"A fine man, too," said the flower-arranger. "He had charisma in abundance. Like that President Kennedy."
Another notorious womaniser, thought Burton. Was that significant? "I happened to notice the name Joy outside on one of the headstones."
"That would be his wife's grave, poor soul. She was French, a charming young lady with a kind word for everyone, and always beautifully turned out."
"What happened?"
"It was dreadful. One of those chance events that bring tragedy when you least expect it. She was stung by a bee."
"And it killed her?"
"Very quickly. Some people are allergic to bee-stings, apparently, and she was one of them. The rector found her dead in the shower. When they did the post mortem they found this bee-sting. The pathologist said a bee must have got into the shower-compartment and been trapped somehow and attacked Mrs. Joy when she stepped inside."
"Strange."
"Not really. You see, there was a lavender hedge all round the rectory, close to the walls, and the bees are really drawn to lavender, if you've ever noticed. They come to it in hundreds on a sunny day. It was hot and the shower room window was open. A combination of things."
"Why would a bee go in the shower?" said Burton, deeply suspicious.
"I don't know. Perhaps she had some scented soap in there."
"I never heard of bees being interested in soap."
"Lavender soap."
"When did this thing happen?"
"Shortly before Otis moved away. We were sorry to see him go, but we all said it was a good thing he went. Too many unhappy associations in that vicarage for him."
"Yes, it's understandable." Burton made a huge effort to sound sympathetic.
"The Church of England put in another shower for the new vicar. There was nothing wrong with the old one, but they changed it, just the same."
"Very considerate."
"Speaking for myself," she said, "I wouldn't take a shower there now, knowing what happened. Showers frighten me, anyway, ever since I saw that Hitchcock film. Oh, what was it called?"
"Why would you take a shower in the vicarage?"
She frowned, thrown by his way of taking every statement literally. "I'm not speaking personally. I don't visit there. I was just putting myself in the position of the new vicar or his wife."
"You said it happened shortly before he left. Was he due to leave anyway?"
"No, he could have stayed on for years. We liked him. It was his wife's death that caused him to ask the Church for a move. The people here did their best to help him through the bereavement, cooking for him, and so forth, but it's difficult."
"Why?
"I mean for ladies wanting to help out. Tongues wag, you know."
"Why?" asked Burton, interested.
"If you're seen calling top often at the vicarage."
"What do you mean?"
"It's obvious, isn't it? The young, good-lopking vicar suddenly alone in the world. There's always the suspicion that someone who bakes him a pie has an ulterior motive,"
"Flirting?"
"Or something like it."
"Was Otis Joy a flirt?"
She looked uncomfortable with the word. "I'm sure he wasn't. He was always open-hearted and outgoing and ready with a joke and that could be mistaken for encouragement, 1 suppose. But no, he never overstepped the mark, and I'm sure it never crossed his mind. Certain women hover around vicars, buttering them up, always have and always will."
"Even married vicars?"
"You must have seen it going on. It means nothing usually."
This was becoming frustrating for Burton Sands. He said with some impatience, "Is he a ladies' man, or isn't he? You said he was charismatic, like Kennedy."
"Oh I see." She blushed. "No, I didn't mean anything like that."
This was not so productive as he had hoped. "What did you mean, then? Good-looking?"
"I meant charming and friendly, but that doesn't imply that he misbehaved. I never heard a whisper of anything like that."
"But if women found him attractive …"
"I can't answer for other women." She blushed deeply. "This is becoming rather distasteful."
"It's not meant to be."
She went back to her flower-arranging. "I don't like talking this way about the poor man. It's unfair. He moved to another parish after his wife died and I hope he's happy there. I really do."
If her little speech was meant to draw a line under the conversation, it failed. Doggedly, Burton pressed his case. "Let's suppose he found someone else. You wouldn't mind?"
"That's his business entirely. He's still young. Why shouldn't he marry again in time? I think a vicar should have a wife supporting him if possible."
"Some don't," said Burton. He moved towards the altar, his hand curving over the padding on the communion rail. "This wants replacing."
"So does everything else if you look closely," she said, pleased to change the subject. "Unfortunately the funds won't run to it. We're rather a poor parish."
"I can't think why. You said it was well-supported when the Reverend Joy was here."
"Yes, but the upkeep is too much for a small community like ours. We never had any left over for jobs like that, and we lost our sexton, Mr. Skidmore. He was very good at keeping the church in good order."
"Lost him?"
"Quite literally. It's a mystery. He disappeared one day and nothing has been heard of him since."
Burton felt a prickling of excitement. "When did this happen?"
"About two years ago."
"In the Reverend Joy's time?"
"It was. He was a crusty old character, Fred, a bit sharp with visitors. He dug the graves and polished the communion vessels and cut the grass and brushed the path. He's officially a missing person, but most of us think he must be dead. He had no life outside the village. His cottage is still just as he left it, boarded up now. I suppose they'll do something about it in time."
"How does someone disappear?" said Burton.
"That's the mystery. Time goes on, and no one does anything about it. They ought to look in the reservoir, in my opinion. He could have drowned."
"He'd come to the surface."
"Well, I can't think where else he could be. Perhaps his mind went, and he wandered off. He was a bit strange at times."
"You won't be paying his wages any more," Burton pointed out. "You could get someone else."
"I don't think we could afford it any more. I know, because my husband is on the PCC. We had such a shortfall-is that the word? — that the bishop took a personal interest in our finances earlier this year."
"Really? The bishop?"
"Bishop Marcus."
"The one who died in the quarry."
"You heard about that?"
"He was our bishop, too." Burton was silent for a moment, digesting all the information he'd learned. "So the bishop asked to see the books?"
"He came here personally and made copies of everything. We were hoping it would lead to a reduction in our quota, but we haven't heard anything. I don't suppose we will now."
"I can't think why you're short of funds," said Burton, thinking professionally now. "Otis Joy was a popular vicar, you said? He must have had good congregations."
"The best I can remember."
"Then the collections must have been healthy enough. That's your regular source of income."
"1 suppose it's just that people aren't particularly generous here."
"You ought to have a fabric fund."
"I wouldn't know about that."
"I'm an accountant. I can tell you, you ought to have a fabric fund. By that, I don't mean curtains and things. I mean a fund for upkeep of the building generally."
"Quite a lot is done by volunteers," she said.