On the same September morning Peggy Winner was shopping in Warminster and decided to treat herself to a coffee in Rosie's, a teashop located in a whitewashed cellar below the high street. Peggy had a special affection for the place. Years ago, under different management, it had been Chinn's Celebrated Chophouse, perfect for intimate trysts with the tall Mauritian evening-class teacher she had for conversational French and much more. Alain had long since returned to his own country and surely forgotten all about suppers in Warminster, but Peggy still felt a sense of adventure going down the steps and through the stone passageway, if only for an innocent coffee and scone.
The interior was divided into three. You came first to the cooking area where you could inspect the cakes on offer, and, dipping your head to avoid the beam, progressed to the two rooms where the tables were. Peggy usually went right through to the back where it was quieter.
This morning someone was at the table she thought of as her own. Silly to be like that, only she was. She stared at the young man as if he was something she had trodden in, and then did a double-take. It was Burton Sands, from the village, in his business pinstripe and drinking black coffee. Their eyes met and she couldn't very well sit at another table. Blast him, she thought.
"You don't mind?"
He shrugged and shook his head. She might as well have been a stranger, and it seemed she was to him.
Peggy had enough charm for both of them and decided to help him out. "Funny, two Foxford people meeting down here. I'm Peggy Winner. I decided to reward myself for doing the shopping. It's so snug, isn't it? What's your excuse?"
"I work here."
"What as?"
"I'm a chartered accountant. We have an office over the road, above the newsagents."
"Yes, of course, you were up for treasurer. I'm on the parish council."
"I know," said Sands without animation.
The waitress came for Peggy's order. She asked if the scone could be warmed.
"I feel like a traitor when I use the supermarket instead of the village shop," Peggy said, to be conversational. "I suppose we're all guilty of that, and one of these days we'll lose our shop."
"Why wasn't I chosen?"
He wasn't willing to talk about the village shop. "That's not for me to say," Peggy guardedly said.
"I was better qualified."
"In book-keeping, you mean? True, but there are other considerations."
"Such as?"
The intensity of the young man put Peggy off her stroke. Before she knew it, she was giving him the inside information she had meant to keep to herself. "Mrs. Jansen was the rector's candidate. That has to count for something. After all, he has to work with her."
"She's treasurer to the parish, not to him," Sands pointed out.
"Yes, but in practice …"
"You don't want someone who's in the rector's pocket. You want an independent treasurer."
"I'm sure she isn't in his pocket, as you put it." In his trousers, maybe, Peggy thought in passing. "And I'm confident she'll do the job conscientiously."
Burton Sands took a sip of coffee and flicked his tongue around his lips. "Someone hinted to me that she got the job because the rector fancies her."
Peggy laughed as if she hadn't heard a whisper of the rumour. She believed it, but she had to be discreet. "Even if it was true, which I doubt, it wouldn't be the first time a woman got the job for her good looks. How can anyone tell?"
"He's a man of God. He's not supposed to look at women in that way."
"Oh, come on, Burton," said Peggy impulsively. "Lighten up. Vicars are only human."
"If she was given the job because the rector lusts after her, then it's little short of deplorable."
"You sound like the Old Testament. I didn't say that was why she got the job. Don't put words in my mouth."
"Especially as she's married."
"You'd better watch what you say."
"1 don't mind speaking out if it's the truth."
"But is it?"
He looked into the dark dregs of his coffee as if the answer was there. "I'll find out. When I start on something I always see it through. Always."
She could believe him. He looked obsessive. If by some mischance this man got together with Owen Cumberbatch, the result would be explosive.
He pushed the cup to one side and said, "I'm going back to the office now."
She made some polite and untrue remark about the pleasure of being with him. He didn't reply.
After he'd gone she had some anxious moments going over what she'd said and wondering if he would spread it around. When her coffee and scone were served, she finished them and hardly noticed.
When Gary finally discovered the stain on the carpet and said, "What happened here, for Christ's sake?" Rachel gave him most of the truth, explaining about her new responsibility as treasurer to the PCC and how the rector had wanted to show her the account books and she had felt obliged to offer refreshment in the shape of wine and finger food.
"You what?" he said with a glare. America hadn't mellowed him at all.
"He wanted to go over the figures. You can't do that in ten minutes. I had to offer something and it was a choice of coffee or wine. I decided wine was easier. Coffee's such a performance and you can't serve instant to a guest."
"So you bought a posh Wine and knocked the bottle over. Clumsy cow."
Blocking out the insult, she went into her prepared bit. "That's it. So embarrassing, too. I could have died! Most of the stain has gone as you see. There's just this tidemark at the edge. We can buy a small rug and cover it."
"Not out of my money, we won't."
"Have you got another suggestion?"
"Work some bloody overtime and pay for a new carpet. How come you got lumbered as treasurer anyway, dozy bitch? You're crap with figures-you know you are."
Let it pass, she told herself, though she felt the crude words like a series of body blows. He wants me to react. "I don't do much for the church. It was hard to say no. He took so much trouble when I broke my arm, driving me to hospital and everything."
"Don't do much for the church? You're there every Sunday putting our hard-earned in the plate. Isn't that enough?"
"Most of them do a lot more. The choir, the flower rota, bell-ringing, helping with Sunday school. I've never done any of that."
"You rattle a box for Christian Aid."
"That's nothing. Some people have prayer meetings in their homes every week."
His eyebrows shot up. "Don't even think about it, right?"
She could have mentioned that his jazz friends came and played their music when she was trying to watch the gardening programmes, but she didn't want a row. He was working up to something and he could get violent. She'd been pushed around before; not blows, exactly, but strong, frightening pushes.
He actually started a new conversation. "Speaking of the vicar-"
"Rector."
"His name is Otis Joy, right?"
"So?"
"Bloody stupid name."
"If you say so."
"But memorable. There can't be more than one pillock with a name like that-or so I thought. Now listen to this. There were these Canadians staying in our hotel. Good blokes. Three of them, from Toronto. We had a few Buds with them, got talking, as you do. I don't know how we got around to funny names, but we did. My old doctor, Screech, and that dentist of yours called Root."
"Stumps. His name was Stumps."
"I thought it was Root. Well, I told them it was, and it seemed hilarious when we were half-pissed, as we were. Then one of these Canadians said he once knew a guy called Otis Joy who was training to be a priest. He went through school with him."
She was amazed. "You're kidding."
"Straight up. Otis Joy."
"It can't be our rector. He's not Canadian."
"Didn't say he was. It's just coincidence, the name."