The Reaper Read online

  The circumstances of Stanley's passing horrified everyone. It was assumed that the trauma of being burgled had brought on a heart attack, and for a time a lynch mentality took over. If the burglar had been identified for sure he would not have lasted long in the village. As it was, a number of youths came under strong suspicion and were treated with contempt by everyone who had known Stanley. Two of them were drop-outs from the new Sixth Form College, a point that would not have escaped the old headmaster.

  The death was reported to the coroner, who ordered a post mortem. The analytical findings demonstrated that Stanley had died from the effects of amylobarbitone, a sedative, mixed with whisky. An inquest was arranged.

  Suicide, then? This was even more shocking than the heart attack theory. No note was found, but it is common knowledge that you don't take barbiturates and alcohol together unless you want to do away with yourself. The idea of the heartbroken old man alone in his cottage mixing his fatal cocktail moved people to tears. They had known Stanley was in a state of shock after the burglary. They hadn't realised it amounted to black despair.

  On Sunday, Otis Joy referred to the tragedy in church. "Stanley Burrows was a loyal member of this congregation for over thirty years. He served on the parish council as our treasurer, a very able treasurer. Stanley was a staunch friend to me, but of course most of you knew him much longer than I did, as your headmaster, or the headmaster of your children. His passing is hard for us to bear-the more so because of the tragic circumstances. I'm not going to speculate on what happened, and I urge you all-everyone in the village-to be restrained in your reaction. Stanley was a gentleman in every sense of the word. He, of all people, wouldn't wish this to lead to thoughts of revenge. He taught the virtues of civilised behaviour. Let us remember that as we pray for his immortal soul."

  In his pew towards the back, Owen Cumberbatch exhaled loudly and impatiently. His sister, beside him, gave him a sharp dig in the ribs.

  To end the service, the rector chose a hymn Stanley had often sung in school assemblies, "Lord dismiss us with thy blessing," and hands were dipping into pockets and bags for Kleenex long before the "Amen" was reached.

  To Rachel, in her usual pew, the rector's words had been specially touching. He had this gift of striking exactly the right note for the occasion. On her way out of church she almost complimented him, and then decided it was inappropriate. Instead she smiled and put out her left hand (her right was still in plaster) and found herself holding two of his fingers and giving them a squeeze. He smiled in a restrained way. "I hope it's mending nicely."

  "I expect so," she said.

  "How long do you have to wear this?"

  "Another four itching weeks."

  "I've always said the best cure for an itch is to scratch it. Try a knitting needle."

  "Well, it's not all bad," she managed to put in. "I got some lovely flowers out of it."

  "Mind how you go, then. Watch out for Waldo's grave."

  She was tempted to ask if he'd remembered what it was he wanted to see her about on the day of the accident, but that might have seemed pushy. She moved on.

  By the lychgate she overheard a snatch of conversation she found mystifying. Bill Armistead was saying to Davy Todd, who kept the shop, "… out of order, totally out of order and told him so."

  "Silly old bugger," said Todd.

  "It's daft. He couldn't hold down a job like his, telling folk how to behave, praying and preaching, if he were up to things like that."

  "Nobody could. What would be the point?"

  "Mind, they do go off the rails, some of them."

  "Yes, a bit of how's your father, drinking, gambling, but this is way beyond that. No, it's bullshit. Got to be. If he believes that, he wants his head testing."

  Rachel edged around them and walked up the street. She couldn't believe anyone had been spreading malicious stories about Otis, and didn't want to find out.

  The senior churchwarden, Geoff Elliott, spoke to the rector after everyone else had gone. "It may seem indecently soon to be speaking of this, but we'll need a new treasurer now."

  "Spot on, Geoff," said Joy. "The sooner the better."

  "We churchwardens can act in a temporary capacity, but we need someone to take on the job properly. For the sake of continuity, he ought to come from within the PCC, as Stanley did."

  "Is that a problem?"

  Elliott cleared his throat. "I've, er, sounded out the others and nobody is too confident of taking it on. You need someone good at figure work. We have the power to co-opt, of course."

  "And you have someone in mind?"

  "That young fellow Sands is a chartered accountant, I understand."

  "Burton Sands?" said the rector, unable to disguise his horror. "He's in my confirmation class. He isn't confirmed yet."

  "He will be, won't he?"

  "Well, as it isn't by selection, yes. I wouldn't have thought of him for treasurer myself."

  "He's a regular church-goer. A serious young man. Very stable, I would think. And we can be sure he understands how to draw up a balance sheet."

  "I don't doubt that."

  You solve one problem and another rears its head. Joy could not in his wildest dreams imagine himself disclosing the existence of the contingency fund to Burton Sands. Neither did he wish to operate extra accounts without the treasurer's knowledge. That had been the problem in the last parish, ending with the visit from the bishop. Far better to find someone cooperative, like Stanley. What a crying shame Stanley had ruled himself out.

  "Is there a problem with Burton?" Elliott asked.

  "I wouldn't put it so strongly. It's just a feeling I have that he may upset people. He's a prickly character. A parish treasurer needs tact. He'd be dealing with ordinary folk who get things in a muddle or forget to ask for receipts or hand in money later than they should. I don't know how Burton would measure up."

  "Well, of course we need someone you can work with, Rector."

  "I can work with anyone, but… Let me think about this before we ask him. There may be someone we've overlooked."

  "He's the only accountant in the congregation."

  "But Stanley wasn't an accountant. As he remarked to me once, almost anyone could do the job. It's commonsense stuff."

  "But a lot easier if you're a trained accountant," said Elliott stubbornly. "In the meantime, Norman Gregor and I will plug the gap."

  "Top stuff," said Joy, and added optimistically, "Who knows? Maybe you'll find it's a doddle."

  "It's only until we get someone permanent," Elliott stressed. "We're thinking of days rather than weeks. And we can't do much without the account books."

  "Take them over as soon as you want. It's just a matter of collecting them from Stanley's cottage."

  "The books aren't there, Rector. The police have them."

  Joy's face twitched into stark horror. "The police?"

  "You know PC Mitchell-George, from the cottage with the willow growing in the front. He also acts as the coroner's officer. He took possession of the books. I think it's to make sure they're in order, just in case something worried Stanley enough to make him suicidal."

  Joy shook his head. "If anything made him suicidal, it was the burglary."

  "They have to do the job properly."

  "George Mitchell should have come to me."

  Eliott's face coloured deeply. "My fault, Rector. He explained to me what he was doing and I ought to have mentioned it to you before this."

  One of Otis Joy's strengths was speed of action. Burton Sands as treasurer? No way.

  There had to be a better candidate, someone more approachable, more co-operative and who saw the sense in not rocking the boat. Numerate, of course, but they didn't need to be a maths professor. The rector's candidate. No parish council would dare veto the rector's choice.

  But who?

  None of those deadbeats on the PCC wanted the responsibility. The nominee had to come from the congregation at large. A number of treasurer-like f
aces came to mind as Joy mentally scanned the line-up he saw every Sunday from his pulpit. There was no shortage of people who had worked in offices and probably on committees as well. Unfortunately not one of them struck him as suitable. He couldn't predict how they would react to the contingency fund.

  Stanley-God rest his soul-had never asked to see a statement from the building society. Even Stanley might have been perturbed to know that the deposits were never less than a hundred pounds a week and the withdrawals about the same. A steady sixty from the hire of the church hall for bingo, bridge, boy scouts, table-tennis and line-dancing. Thirty to fifty for a wedding, baptism or funeral. Extra from the coffee mornings, the fete, the safari suppers and whatever. Bits and bobs from the "upkeep of the church" boxes and the sale of pamphlets. It all came in the form of notes and coins that went straight into the building society. You don't want loose change lying about the rectory or you run the risk of theft, as Stanley Burrows had discovered.

  The right choice was crucial.

  Who can find a virtuous woman7, states the Book of Proverbs, for her price is far above rubies. Finding the right treasurer was about as difficult. And now that Joy thought about it, a woman was not a bad idea, virtuous or not.

  The Coroner's officer in his police uniform called at the rectory about four in the afternoon. A civilised time. It was a golden September day and Otis Joy brought tea and cake into the garden. Not coconut pyramids, but a fine three-layer chocolate cake, a gift to the rector (with twenty-four pounds and a few pence in extra takings) from the recent coffee morning.

  "It's about Stanley, of course?" he said striking the right note between chirpiness and respect for the dead;

  "Only a few questions, Rector." PC George Mitchell was a Wiltshireman through and through, in his fifties now, calm, slow of speech, with a faint smile that rarely left him. The rector had long since learned to respect the intelligence behind soft West Country accents. "He was quite well known to you, I expect?"

  "As one of the Church Council? Naturally."

  "Treasurer."

  "And a good one. He held the office for many years, didn't he? Long before I came."

  "A demanding job, would you say?"

  Otis Joy smiled and pointed to the piece of cake on PC Mitchell's plate.

  Mitchell took a moment to see the point, then let his mouth relax into the start of a smile.

  "It never depressed him, so far as I know," said Joy. "Is that what you're wondering?"

  "The books appear to be in order. Up to date."

  "They would be. Stanley was methodical, as a treasurer should be." He signalled a shift in tone by putting down his cup and saucer. "Nobody informed me you were taking away the church accounts. I have to say I take a dim view of that."

  "I was acting for the coroner," said PC Mitchell without apologising. "We don't upset people for the sake of it, but when all's said and done, we have the job to do and the power to carry it out."

  "When will we get them back?"

  "Today, if you like. We've finished with them."

  "Barking up the wrong tree, then?"

  "We bark up all the trees, Rector."

  A wasp was hovering over Otis Joy's cake. "The cause of Stanley's death is obvious, isn't it?"

  "Not so much as you'd think. He didn't leave a note. That's unusual, him being so methodical."

  "Surely the burglary …"

  "In my job, you learn not to make assumptions. I just assemble the facts for the coroner. When did you last see Stanley?"

  The wasp had settled on the cake. It wouldn't move, even when a paper napkin was waved over it. "Now you're asking. I'm hopeless at remembering."

  "But I expect you keep a diary. You'd need to, with all the things you have to do."

  "Good thought. Did Stanley keep one?" Joy suggested as a diversion.

  "None that we found." PC Mitchell leaned across and flicked the wasp off Joy's piece of cake with his fingernail, killing it outright. "I'd like to see yours."

  "1 could fetch it if you like." The offer was half-hearted.

  Mitchell gave a nod.

  "But I can't let you take it away. I depend on it."

  There was no reaction from the coroner's officer.

  In the security of his study, Otis Joy turned to the relevant page of the diary. He was ninety-nine per cent sure he hadn't made a note of Stanley's visit on the day of his death. Stanley had not made an appointment. He had come at lunchtime, fretting over the burglary. The chance of anyone having seen him was slight. Mercifully the rectory was not overlooked. It stood at the end of a lane behind the church.

  As he thought, there was no record of the visit in the diary.

  Back in the garden, George Mitchell had finished his slice of cake, and was biting into a plum he had picked.

  "It's just an appointments book," Joy explained. "Baptisms, weddings and funerals and the odd Parish Council meeting."

  Mitchell licked his sticky fingers and wiped them on a paper napkin before handling the diary.

  "This is the ninth, the day of the burglary."

  "Is it? I wouldn't remember."

  "You had a day off by the looks of things.";

  "That's right. I'm busy on!the Sabbath, you see. I take my day off some time in the week."

  "What do you do? Potter about the house?"

  "No, I need to get out of the village. There are interruptions if I stay in."

  "So you wouldn't have had a visit from Stanley?"

  "I wasn't here."

  "You're certain?"

  Otis Joy hesitated. Did Mitchell have some information? "I told you I went out for the day. What's this about?"

  Mitchell turned over the page and looked at the innocuous entries for the 10th: a visit to the church school for scripture lesson; two home calls on recently bereaved families; a wedding preparation meeting; an ecumenical meeting with the Methodist and Catholic clergy at Warminster.

  "It's about money," Mitchell said, and Otis Joy twitched.

  "Damned flies," he said, rubbing his face.

  "On the day of the burglary, Mr. Burrows visited the bank and took out a hundred pounds in cash from his personal account. When he was found, he had less than twenty in his wallet."

  "Wasn't some cash stolen from the cottage?"

  "Ninety-two pounds. But that was in the morning. He drew out this money in the afternoon."

  "And spent about eighty apparently," said the rector, trying to sound uninterested. "Perhaps he had a bill to pay."

  "According to the parish account book, he paid a hundred and sixty-two pounds into the church account the same afternoon. Seventy of that was the takings from the bring-and-buy morning. I think the other ninety-two was his own money."

  "Why?"

  "I think he was too ashamed to tell anyone it was church money that was stolen in the burglary."

  Joy frowned. "He didn't say anything to me about it."

  "He wouldn't, would he?" said George. "You didn't see him to speak to."

  "1 mean he could easily have phoned." The rector sighed heavily. "But you must be right, George. This puts everything in a different light."

  "How do you mean, sir?"

  Otis Joy's brain was in overdrive. "Knowing Stanley as I do, it would be a body blow to lose church money through carelessness. Devastating. The cash must have been lying around in the house. Usually he banked everything at the first opportunity. He'd take this as a personal failure. I don't like to think of the torment the poor man suffered."

  George Mitchell was saying nothing.

  "So," the rector summed up, "you've got your explanation. Poor Stanley. He made up the money from his own savings rather than let anyone know. And even then he couldn't live with the shame of it."

  This plausible theory seemed to find favour. George nodded, wiped his forehead and replaced his police cap.

  "George, you must come here again when you're off duty," said Joy. "Do you play chess, by any chance?"

  "Not my game, sir."


  "Well, I wouldn't challenge you to Cluedo. With your police training, you must be red hot. Scrabble?"

  "I get the tiles out with my wife once in a while."

  "Let's indulge, then. How about Monday evening?"

  George looked bemused by the prospect of Scrabble with the rector. "All right, sir. Monday evening it is."

  "Shall we say seven-thirty? And do call me Otis. Everyone does."

  Six

  Stanley had a bigger send-off than any departing Fox-ford soul in years. People were standing at the back of the church. There just wasn't room for the extra chairs from the church hall. Former pupils and teaching colleagues came from miles around. The school choir filled the front pews and the singing was glorious.

  The Reverend Joy was equal to the occasion. He was in his element that morning, telling the mourners it had become the custom to treat funerals as the celebration of a life and that Stanley's life was worthy of more than that-of a fanfare- regardless of the tragic circumstances of his passing.

  He told an enchanting story to illustrate Stanley's devotion to the church: "Sometimes at the end of a service, when we look at the offerings on the collection plate we find a foreign coin-put there by mistake, I'm sure, along with the occasional button."

  He waited for some murmured amusement, and got it.

  "And you can't get anything back for foreign coins, unfortunately. The exchange bureaux refuse to accept them, so what do we do with them? For years, and long before my time as rector, they were put in an old tin that once held toffees. This troubled Stanley, this money earning nothing for the church. So when he went on holiday to Spain last year-I think it was his first foreign holiday-he said he would take the half-dozen or so peseta coins with him. I said yes, we'd be glad to get shot of them and perhaps he would like to chip in a few English coins in their place. But no, Stanley's idea wasn't to spend the money. He meant to find a Spanish church that kept their foreign coins and do an exchange. A lovely thought, typical of Stanley's thoroughness.