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Norman Gregor, the churchwarden who farmed the fields below the village, took over the chair. He invited Elliott to speak first, and a fine case he made for Burton Sands. "This young man is extremely keen to take up the post and there's no question as to his competence, accountancy being his profession. He's a regular attender at services. True, he hasn't been confirmed yet, but he's been attending the rector's confirmation group, and I don't see that anyone could object if we invited him to become our treasurer. A more able and committed candidate would be hard to find."

  Gregor said with a twinkle in his eye, "But the rector believes he has found one. Over to you, Rector."

  The meeting was treated to a tour de force in the art of persuasion. Like a beaten man Joy sighed and spread his hands. "These decisions are tough, aren't they? You've heard the case for Burton. Who could top it? Rachel Jansen isn't an accountant. She's less keen than Burton to take the job. Less confident. I had to sell the idea to her. So what are her qualifications? Like Burton, she's in church every Sunday. She's active in charity work and well known in the village for house-to-house collections and the support she gives to all our social events. A calm, intelligent woman unlikely to ruffle feathers."

  "Why isn't she on the PCC already?" someone interrupted.

  "Fair point. Rachel is one of those people who don't push themselves forward. She's not pushy. I've discovered in my short career in the church that it's worth making the effort to persuade such people to get involved. The reason we're having this discussion is that none of you wants to be treasurer. We're forced to look outside the PCC. Now that Rachel and I have talked, she'd like to be considered for the post."

  "You fancy yourself as a talent-spotter, Rector," commented Peggy Winner, the third churchwarden.

  "I just believe she could do the job."

  The chairman said with a smile, "Let's have the sub-text, Rector. What's your objection to Mr. Sands?"

  "No objection at all. I know Burton well from the confirmation group. You have to admire his persistence. He's a stickler for detail."

  "Isn't that what you want in a treasurer?"

  "Yes, it's essential."

  Peggy said, "It's a question of how it's done, isn't it? Maybe the rector thinks Burton doesn't have the delicate touch a woman has."

  "That's unfair," said Elliott.

  "The rector didn't say it," the chairman pointed out, "and I don't think he's finished yet."

  Joy nodded. "I wouldn't suggest we give the job to Rachel because she's a woman. After all, our last treasurer was a man and he was a model of tact. You only had to watch Stanley being gently diplomatic when some old dear got her sums wrong."

  "But we don't want a doormat for treasurer," Elliott couldn't resist pointing out.

  "Rachel is no doormat, Geoff," said Joy.

  "I wasn't speaking personally."

  "Right." He played his trump card. "There's just one thing I would add. Whoever takes on the post automatically becomes a member of this council. I (may be speaking out of turn, but I think we'll find meetings going on rather longer if Burton is here than they do at present. He likes the sound of his voice and he's strong on points of order."

  "Oh, Christ," said Gregor and spoke for so many others that the blasphemy passed without comment.

  There were looks all round the table. No question: the rector had won the day. There wasn't even a vote. Elliott withdrew his nomination and Rachel was appointed as the new treasurer.

  The meeting ended in just under the half-hour. "If Sands had been here, we'd have been discussing it till midnight," Norman Gregor said to Peggy Winner as they lingered outside on the drive.

  "What was it about?" she said.

  Norman's shaggy eyebrows popped up at the question.

  "What's the rector up to?" Peggy said. "What's the hidden agenda here?"

  "I'm not with you, Peg."

  "Rachel's a sweet woman, but who'd think about her for parish treasurer?"

  "The rector did."

  "Yes, and we all backed his choice because he's the top banana. I was expecting him to tell us she took a degree in maths or worked in a bank or something. No experience. Nothing. He's got his doubts about Burton Sands. Fine. Pick someone else, but why pick Rachel?"

  "Maybe it's for her sake."

  "Why?"

  "To get her involved more."

  Peggy was scornful of that theory. "She's involved. More involved than most of us. She goes round the houses collecting for this and that. She's always in the thick of it when we have a fete or a safari supper or carol-singing. And she's into acting, for heaven's sake. She was in that thing about the women's Turkish bath, Steaming. She doesn't need bringing out."

  "What do you think, then?"

  A grin spread over Peggy's face. "Not for me to say." But it was transparently clear what she meant.

  "She's married," said Norman.

  Peggy nodded, still grinning.

  "And him a man of God?" said Norman. "You must have it wrong."

  "He was hitched before. He knows what it is to be with a woman."

  "But not someone else's wife. That's against the Commandments. You want to be careful what you say, Peggy. The Rector's a much respected man here and Rachel's not that sort of woman at all, what I've seen of her."

  "He took her off to the hospital in his car the day she broke her arm."

  "So he should have, too. It happened on his patch. If you want my opinion, Peggy, you read too many of those Jackie Collins books."

  "I didn't say they were up to things … yet."

  "Oh, come on!"

  Peggy laughed. "We'll see."

  "I hope not," Norman said. "He's a breath of fresh air to this village. I'd hate to see him caught with his pants down." He opened his car and tossed his briefcase inside. "Would you like a lift, or would that be my reputation down the plughole?"

  Otis phoned Rachel with the news. As he'd expected, she was still uncomfortable with the idea. He told her the decision had been so clear it hadn't even been put to the vote. She was ideally suited to be treasurer, he insisted, and it was nice that the PCC had shown such confidence.

  He said he wasn't able to, visit her that evening to congratulate her personally as he had one more pastoral call to make.

  Disappointed, she didn't want to appeat selfish, wanting a share of his time when he was so committed to his work in the parish. She knew from things she heard at work that he spent hours comforting the sick, the bereaved and the lonely.

  "How about some time Wednesday evening?" he suggested, and her spirit soared. "I can't manage tomorrow. It's my free day and I won't be around."

  "Somewhere nice?" she asked on impulse, knowing it was none of her business, but giving him the chance, if he wished, to take her into his confidence. Instantly she knew she sounded like a chattering schoolgirl angling for a date.

  "Not specially," he said. "Is Wednesday possible? It isn't just about congratulating you. We should start to look at the books."

  "Wednesday is fine … Otis."

  "Excellent."

  They fixed a time of seven-thirty.

  Immediately she put the phone down it rang again.

  "So, big spender, when are you off to the Bahamas?"

  Cynthia, being waggish.

  "With the church money, you mean?" said Rachel. "No chance. I'll be lucky if I get to Weymouth with the Sunday school."

  "Congratulations anyway, darling. I just heard. How refreshing to have a woman write the cheques. 1 was rooting for you, of course. We didn't want that tepid little teabag taking over. He thought he was home and dry, no contest, him being a chartered accountant." Hoots of laughter came down the phone. "He won't have the faintest notion how it happened. How did it happen?"

  "I've no idea, Cyn. I wasn't there."

  "And no one's told you? Hasn't the rector been on yet to give you the news?"

  "Yes. A few minutes ago."

  "I should think so, too. Is he coming round to share a bottle of bubbly with you?"
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br />   "No, Cynthia," she said, not liking the drift of this. "There isn't any cause for celebration. It's just a job I was asked to take on."

  "Yes, but he put you up for it. He should stand you a drink, at the very least. You'll see him later, I expect?"

  Questions, questions, questions.

  "No. He's busy."

  "Tomorrow? Oh. Forgot. That's his day off. He'll be away before breakfast and back about midnight. Where does he go every Tuesday?"

  "I haven't the faintest idea. Cyn, who else was up for treasurer?"

  "Didn't anyone tell you? Sourpuss. The one who never smiles. He would have been a real damper on the parish council."

  "Yes, but who? Did you say he's an accountant?"

  Cynthia laughed. "A chartered accountant, my dear. He goes off every day in his pinstripe suit to Warminster clutching his little briefcase with his tuna sandwiches inside."

  Now she knew who Cynthia meant. "Burton Sands. And they chose me? I don't understand it."

  "Otis wanted you, that's obvious. He'd rather deal with you than a pain in the arse like Burton, and who wouldn't? Good thing you're happily married, ducky, or tongues might wag."

  "For pity's sake, Cynthia."

  "How is Gary? Has he phoned you from America?"

  Cynthia didn't let up.

  "Not yet. It's difficult with the time difference and everything. I'm sure he's having a good time."

  "Not too good, I hope."

  When she came off the phone, Rachel shook her head and sighed, but less over Cynthia than the remarkable decision of the PCC.

  She made herself tea, trying to understand how Otis could have swung the decision her way. He could charm the birds off the trees, she knew, but she couldn't imagine how he persuaded anyone she would make a better treasurer than Burton Sands. Yet it had been so obvious, he'd said, that it hadn't even been put to the vote.

  Wednesday evening, then. What would she put on? The suits she wore to church each Sunday simply would not do. In her own home she ought to strike a less formal note, not the sweater and jeans she was wearing right now, but something that set a relaxed mood, for him, as well as herself. A dress, she decided, and nothing too tartish. She had a dark green frock she had bought in Kensington last time she had been to London, with sweet little fabric-covered buttons to the neck and a full skirt. Gary had liked it. No-she thought the minute Gary sprang to mind-I won't wear that old thing. I'll go to Bath tomorrow and look round the shops. Treat myself to something really special.

  A drop-dead dress, as they say in America. Well, a stunner, at least.

  Then there was the food. He wouldn't expect a full meal at that stage of the evening, but she had to offer something. Sweet or savoury? A warm dish would be best. She was brilliant at individual souffles that always rose and spilled over the top, but they needed whisking, and it might be difficult dashing between the Magimix and the account books. The food ought to be ready-cooked and warmed up with the minimum of fuss. Quiche, or pizza. Quiche, she thought, for the rector. Better still, some of those extra-special cocktail snacks from the delicatessen in Bath. She'd get them at the same time as she got the dress. And if she served cocktail snacks, she had to have a bottle of wine.

  A bit OTT?

  Not for Otis. Hang the expense. She'd get a vintage red and see if it went to his head.

  Early the next morning while most of Foxford was sleeping, Otis Joy drove out of the village in his old Cortina and headed south, humming "All things bright and beautiful." Along the quiet Wiltshire roads rabbits were nibbling at the verges. Freshly drilled wheat fields testified to autumn, yet still it felt like summer. The sun was showing above the downs and the sky was so clear that he could see the fading of the moon. He was wearing jeans and a check shirt. No dog-collar on his day off.

  As usual he took the A350 through Warminster and down into Dorset by way of Shaftesbury. He was at Blandford Forum by eight. There, he left the main road and drove into the town and stopped for breakfast at a small cafe that was open from seven-thirty and known to a few locals and early-morning travellers.

  He went in and sat at his favourite table by the window, with a good view down the street. They even had the morning papers.

  The woman who took the orders and did the cooking as well at this time of day came out of the kitchen holding a menu, saw who it was, smiled and said, "Well, you won't be needing this. Your usual, is it?"

  "Of course," said Joy.

  She smiled. "Lovely morning. And how are you, Mr. Beggarstaff?"

  Nine

  She felt terrific in the dress. She had found it in Northumberland Passage, in a shop she didn't know existed. Calf-length and loose-fitting, raw silk in a colour they called bronze, with hints of scarlet in the weave, it wasn't drop-dead, but it oozed style. Which wasn't wasted on Otis Joy. He made no comment when he arrived, yet the glint in those deep-set eyes said enough.

  Rachel thought it a pity he hadn't left the clerical collar at home this evening. True, it was only the token strip of white above a pale grey shirt. Otherwise he was casual, but smart, in a dark green jacket and cream trousers fashionably loose in the fit.

  He was holding a carton stacked high with account books.

  She suggested they did the business part first and he looked mildly surprised as if he couldn't think what the other part was. She told him she had some nibbles to warm up for later and he gave her another glance.

  The business part.

  She had a coffee table ready for him to spread out the books and she'd placed it in front of the sofa. She would sit beside him and make nothing of it. No other arrangement would work. The sofa was a four-seater that dominated the room, so it wouldn't be a squeeze. The only problem was the enormous soft cushions that threatened to suck you in like a swamp as they took your weight. She let him find out for himself. He sank in some way and then struggled against it and managed to perch precariously on the edge. Without fuss Rachel took her position next to him.

  He busied himself leaning over the box to lift out the contents, and they made a daunting collection. When everything was on the table he picked up the main account book, a huge leather-bound volume as big as the lectern Bible in church, and opened it. "Here we go, then. You see how simple it is? The income-that's the money from the offertory, renting out the church hall, fund-raising events and all the rest-goes on this side, and we have the debits on the left, here, with columns for the diocesan quota, petty cash, postage, printing, stationery, insurance, wafers and wine for the eucharist and so forth."

  "They're beautifully kept," she remarked.

  "Stanley was a tidy writer."

  "My figures are going to look crude after his."

  "Doesn't matter as long as they add up. Have you got a calculator? Stanley never bothered with one. A bit old-fashioned. Like the elderly civil servant at the Treasury who advised every government since the war." j, He'd lost her momentarily, laying the ground for one of his funny stories.

  "Brilliant man. Genius with figures. He could analyse a balance sheet quicker than any computer. Only whenever he was asked for advice he'd first of all go to the safe in his office, unlock it and take out a scrap of paper and look at it. Then he'd fold it and put it back and close the safe before summing up the state of the nation's finances. On the day he died, the people he worked with rushed to the safe and took out the piece of paper. It said, 'Debits on the left, credits on the right.' "

  She gave a polite smile. The joke wasn't one of his better ones.

  He said, "If you'd like a calculator, get one on expenses."

  "I'm sure we've got one. I might have to charge the church for some new batteries."

  "Fine. Enter it in the petty cash book. Now look at these regular payments. They're covered by standing orders at the bank."

  She studied the columns of figures, trying to focus, and thinking, God, I've got him on my sofa close enough to … and we're talking about standing orders. "Your own expenses don't amount to much."

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p; "True." He didn't elaborate.

  We're mature, sexually experienced adults sitting here like virgins on a first date because he's in holy orders and I'm married. Pulling a clergyman must be the ultimate challenge. God, she thought, I must keep that wild streak of mine in check.

  "Have we cracked it?" he asked.

  "Mm?"

  "Is it clear to you?"

  "So far. I won't make too much of a mess of it, I hope. What else do I need to know?"

  "One step at a time."

  "If you don't mind, I'd like to get the full picture." Just a hint that he was patronising her.

  "Sure." He smoothed his hands along the tops of his thighs. He was unusually tense and it distracted from the things he was saying. "No pressure at all until early next year. We work to the calendar year, so in January we make sure everything is in shape and hand the books, receipts and so on to the auditors. The audited accounts are ready for the February meeting of the PCC."

  "And I must be ready for questions."

  "Possibly, but I doubt it. The whole thing went through on the nod last time. And after they approve them, we present them to the Annual Parochial Church Meeting."

  "That's all?"

  "There are some statistical returns for the diocese that we don't need to bother with at this stage. I'll give you all the help I can."

  "Thanks."

  They looked at the petty cash book and the box file containing the vouchers and invoices. It was all immaculately sorted in transparent folders. At one stage the chequebook fell on the floor and they both reached for it and their hands touched.

  Electric.

  She handed the chequebook to him and he returned it to the file without actually looking at her.

  "Happy so far?"

  She nodded. "Except for one thing."

  He said with a note of caution, "Yes?"

  "I'm puzzled why you put me up for this when Burton Sands is a professional accountant."

  He continued to rearrange the books. "The PCC made the decision, Rachel."

  "At your suggestion."

  "Well, that's true." Now he turned to her, and their faces were tantalisingly close. His hazel eyes locked with hers, slipped away and then returned. "I wanted you for this. I know you'll do it well. The others simply agreed with me."