People came by as she worked and she noticed once again how many of them avoided saying anything-when normally at least a friendly "hello" was exchanged. Bereavement had turned her into an untouchable. What did they think-that she would burst into tears?
There were no such inhibitions for Cynthia. "Great idea, darling," she said, parking her bike against the wall. "Go for it, I say. Come and do mine when you've finished."
Rachel straightened up and leaned on her spade. "There's more than enough here to keep me going."
"If you'd like to break off for a cuppa, I'm about to make one."
"I'm in a disgusting state."
"Don't worry. You can leave your wellies outside the door."
Nice to be reminded she still belonged to the human race. To call on Cynthia was to lay yourself open to the third degree, but after the last few days there was little that was not public knowledge already. She hadn't often been inside the thatched cottage at the other end of the street. And she felt the need of company. She went indoors to wash and put on something presentable.
A gas-flame fire was going merrily in Primrose Cottage by the time she'd walked up the street. Cynthia liked the country life on her own convenient terms, so it was her repeated pestering of South West Gas that had persuaded them to lay on a supply for the village. Her cottage was as comfortable as any town house. The thatch was kept tidy with a wire mesh covering and heaven help any wild-life that tried to make a home in it. The mullioned windows were double-glazed. Round the back was a satellite dish for one of the new wide-screen digital TV sets. She hadn't yet succeeded in bringing cable TV to Foxford, but no one put it past her.
She poured tea through a strainer into a porcelain cup. "If that cushion troubles you, toss it out."
Rachel tugged out the cushion awkwardly placed behind her and rearranged it. Embroidered on it was the slogan Good Girls Go to Heaven.
For a while they went over the detail of the funeral. Cynthia now regretted being inside the church because she hadn't seen the street procession. "You caught the march-past and the service. You saw it all, did it all," she told Rachel as if she was talking about a trip to Disneyland. "You were in the march."
"I had no choice."
Cynthia smiled. "True. We couldn't have swapped. I thought the place to be was inside the church, and I boobed. It wasn't. The story of my life. I've sat through funerals before, but I've never seen one of those death marches. Is that what they call them?"
"You must have seen it when we came back."
"Yes, but by then the whole thing was too hyper for my liking. Carnival time. I wanted to see the slow, dignified stuff. Mind you, the service was lovely. Didn't Otis hit the spot?"
"You mean …?"
"That bit about the trumpet sounding on the other side. Gave me goose pimples."
"Brilliant, yes."
Cynthia leaned back in her chair and grinned wickedly. "I could play some good notes on his trumpet, given half a chance."
Rachel didn't find that amusing.
Cynthia continued, "He still has enemies in the village, you know. You wouldn't believe it, but he does."
"Anyone with a fresh approach is going to upset some people. He upset you not long ago."
"I don't remember that."
"You've got a short memory. After the fete, when you didn't get invited back for a cup of tea," Rachel reminded her. "That was a laundry-basket offence, you told me."
The colour flooded into Cynthia's cheeks. "Lawdy! Did I? Well, I think the man is absolutely gorgeous. I could pleasure him at breakfast, lunch and tea, but it's unrequited passion up to now. He doesn't give me any encouragement at all. It's you he fancies."
Now Rachel blushed. "Oh, come on."
"I can see it in the way he looks at you. His eyes follow you long after you've gone by. Now that you're a merry widow, he'll be on the case. Just see if he isn't. Listen, hand me that ruddy cushion. There isn't room in that chair for both of you."
As she passed it across, Rachel read the message on the reverse: Bad Girls Go Anywhere. "You say the daftest things, Cyn."
"Want a bet? Has he been round to comfort you?"
"Of course not."
"He will. It's his job, comforting widows."
"He has more important things to do."
"Nonsense. You're top priority. If I were you, I'd bake some cakes and have a bottle of vino ready. But he won't be round today. I was up early. Saw him drive past about six-thirty. He's taking the day off, I reckon. Generally it's Tuesday when he goes missing, but he had the funeral yesterday, so he took today instead. Where he goes in that old banger of his I couldn't tell you. But we've been over that before, haven't we? He's a man of mystery, our rector."
"He's entitled to some life of his own. Who are these enemies you mentioned? Burton Sands, I suppose?"
"Him, yes. And Owen."
"Owen who?"
"Miss Cumberbatch's brother."
"The fat man? I don't think I've ever spoken to him."
"Well, don't. He spreads the most hair-raising gossip about poor Otis being a serial murderer."
Rachel spilled tea into her saucer. "That's horrible."
"Of course it's horrible and quite impossible, but Owen Witters on about it to anyone daft enough to j listen. He's a prize bullshitter, pardon my French. You mention a place and Owen Cumberbatch has been there. Name some famous person and he knows them personally. No, to be accurate, he usually names them first."
"Why is he spreading lies about the rector?"
"Says he knew him in his previous parish. Where was it? St. Saviour's at Old Mordern."
"Where's that?"
"Near Chippenham, I think."
"What's he got against Otis?"
"Apart from being a serial killer?" Cynthia shook with laughter. "I wouldn't know, darling."
They both laughed, since the notion of Otis killing anyone was so preposterous.
"Next he'll be claiming Otis murdered your Gary."
Rachel caught her breath and felt a spasm through her body. "He'd better not." Her cheeks were burning and her heart pumped harder. To hear it suggested that Gary could have died of anything except natural causes was deeply alarming and had to be dealt with immediately. "Listen, Cynthia. If anyone in this village-Owen or anyone else-spreads a vicious rumour like that, I'll sue them."
"Otis would have to sue him, poppet," Cynthia pointed out. "It wouldn't be you he was defaming."
IN SPITE of aching all over from the gardening, Rachel couldn't get to sleep that night. Cynthia's casual linking of Gary's name with murder had devastated her. Where had the woman got such an idea? There was no reason for any suspicion about the death. Everything was watertight. Gary had been treated for a heart problem only days before he died. The doctor was satisfied, the medical certificate written, the death certificate collected, the curry disposed of, the monkshood eradicated and the corpse buried. She'd given Gary the best funeral anyone ever had in Foxford. She ought to be untouchable.
How infuriating, then, how bloody unfair, if rumours started just through Owen Cumberbatch's malicious gossip. No, get this straight, she thought. Owen hadn't said anything. It was Cynthia anticipating things that might conceivably enter Owen's head. It was Cynthia who had hit the button-good-hearted, ever-cheerful, yappy Cynthia. And this time she wasn't even trying to make mischief. She'd come out mindlessly with the truth-or at least a half-truth. Gary was a victim of murder.
Rumour was so insidious. Mud sticks. If this came to the ears of old Dr. Perkins, he could start thinking back and questioning his diagnosis.
Am I panicking? she thought.
Maybe this was the reaction kicking in, the depression everyone was warning her about. The numbness of the first shock was passing, and she was becoming prey to her own nerves.