The Reaper Page 5

  Otis Joy's solution to the thorny subject of expenses was the contingency fund, a building society account entirely at the disposal of the rector. It was fed by injections of cash. A church takes in most of its income in the form of cash. Collections at services are the prime source, but each fund-raising event brings in packets of coins and notes: fetes, coffee mornings, jumble sales, choral concerts, safari suppers, skittles, barbecues and social evenings. There are boxes in church for visitors to contribute a few pence to the upkeep, to buy candles, postcards and guide-sheets. Cash, cash, cash. Everything is bagged up and counted, but there are always late payments, niggling amounts that add to the work of the treasurer. The remedy was to siphon all the extras-with the treasurer's connivance-into the rector's contingency fund. This money didn't go through the books, so it simplified the accounting. More importantly, it reduced the total amount showing as parish income, and discouraged the DBF from increasing the quota.

  Weddings, baptisms and funerals were another source of funds. The parochial fees were displayed on the board in the church porch, and it was convenient (the rector always explained to the families) to have them paid in banknotes, rather than cheques. He received the money in person, on the day, and paid the organist, bell-ringers and choir. The residue was his personal fee and that of the parish church council. It went into the contingency fund.

  In return, he didn't pester the treasurer with frequent requests for petty cash. They had an understanding that he would draw a token amount, a nice, round figure-enough to keep the accounting simple, satisfy the auditors and everyone at the Annual General Meeting.

  A happy arrangement for all concerned.

  Later in the week at a confirmation class held in his office at the rectory, someone asked him about hell.

  The question came from one of the adult candidates, a ginger-haired chartered accountant with freckles and a dour expression whose only charm was his name, which sounded like a seaside resort. Burton Sands had come late to the faith, but he was not a typical born-again Christian. He had chosen the Church of England after carefully investigating its claims and obligations. He'd picked it as a superior form of unit trust, a low-risk investment that might pay decent dividends in the long term.

  "Hell?" said Otis Joy, as if it were a foreign word.

  "Yes."

  "We give it a low profile. It's a concept we're not too comfortable with in the modern church, but I'll say this"-he smiled and tried to duck out with a quip-"you won't find it in the travel brochures."

  "Yes, but do you believe in it?" Sands pressed him.

  John Neary, a plain-speaking countryman, said, "It's where you go if you arse about, isn't it?"

  Ann Porter, the only woman in the group, sanitised the remark with, "If you err and stray like lost sheep."

  "We all do, of course," the rector admitted. "The Bible tells us that all have sinned and come short of the glory of God, so-"

  "See you down there, Rector," said Neary.

  Everyone except Sands smiled, and the atmosphere improved. In some ways Neary was the saving of this group, the opposite pole to Sands. He watched football, and fiddled with his car and kept a few beehives in the back garden.

  Joy tried to strike a more positive note. "Happily, there's redemption. When you're confirmed, you repent of your sins and renounce evil."

  "So will I go to hell if I'm not confirmed?" Sands asked.

  "Snap out of it, Burton. Be positive. Lead the Christian life and you may enter the Kingdom of Heaven."

  "But if we don't," persisted Sands with his interest in the other side of the balance sheet, "if we sin and break the Ten Commandments and forget to say our prayers, what then?"

  Neary yawned and said, "Let's face it. It's impossible to keep the Ten Commandments. Everyone breaks the old thou shalt nots."

  "All of them?" chipped in Ann Porter. "Speak for yourself."

  "No, I'd rather hear it from you, love," Neary was quick to respond. "You must have broken some. Which ones?"

  She reddened. "I'm not going into that."

  There were children of twelve and thirteen in the class, looking interested. "We don't have to make this personal," the rector cautioned.

  "What she means," Neary continued to bait Ann Porter, "is that she has a clean sheet on number six. She hasn't murdered anyone."

  "Not yet-but I might, and soon," murmured Ann.

  "I guess we're all in the clear when it comes to that one," Neary blithely carried on. "Murder, I mean."

  There was a pause.

  "Well, don't all shout at once," said Neary.

  "I'm still waiting for someone to answer my question," said Sands like a dog with a bone. "What exactly is hell?"

  All eyes were on the rector, who for his own reasons had gone quiet. It was Neary who offered a partial reply. "The Bible talks about hell fire, so we know it's hot."

  "Oh yes?" said Ann Porter, glad of the chance to get back at him. "With little red demons prodding you with tridents?"

  Otis Joy made a serious effort to get back on track. "It may not be the same for everyone. We may all have our personal hells."

  "Like a Barry Manilow concert?" said Neary.

  "For all eternity," said Ann.

  "Do you have to reduce everything to a joke?" said Sands. "You talk about personal hells, Rector. What's yours?"

  "Mine?" Joy blinked, startled to be asked. Confirmation classes were not his favourite duty. You could bank on getting some bumptious candidate like this one, wanting to challenge theology. "Losing my job is the worst thing I can possibly imagine."

  "But that happens all the time, people being made redundant."

  "Not to the clergy," said Neary. "That's a job for life. It's even called a living, isn't it, Rector?"

  There was a day in the week, generally Tuesday, when Joy was free of parish duties. He arranged his diary to preserve that one clear spot, and got in his ancient car and drove out of the village early in the morning and was not seen all day. The lights in the rectory did not come on until late. He never spoke of what he did, and nobody had the cheek to ask.

  Theories abounded, however. It was put about at first that he was a betting man and went to the races. Later, that he bought and sold antiques, or books, or postage stamps. There was a strong rumour that he visited a mentally handicapped brother in a residential home in Bath. Another, more earthy, that he had a mistress, a married woman living on the south coast.

  Stanley Burrows said, "What does it matter as long as he carries out his duties here? It's none of our business. He doesn't demand to know how we spend every minute, so what right have we to poke our noses into his private life?"

  "He is our rector," Cynthia Haydenhall said at the bring-and-buy coffee morning Otis Joy had asked to be excused from. "We expect him to be above reproach." She had become cooler towards Joy since he left her out of his tea party after the fete.

  "There's no reason to think he's doing anything to be ashamed of," said Stanley.

  Over by the door, Owen Cumberbatch rolled his eyes as if to suggest that the complacency of these people was beyond belief.

  His sister, whose inescapable toffee crispies were being offered around, was quick to say, before Owen opened his mouth, "I think our rector is the best thing that ever happened to Foxford. We've had some dull old sticks at the rectory in recent years. He treats the job as if he enjoys every minute. It's infectious. That's why the church is full on Sundays."

  Mr. Prior, the eighty-year-old sidesman, came in on the end of the conversation. "What's that? Who's infectious?"

  "Our rector, according to Miss Cumberbatch," said Cynthia unhelpfully.

  "Is that where he is today-having treatment?" asked Mr. Prior.

  So another rumour was hatched.

  Between the raffle, the sale and the fifty pence entrance fee, seventy pounds was raised for the church. At the end of the morning, Stanley took it home in a brown paper bag.

  He was in for a shock. A burglar had entered his c
ottage while he was out. Ninety-two pounds was stolen, together with a video-recorder, a Waterford rose-bowl-the last memento of his grandparents-his ivory chess-set and the silver clock he had been given by the school on the day he retired.

  George Mitchell, the local policeman, came eventually. He asked to see the place where the break-in had happened and Stanley had to admit that he never locked his back door. Living in the village, he'd thought he was safe. People in villages trust each other. So the thief had just opened the door and walked in. PC Mitchell clicked his tongue and shook his head. He told Stanley he had better not mention to the insurance people that the house was left open. Stanley said he didn't see why it should become an insurance claim if the police did their job and the property was recovered. PC Mitchell shook his head and told him to get real and said theft was the most commonly reported offence. The chance of catching anyone was about one in a hundred. They didn't have the manpower to hunt down petty thieves. Stanley was outraged. He pointed out that it must have been a local person who knew about the bring-and-buy sale and had chosen a time when the cottage was empty. PC Mitchell agreed and said someone would take fingerprints, but if he were in Stanley's shoes he would file that insurance claim.

  Stanley didn't tell the police or anyone else that the stolen cash was church money waiting to be banked. He should have paid it in the previous day, only it had been a fine afternoon and he'd mown the lawn instead. Now he was conscience-stricken.

  As soon as PC Mitchell left, Stanley drove to the bank in Glastonbury and drew a hundred in cash from his personal account. So as not to make the transaction obvious, he passed the next twenty minutes sitting on a bench looking at the Abbey ruins. Then he returned to the bank, picked a different teller and paid ninety-two pounds of his own money into the church account together with the seventy raised at the bring- and-buy. No one would find out he had been so careless. But he decided after all he would no longer continue as treasurer.

  He called at the rectory the same evening. Unfortunately Otis Joy had still not returned from his day out.

  The local policeman may have treated the incident lightly, but the rest of Foxford did not. Burglaries were rare in the village. The last had been three years ago, when a series of garages were raided at night, and a number of power tools taken. Professional thieves were responsible that time, the local CID had decided. A spate of similar crimes had been going on in Wiltshire villages all through the summer. A gang operating out of Bristol was suspected. Amateur or professional, the outcome was the same. No arrest.

  Nobody doubted that Stanley's burglary was a local job. It was common knowledge that he lived alone and had some nice things in his cottage. And the whole village knew he never missed a church social event.

  Cynthia Haydenhall was convinced unemployed youths were to blame. She said in the shop next morning that if she were the police she would raid three houses on the council estate and she could guarantee she would recover Stanley's property. "We all know who these petty thieves are. You see them hanging about the street looking for trouble. In times past we had a village constable who dealt with them. My gran told me about an incident during the war when they had bins in the street for collecting waste food for pigs. Pig-bins, they were called. Someone was tipping up the bins at night, looking for scraps, or something, and making a disgusting mess. The village bobby lay in wait and caught one of the local youths in the act. Grabbed him by the collar and marched him straight to his parents' house, woke them up and ordered the father to thrash his son's bare backside in front of the entire family, little sisters as well."

  "It sounds a bit extreme," said the shopkeeper, Davy Todd. "He was probably hungry. It weren't as if he was robbing anyone.

  "It taught him a valuable lesson," Cynthia said in a way that defied anyone to argue. "I often think of it."

  Davy Todd made no comment.

  "It didn't do much good," an old woman piped up from behind the greetings cards. "If that's Bobby Hughes you're speaking of, he's done three stretches since for robbery with violence. He's coming up to seventy and he's never learned."

  "Some folk think we should bring back the stocks," said Davy Todd. "Not to mention the ducking-stool."

  Cynthia took this as personal and left.

  Stanley found the rector at home when he called at lunchtime.

  Otis Joy invited him in and put a supportive arm around his shoulders. "I heard what happened yesterday. Devastating. What's the world coming to?"

  He went to a cupboard in his office and poured a couple of whiskies.

  Stanley wasn't there for small talk. He stated his decision. "The burglary is a great shock. I'm afraid it's altered everything, Rector. My confidence has gone. Someone younger must take over."

  Joy was unprepared for this. "Don't say that, Stanley. We can't let them win."

  "It's brought me to my senses. Stupid old buffer, thinking I can do the job until I pass away. I'm a security risk at my age."

  Joy leaned forward, concerned, without any show of alarm. "You didn't lose any church money?"

  "No, it was all my own," Stanley said, sending up a prayer to be forgiven.

  "Because if you did, I'll gladly make it up from the contingency fund. That's what it's for."

  A shake of the head from Stanley.

  "In fact, I'd like to help you anyway," Joy decently offered. "How much did you lose?"

  Stanley blinked, shocked by the suggestion. "That's church money. I'm not here for help, Rector. I just want to tender my resignation."

  "This minute?" Now Joy's voice had a suggestion of panic. He took a slug of whisky.

  They talked on for some time, with Stanley resisting every appeal to reconsider.

  "Well, I'll have to think," said the young rector, "and, er…"

  "Pray?"

  "Good thought. Yes, pray. Coming out of the blue like this, it's a shock, a real facer. We're going to need time to find the right man or woman. That won't be easy."

  "There are plenty of able people," Stanley pointed out. "All you want is someone with a grasp of elementary accounting and a commitment to the church. I can say from experience, it's commonsense stuff."

  "That may be so, but the choice is crucial. The whole thing will have to go through the PCC." Otis Joy rolled his eyes upwards. "And then there's the problem of handing over."

  "There's no problem."

  "I can't agree. If we do appoint someone else, they'll need to learn our ways of doing things."

  "What do you mean, Rector?"

  Otis Joy cleared his throat. "How we deal with my petty cash claims, for instance. You and I have an understanding, but a new treasurer may be uncomfortable with it."

  "The Building Society account?"

  "The contingency fund, yes."

  "I'm sure whoever takes over will see the sense in it. A slight diversion from the norm, but good for the church, our church, anyway. I'll explain it fully when I hand over the books. I believe in giving it to them straight, and I'm sure you agree."

  Joy didn't agree at all. The prospect of a new treasurer was alarming enough, and Stanley giving it to them straight would be calamitous. He was deeply perturbed. He could see everything unravelling. "It's not so simple."

  "Why?" said Stanley.

  "We don't know who they might appoint. It could be someone who doesn't appreciate the advantages of the fund."

  Stanley shook his head. "Why shouldn't they? If they can't allow a man of the church some discretion what's the world coming to? I'm very clear about this, Rector. It doesn't matter a bean who takes over. I'm honour bound to show him the accounts in full, including your statements from the building society."

  "I don't keep them."

  "You don't?" Stanley blinked and stared.

  "Have I committed a faux pas? I told you I'm hopeless with money."

  Stanley Had turned a deep shade of pink. "I expect it's all right. No doubt it's all on computer somewhere. The new treasurer must have chapter and verse on everything w
e've done. You do see that?"

  "In time, yes, but…"

  "No, Rector. Forgive me, but this is an accounting matter. The handover is when you open the books and explain everything."

  "But this doesn't have to be an overnight thing. We'll need a transition. A few months of working together."

  "No. My mind is made up. A clean break. I'm through with the job. It's better for the new person to start without me looking over his shoulder."

  Most people can be charmed, persuaded or threatened out of an unwise decision. There are just a few who are totally intractable.

  "Even so," said Joy, realising he'd lost this one.

  "Look at it this way," said Stanley. "If I dropped dead tomorrow, you'd be forced to appoint someone else."

  Otis Joy sighed heavily. "And I thought We had years ahead of us." He took Stanley's glass to the cupboard and refilled it.

  Stanley died in bed that night.

  Five

  He was not found for two days. People came to the cottage, got no answer and went away. The paper-boy unthinkingly pushed the previous morning's Daily Telegraph through the letterbox to make way for the next one. The meter reader from SWEB made a note that this quarter would be another estimated reading. Bill Armistead, local organiser of Neighbourhood Watch, calling to offer sympathy about the break-in, assumed Stanley was having a lie-in. Even the police knocked at the door to check details of the stolen property and went away without doing anything.

  The irony of all this was that the back door remained unlocked. Anyone could have walked in.

  Finally the publican at the Foxford Arms remarked that Stanley hadn't been in for his usual for a couple of lunchtimes and Peggy Winner, who lived opposite, said she'd noticed his bedroom curtains had remained drawn. The publican said someone had better get over to the cottage and see if the old boy was all right.

  Bill Armistead went around to the back door and walked in. Upstairs he found Stanley Burrows dead in bed. The doctor, when he came, confirmed that death must have been at least thirty-six hours earlier because the effect of rigor mortis had already come and gone.