"Not to be beaten, he got in touch with a coin dealer, who offered to come and look at them. Pennies of certain years when not many were minted can be worth quite a bit of money, we discovered. Our hopes were raised. But the pennies from Spain turned out be common ones and the dealer wasn't willing to make an offer. Then-of all;things-the dealer took an interest in the toffee tin. It was at least fifty years old, he said, and people collected old tins, so he gave us a fiver for it. Five pounds for a rusty old tin! Truly the Lord works in mysterious ways. So now we keep the pennies with all the foreign coins in a plastic Tupperware box and whenever I see it I think of Stanley's broad smile when his efforts finally paid off."
After the service, the coffin was taken to a local crematorium where the close family took leave of Stanley at the short committal conducted by Otis Joy. A younger brother from Leicester said a day that could have been an ordeal had been made uplifting by the rector's sensitive handling.
Back at the cottage, Stanley's family had got in a few salad things, some cooked meats and cheeses. And there was wine. It didn't amount to anything so riotous as a wake, but everyone was welcomed and the mood was relaxed and positive.
Stanley's brother Edward brought the rector a cup of tea and said, "I was wondering if by any chance you're from Market Harborough. There are quite a few Joys there."
"I'm sure there are. No, I've been asked before. No connection. I'm not sure where my family originated. Father travelled all over Europe. He was an acrobat."
"What-with a circus?"
"You name one-he was in it."
"And did you learn circus skills?"
"Am I one of the Joys of Spring? Not really. My parents died when I was seven. I could juggle a bit, once."
"Don't you keep it up?"
The rector laughed. "Not much call for juggling in the Church of England. As for walking the tight rope …"
"Well, you need confidence to stand up and preach a sermon, I'm sure."
"True. But I have off days. Then I'm tempted to wake everyone up by walking up the aisle on my hands."
He moved into another room, spotted Rachel, and went over.
She was coping quite well one-handed, drinking tea, until he approached. The hand with the cup jerked and some slopped onto the carpet.
"Clumsy," she said, annoyed with herself. "Will it stain?"
"It won't trouble Stanley if it does."
The ends of her mouth curved. "True."
"I was about to ask how you're coping."
"Quite well until a moment ago."
"Back at work yet?"
"Yes. They make allowances."
He looked about him to make sure no one else was listening. "Ever done any simple accounting?"
Rachel pricked up her eyebrows in a look of mild alarm. "I leave all that to my husband."
"But you know the principles, I'm sure. Double entry bookkeeping, that sort of thing?"
"We had a few lessons at school. I don't think I shone, exactly. Why?"
He shrugged. "A wild guess. You have this aura of efficiency. I can picture you whipping out a calculator when you go shopping."
She was laughing. "An aura of efficiency! I've had some things said about me, but that's a first."
"Sorry," he said. "I guess that's the last thing a lady wishes to hear. I'm not very tactful, am I? I tell the prettiest woman in the village she's efficient."
She flushed scarlet. "That's a first as well."
He pointed to his collar. "With this on, Rachel, I can speak the truth without fear or favour. You know more about figure-work than you let on."
He moved off to another, group. Rachel remained where she was, dazed and disbelieving., j
Nearby, Owen Cumberbatch had cornered Peggy Winner and was airing a sensational theory. Poor old Stanley Burrows hadn't taken his own life. He was the rector's latest murder victim.
"Owen," Peggy said, "you do come out with the silliest nonsense. They were on the best of terms."
"Until something went wrong," said Owen, never at a loss. "Stanley must have found something out about the previous killings."
"Keep your voice down, for God's sake," she told him. "You're a disgrace, putting this kind of thing about."
"I believe in speaking the truth, however uncomfortable it is," Owen insisted.
"Like your nights out with your old chum Laurence Olivier. What sort of chumps do you think we are, Owen? You chance your arm all the time, just to get attention. We might have believed you the first time, some of us, but there are limits, you know."
"I've no need of attention. I'm pointing out facts that ought to be obvious."
"Facts? A load of apple sauce, and that's putting it politely. If you've got information, take it to the police."
"I might."
"I think you're jealous, just because he's popular with the ladies."
"My dear, I don't need to be jealous of anyone in that department. I've had my moments, and still would, given encouragement. But you put your finger on it when you speak of popularity. He's the golden boy. You've heard that expression 'He could get away with murder'? Well, a certain gentleman has and does, and I'm the only one who sees it, apparently."
The inquest on Stanley Burrows found that he committed suicide. It was confirmed that he died of an overdose of amylobarbitone mixed with whisky. The burglary was thought to have so unhinged him that he took his own life. "I can think of no case that better illustrates that familiar phrase 'while the balance of his mind was disturbed,' " commented the coroner. "Here was a retired man living an orderly life in a quiet village whose peace of mind was cruelly shattered by someone entering his house and stealing his property. Not only his personal property, but ninety-two pounds that belonged to the church. Mr. Burrows was treasurer to the Parish Council and the money had been in his house ready to be taken to the bank. One of his last acts was to make good the loss from his own savings, but clearly he still felt he had let down the church. Whoever was responsible will have this on his conscience. It is a distressing end to a good life."
The only matter unexplained was how the amylobarbitone came into Stanley's possession. His GP stated that he had never prescribed this or any other sedative for Stanley. The drug was not much used these days. "It is not of over-riding importance," the coroner stated. "There is no question that the deceased had taken the drug, or that there was a supply of capsules in the cottage. One was found on the kitchen floor, and the empty whisky bottle was discovered on the table. That is established. We may speculate how he acquired them, allowing that amylobarbitone is rather outmoded. People don't often throw old medicines away when they have no further use for them. Sometimes we have to turn out someone's medicine cabinet after their death. I've done it more than once, and if I wanted some sleeping tablets without going to my doctor to ask for them, I could have kept them. It may be as simple as that. Or, more simple still, they may have been prescribed for Mr. Burrows years ago, when he was under the stress of full-time teaching, before he became a patient of his present doctor. The salient point is that he swallowed the tablets and a generous amount of whisky. As an intelligent man, he would have known it was a deadly combination."
Joy was not called to give evidence. No one knew Stanley had called at the rectory on the evening of his death. And no one knew the rector stocked almost as many varieties of sleeping pill as the average pharmacy. His years of visiting the sick, the dead and the bereaved had given him good opportunities.
The jury returned a verdict of suicide.
On the same evening PC George Mitchell called at the rectory for a game of Scrabble and told Joy how the inquest had turned out. They were having some close matches, and George usually won. He was better at spotting the squares that tripled the points.