Peter Lovesey: The Reaper

This, their church, was Saxon in origin and there was a legend about its building that showed how the conflict between good and evil was strong in the minds of the early Christians. The first site proposed had been half a mile away, at a place where the "old religion" had been practised. The foundations were put down and the building began, but by night the Devil was supposed to have come and removed some of the stones to their present site. The builders persevered, and so did the powers of darkness until a decision was taken to give way and build at this end of the village. If the legend had any truth in it, and the Devil chose the site, you would think people would be wary of some devilment lurking in the walls. Not, it seemed, in the modern age.

All that remained of the Saxon church were some stones built into the tower at the west end. The present St. Bartholomew's was a nineteenth century reconstruction with a short, recessed spire. Inside were traces of medieval carving: an early thirteenth century arch in the north porch and a window with motifs of around 1320. The Victorian restorer had done a good job. The interior was simple, light and welcoming. The timbers of the hammerbeam roof gave a feeling of solidity.

This century's contribution was mainly in the fabrics sewn and woven by the women of Foxford: the embroidered altar-cloth with a floral design; the dossal, or hanging back-panel for the altar, representing the Annunciation; the lectern fall with crucifix in padded gold kid; the individual kneelers, memorials to past worshippers; and the priest's vestments, including a magnificent cope handworked in combinations of metallic threads, kid-leather, beads and stitches. Usually it came out for weddings, baptisms and the great festivals of Christmas, Whitsun and Easter. Otis Joy was modest in his choice of vestments the rest of the year.

William Cowper's hymn "Sometimes a light surprises" was an inspired choice to follow the prayer for the bishop, a perfect link to happier matters. The fete had raised the record sum of?520. Standing in the aisle with one hand resting on a pew-end, the rector said, "You know, we in the church are sometimes uncomfortable about money-raising. Money is the root of all evil. Does anyone know who said that?"

"St. Timothy," spoke up one of the Bible Class.

"Sorry, George, but no. I think it was the Andrews Sisters. Anyone remember the song? You're not going to own up, are you? 'Money is the root of all evil, take it away, take it away, take it away.' What Timothy said was 'The love of money is the root of all evil.' Not quite the same thing, is it? Now you won't catch me challenging the teaching of the Bible. But I don't think our church fete had anything to do with the love of money. Let's face it, this was the giving of money, your money, as well as your talent, your time, your cakes and your runner beans, all for the upkeep of the Lord's house. So let's rejoice in our five hundred and twenty pounds. Speaking for the church, I thank you warmly." He paused and smiled and looked as grateful as if the profit from the fete were his birthday present, turning to let his gaze take in everyone in the crowded church. "The sellers of tickets, the buyers of tickets, the stall-holders, the generous folk who cooked and knitted and gave things to stock those stalls, the brass band, the fortune-teller and the humble donkey. Teamwork. Brilliant. There's another text I like, and and I won't ask where it's from, because I can't remember myself, but I know how it goes: 'A feast is made for laughter, and wine maketh merry: but money answereth all things.' Which brings us tidily to Hymn three-seven-seven, 'Let us, with a gladsome mind, Praise the Lord, for he is kind.' ";

Rachel, in her place to the left of the aisle, six rows back, praised the Lord whilst noticing how the rector, lustily leading the singing, had caught the sun at the fete. It had picked out and reddened the angles of his face-the broad forehead, the interesting cheekbones, the ridge of his nose and the point of his chin, making him look more ruggedly attractive in his robes than any member of the clergy ought to appear. She-it must be said-was singing the words of the hymn without taking in the meaning. And during the sermon, with Otis Joy's dark head and the top of his surplice showing above the pulpit, she tried mentally dressing him in a variety of uniforms, as you would in those children's books with sections you put together in different combinations. Cowboy, soldier, policeman, pilot, boxer, bridegroom.

All too soon they were singing the last hymn and he said the Grace and made his way up the aisle to the door, passing so close to Rachel as she knelt in prayer that she felt the movement of air from his cassock.

The pews creaked with the weight of people resuming their seats to dip their heads in a last, silent prayer. These days the church was filled for Morning Service. Two extra rows had to be provided with stacking chairs from the church hall. No other rector in living memory had achieved such support except for the Christmas Midnight Service.

The organ started up again to the tune of "For all the saints" and the movement towards the door began. Rachel filed out behind two old ladies in black straw hats who always sat behind her and sang half a bar after everyone else. When their turn came to shake the rector's hand, they congratulated him on his sermon, but he didn't appear to hear. He was already in eye contact with Rachel.

"I didn't thank you."

"Thank me?"

"For your help."

"You just thanked us all, beautifully."

"At the rectory last evening."

"It was nothing, really," she said, enjoying the touch of his hand. "We all joined in."

"But you did more than your share."

She shook her head modestly and was starting to move on when he added, "Look, there's something else, if you don't mind waiting a few minutes. Would you?"

She managed to say, "Of course." Her voice piped up in a way she didn't intend, but he had surprised her. Puzzled and a little light-headed, she stepped forward into the sunshine and stood on the turf to one side of the path to let the others pass. Her friend Cynthia Haydenhall emerged in a pink two-piece and a matching hat that she held with a gloved hand in case the wind blew.

"I've seen the figures. We came out top-and that's official," she told Rachel. "The cake stall took more than anyone else."

"Great," said Rachel, trying to sound as if it mattered.

"It isn't just the effort on the day. It's chivvying people to do the baking. I do no end of work on the phone in the week before. And knocking on doors."

"I know."

"Shocking about the bishop, isn't it?"

"Dreadful."

"There's more to it than they said in the Sunday Times this morning, you can be sure of that."

"Is there?"

"The gutter press will be full of it."

"I haven't heard anything."

"Bishops don't jump into quarries without a reason."

"I suppose not."

The triumph of the cake-stall team over all opposition had strengthened the bond between them, Cynthia was certain. "Are you waiting for someone, poppet, or shall we walk together?"

Rachel said the rector had asked her to wait.

Cynthia gave the hat such a tug that it slipped askew and had to be put back with two hands. "Oh."

"Can't think what it's about," Rachel said disarmingly. "Is Christian Aid week coming up soon?"

"He doesn't organise the collectors. I do."

Rachel cursed herself for forgetting that Cynthia was the one woman who couldn't be fooled by that piece of sophistry.

"Maybe I left something behind yesterday. I'm hopeless like that. Always have been."

"I didn't see anything of yours when we left."

"Neither did I. It's a mystery."

"In that case I'll leave you to find out," said Cynthia, all her chumminess used up.