morning Service tomorrow?"

She hadn't intended going, because it was a family service and she would feel conspicuous. He must have seen the hesitation in her eyes when he added, "Wearing your treasurer's hat."

She took a moment to fathom what he meant. She was thinking of hats, literally. "If you want."

"Please."

She moved on, still without fully understanding. Surely he didn't want to hand over the offertories from the spate of Christmas collections. The money would be more secure in the church safe until the banks reopened.

Outside under a starry sky, the beginnings of a frost glistened on the headstones. People lingered on the path, wishing each other Christmases happy, merry, peaceful, great and wonderful. But what can you wish someone who has recently buried her husband? Rachel slipped past them all and went home. She was dreaming of a Joyful Christmas and she didn't think it was likely.

She was in church as requested on Christmas morning and heard Otis give a short and surprising sermon pitched mainly at the children. "Some of you are asking if there really is a Father Christmas, and 1 don't have to tell you boys and girls, today of all days, that of course there is. Of course! And can anyone tell me his real name?"

There was a chorus of answers, some of them correct.

Otis raised his thumbs. "Right. Santa Claus. Or Saint Nicholas, to say it in full. Saint Nicholas was a very kind bishop who lived an awfully long time ago, and we are told he was one of the wise members of the Council of Nicaea who met to write down what Christians believe. There was a man called Arius who was trying to put about some ideas that were wrong, and the story goes that Bishop Nicholas socked him on the jaw. I don't know if that's true, but I do know that Nicholas helped to write the Creed that we said this morning. Who can tell me the first words of the Creed?"

The Sunday school teachers must have done a good job because "I believe in God the Father" was clearly audible in the mix of replies.

"Yes, and the Creed is still used by Christians everywhere, and not just in the Church of England. So whether you are Protestant, Roman Catholic or pastern Orthodox, you speak the words that Santa Claus approved each time you come to church. That's a good enough reason to believe in him, isn't it? Because he was so wise and generous, he became the children's saint, your special saint, and it is an ancient custom in some countries for someone to dress up as a bishop, as Santa Claus, around Christmas time, and give small presents to good children. It's the custom we adopted, and long may it continue. Happy Christmas, Santa. Happy Christmas to you all."

At the end, Rachel waited in her pew and was the last to leave except for Geoff Elliott, who was right out of earshot, collecting hymnbooks from the lady chapel. Otis smiled when she reached him. "Glad you came," he said.

She smiled. "So am I.I loved the sermon."

He looked thoughtful. "When I was a little kid in the children's home, we had a visit each Christmas from a guy dressed up as St. Nick. He wore a mitre and a false beard and carried a crook and each of us was given a present that we had to share with the others. I got the same thing two years' running, Bible Stories for Little Folk. Didn't matter, because we had to give them in at the end of the day to be used in the reading class."

"Not much of a Christmas."

"The nuns enjoyed it. A noggin with old Nick. How are you spending today? Quietly?"

She nodded.

"Alone, I mean?"

"Yes."

"Then you won't mind if I call about tea-time?"

Elated, she said, "I'd love to see you. Come earlier if you can."

"I have some other visits to make. People who've had a rough time of late. Some of the old folk. The kids in hospital. I guess I'll be with you about four-thirty to five."

"Poor you."

"Not poor at all," he said. "This is the best day of the year. I'm privileged." And he obviously meant it.

"Will you get a Christmas lunch?"

"Lunches all the way if I could eat them." He held up his hands. "No, Rachel. I know my limits."

Every pulse in her body pounding, she moved on air all the way back to the cottage, planning what she would cook, wear, do with her hair. She had come alive again and Otis was forgiven for being so distant in recent days. The remark about the treasurer's hat must have been just a blind in case people overheard. He'd chosen to see her, of all the people in the parish, on this of all days. Ah, the transforming magic of Christmas!

The time went amazingly fast. So much had to be packed in: tidying up, dusting, lighting a wood fire, showering, shampooing, ironing her silk top, dressing, defrosting cakes, adjusting the lighting, rearranging the Christmas decorations, choosing the right CDs, putting away the photos of her mother and father. There it was-four-thirty-and she was just about ready in her black leather pants and crimson top, with her hair loose and the lights winking on the little Christmas tree and the fire glowing nicely.

It was closer to five-fifteen when he came, still in his clerical shirt and dark suit. "My," he said when he saw her. "I should have changed."

She'd been over her first words many times. "I expect you're awash with tea so I thought you'd go for a small scotch."

He showed how small, with his thumb and forefinger almost touching.

"I'm not going to force any food on you, but there's blackcurrant mousse or raspberry cheesecake, or something savoury if you prefer."

He was frowning slightly. "Don't get me wrong, Rachel. I just came for a quiet chat."

"Didn't anyone tell you it's Christmas Day, Otis?"

The even teeth flashed and the man of the world in him said, "Nice one. Back of the net."

"I mean you can relax. Duty done."

"Just about."

"This isn't duty, is it-cheering up the lonely widow?" She poured two generous whiskys and handed him his. "Once again, happy Christmas."