Peter Lovesey: The Reaper

"May God forgive you."

"You don't mean that, Bishop. You want me to roast in hell. I can see it in your eyes."

The bishop muttered, "That's what you deserve. You're the worst case I've come across. A wicked young man."

"You have evidence?"

"In the car. A dossier this size." Actually the shape the bishop made with his hands looked rather like a blessing.

"Then it's a fair cop."

The young rector was taking it well-too well, flippantly even. He sat serenely on his swivel chair in his comfortable office in Foxford Rectory, his Wiltshire home. The bishop's summing-up was true. The Reverend Otis Joy was young, still in his twenties, and wicked. The afternoon sun through the leaded windows cast black bars over him, yet he managed to look benign, thanks to a generous mouth with laughter lines at the edges, a fine straight nose and deep-set eyes of that pale yellowish brown that is disarmingly called hazel. A sharp intelligence lurked there.

The bishop, on the other side of the desk, did not appreciate what was going on. If you knew Marcus Glastonbury, you would not expect him to appreciate anything out of the ordinary. At the last General Synod, towards the end of his specially dull speech on improving communication in the Church, a pigeon that had crept through a window of Church House had fluttered down and perched on the microphone. Bishop Marcus was the only one who hadn't laughed.

"Speaking of cops …?" Joy raised his eyebrows.

The bishop didn't follow him.

"… are they involved?"

"Oh." A shake of the big, bald, consecrated head.

"Thank God for that." Joy watched the bishop wince. "Or would you rather we left the big fella out of it?"

The bishop drew in a sharp, shocked breath as if he had been struck. He was in danger of being undermined. "I have not consulted anyone … yet."

"Not even in prayer? He knows, anyway. No use pretending he doesn't."

"It's a crime by any definition, secular or temporal," said the bishop. "There's no escaping that, which is why I'm here."

"To do a deal?"

That suggestion was not received well. It drew forth a sound remarkably like a growl.

Joy leaned back, letting the chair rotate amp; little, and studied his accuser. He'd never seen old man Glasttanbury dressed like this, in an ordinary blue shirt, striped tie and crumpled linen suit, perfect, he thought, for importuning in the park. It was supposed to make the bish less conspicuous, of course. This was the Church under cover, about to trade with the devil, disagreeable as it must be. The gleaming blue BMW had crunched onto his gravel drive without warning. A knock on the door and not a word of greeting when it was opened. Glastonbury had stood there with a bulging briefcase under one arm, which he handed to Joy to carry inside. No friendly handshake. No response to the usual courtesies. When a bishop refuses a whisky, watch out.

The bishop made an effort to seize the initiative again. "Not to beat about the bush, you're an embezzler. You have systematically robbed the Church of funds. It's a criminal matter that ought to be reported."

"But won't," murmured Joy.

There was a shocked pause. "I don't think I heard correctly."

"You did."

"I don't have to take such insolence from a parish priest. I'm looking for some sign of contrition."

"Like grovel, grovel?"

"I can't believe what I'm hearing. I was told you were a first-class priest, popular, hard-working, a most able preacher who fills the church most Sundays."

"The people fill the church, my lord."

"Your previous parish, St. Saviour's, has the highest opinion of you."

"This is about St. Saviour's?"

"Yes."

"Who blew the whistle, then?"

"I did."

"You?"

Bishop Glastonbury tilted his head in a superior way and for a moment it caught the light and shone as if he were freshly anointed. His vanity was well known in the diocese. "I take an interest in all my parishes. After you left, and the new vicar arrived, there was a spectacular improvement in the St. Saviour's income."

"That's a matter for rejoicing."

"It increased by something like forty per cent."

"A miracle."

A cold stare. "But there was no obvious reason. The church membership actually dropped away after you left. I make it my business to study the parish returns at the Diocesan Board of Finance, so it came to my attention. They're all on my computer at Glastonbury. Any departure from the norm stands out. I sent for the bank statements. I looked at the books. What I discovered shocked me more than I can say. I was forced to the conclusion that-"

"I had my fingers in the till?"

"The collection plate."

"Get real, my lord."

The bishop twitched again.

Joy told him, "I'm not such a dumbo as to help myself to twenty quid's worth of small change."

"I was speaking figuratively. If it had been the collection plate you were robbing, the parish would have got onto you before this. I had to dig deep to find the discrepancies."

"And you did?"

"Eventually. The bogus bank accounts. Two roof funds, set up with different banks."

"Ah." Joy raised a hand like a footballer acknowledging a professional foul.

"The so-called parish rooms account."

"That, too." He lifted the other hand.

"I put up one hypothesis after another to explain the unthinkable, a priest who systematically robs his own church. It was so monstrous that I confided in no one else. You can't share suspicions like that until you're absolutely sure."

"Dead right, my lord."

"So this is a private visit. As far as my staff are concerned, I have an afternoon off. That's why I'm dressed informally. I wanted to put the charge to you in person. I hope to hear that it's a misunderstanding."

"But that would be a lie."

The logic escaped the bishop. "Consider your position. You're one of the best regarded young priests in the diocese. Don't you have anything to say in mitigation?"

"Before you pronounce judgement?"

"Before we talk about the next step."

"Ah-the next step." Joy's eyes glittered. "What are you after? Your cut?"

Shock, extreme shock, set Marcus Glastonbury's mouth agape like one of the gargoyles on the roof of his cathedral. "That's abominable." He looked about him as if for support from the shelves of religious books, the palm crosses pinned to the notice board, the gilt-framed print of The Light of the World and the solid glass paperweight of St. Paul's Cathedral. "Have you no shame?"

"I find it gets in the way. What do you expect-wailing and gnashing of teeth?"

The bishop made a huge effort to get control of his features again. "You realise, of course, that it's over. You can't continue in the Church."

"This church? St. Bartholomew's? They haven't complained, have they?"

"The Church of England. You're finished, Joy. You must resign the priesthood."

"Resign?" The young man made it sound like a foreign word.

The bishop played it down a little. "We'll find some form of words. A nervous breakdown, some unspecified illness. There are ways it can be handled."

"I'm not the first, then?"

"And you must make good the money you took. What did you do with it?"

"Blew it."

"But on what?"

Otis Joy rotated the chair and looked out of the window at the bishop's beautiful car. "On the trappings of success. Monstrous, isn't it, the cost of keeping up appearances?"

Marcus Glastonbury's voice piped up in outrage, "I won't let you get away with this."

"Vengeance is mine, saith the lord bishop."

It crossed Joy's mind that he might have done himself more good by quoting from the Sermon on the Mount on the subject of mercy, but he doubted if it would make much impression on this bishop. Instead he was compelled to embark on another strategy. He turned the chair to face the front again, pointing a thumb over his shoulder at the BMW parked on his drive. "The Church does all right. It can afford to write off a few grand. It's a major player in the property market, owns big chunks of London."