"Not enough," said Burton tartly. "You've got to manage these things on a businesslike footing. Who's your treasurer?"
"Old Mr. Vincent. Perhaps that's the trouble," she said thoughtfully. "He's been in the job for years and years. He's nearly ninety now."
"Is he competent to do the job at that age?"
"It's not for me to say."
"Someone ought to ask the question. You'd better mention it to your husband if he's on the PCC." Burton was working himself up to quite a lather of indignation, reminded painfully of his own grievance. "That's half the trouble with the modern church, well-meaning people doing jobs incompetently, and everyone too well-behaved to speak out. What did you say your name is;? "
"I didn't say it." The flower-arranging lady wished she had never started this.
"Well, whoever you are, madam, I tell you this: it's up to the lay people like you and me to ask questions and blow whistles if necessary, or the clergy get away with murder."
She nodded, doing her best to humour him. She had not seen such intensity in a young man before.
Fifteen
Rachel took a phone call from Otis one Thursday morning in November. He asked how she was.
Heart pumping at the sound of his voice, she said with all the calm she could dredge up, "So, so. I'm trying to get on with things. No sense in feeling sorry for myself." As she spoke, she was thinking but I wouldn't mind some sympathy from you.
"I'm sure you're right. Are people helping out?"
"Some are."
He was quick to say, "Some aren't, you mean?"
"Some find me scary now."
"Scary?"
"I've been touched by death. It's some primitive fear that I'll spread the bad luck to them."
"It can't be that, Rachel. They're stuck for the right words, that's all. Hang in there. They'll lighten up."
Hang in there. She smiled at the phrase, from a clergyman. Shouldn't he have been telling her about the patience of Job?
He told her, "I was about to invite myself for coffee and a chat. How are you placed?"
How was she placed? Over the moon, now. "Come whenever you like."
"Tomorrow morning?"
Twenty-four hours away. She had an urge to say, "Why not now?" but she stopped herself. No doubt he had his day filled with choir practice and hospital visits and ecumenical meetings.
He was saying, "A simple cup of instant, right? That's what I drink all the time. I don't want you going to any trouble."
She managed to sound casual and light-hearted. "All right. Instant, in a chipped mug."
"And not so much as a digestive biscuit."
The first sign of the festive season, winking lights on the fir tree outside the Foxford Arms at the end of November, was not widely welcomed. It came too soon for most villagers. The shops and streets of Frome and Warminster had been decorated since the beginning of the month; out here, people liked to believe they didn't need to rush things.
"It's all about the cash register," Owen Cumberbatch said in the bar, where he held forth nightly. "Pack the customers in at all costs."
"No, it isn't, not here it isn't," insisted the publican, Joe Jackson. "It's no busier here tonight than any other day. It's about bringing a little joy into the village. Lord knows, we've had an unhappy few months, what with poor old Stanley passing on, and then that fellow Gary Jansen. Let's try and cheer ourselves up."
A voice from the outer reaches called out, "Well said, Joe."
"Did I hear you say drinks on the house, dear boy?" said Owen.
"No, you didn't. I've got a living to make like everyone else. You'll get your glass of punch on the carol-singing evening, if you go round the village with the choir, that is."
"When's that?"
Sometimes people forgot how recent an arrival Owen was. He seemed to have been telling his stories for ever.
"About ten days before Christmas. They go round the houses collecting money for the Church."
"And mince pies," added PC George Mitchell from his seat by the fire, "and the odd glass of something warm. It's a good evening."
"You can count on me, then," said Owen. "I've sung with the best."
"The Three Tenors?"
Owen disregarded that. "My good friend Sir Geraint Evans wanted me to go professional, but I had other plans at the time. I can still hit top C when I want to."
"We don't want any of that. You'll frighten the livestock," said Joe Jackson. "You'll be better off carrying one of the lanterns."
The friend of the famous found it difficult to comprehend why people failed to warm to him in this village. He shifted the focus of the discussion. "I expect OJ joins the carol-singers?"
"OJ?"
"The rector."
At one of the three tables grandiosely called the dining area, Burton Sands paused over the microwaved steak pie he was quietly consuming. Burton's week had been thrown into disarray by his visit to Old Mordern. He'd come to the pub because he hadn't been shopping for food. At the mention of the rector he put down his knife and fork and leaned back in his chair so as not to miss a word.
"Wouldn't surprise me if he turns it into another jam session," Owen went on.
"Get away!" said someone.
"He's not one to be troubled by tradition. You've seen it for yourself. Anyone who can turn a funeral into the Twelfth Street Rag isn't going to think twice about trampling on people's feelings."
"That wasn't his doing," said George Mitchell. "That was the widow wanted that."
"Bollocks, dear boy. She'd never have thought of that in her state of grief. Typical Otis Joy, that was."
"What do you know about it?"
The buzz of conversation around the bar stopped suddenly, enabling Burton Sands to overhear every scrap of gossip about the rector.
Owen Cumberbatch claimed smugly, "I happen to know the way the man works, his modus operandi. He's a master of deception. If you or I had something dodgy to cover up, we'd do it quietly when no one was around. Not that fellow. He does it with a bloody fanfare. Everyone cheers and says what a great bloke he is. Showmanship, dear boy."
"What's he got to hide?" said Joe Jackson.
"There you go," said Owen, snapping his fingers. "You're blind, you lot. I knew a fellow once-a very good friend of mine-called Borra. He was the world's greatest pickpocket. This was in my circus days."
"Here we go," some voice said from the dark.
"When I was no more than a lad," Owen went on, unfazed. "Borra was doing it legitimately, as an act. He'd invite several of the audience into the ring and sit them on chairs in full view, under the spotlights, and riot only empty their pockets, but remove ties, wristwatches, braces, even, arid the poor suckers wouldn't feel a thing, wouldn't know it had been done. That's what OJ is doing to you lot, and you're the mugs who can't see it, because he distracts you with all the razzmatazz."
"What's he up to?"
Owen spread his hands and smiled.
"Come on," said Jackson. "We're waiting to hear."
Over in the dining area, Burton Sands was so eager to hear that he'd abandoned his pie and turned right round in his chair.
Owen shook his head and picked up his drink. "There's none so blind as those that will not see."
It was out of character, but he refused to say any more. Normal conversation was restored.
Presently, Burton Sands materialised at Owen's elbow and offered him a drink, a fateful moment, this coming together of bombast and calculation, for Owen was happy to say in private what he'd been unwilling to tell the whole pub. Mostly, Burton listened, trying not to betray his amazement at the litany of wickedness Owen was only too happy to repeat for him. Not merely fiddling the funds, not just philandering with the ladies of the parish, but murder, serial murder. Burton's festering suspicions of Otis Joy were justified, according to this man. His head reeled. A clergyman who killed his own wife, a sexton, a PCC treasurer, and maybe others?