"And you seriously think he kills people when they find out about his embezzlement?"
"Without a doubt, dear boy."
Burton hesitated on the brink of the chasm of evil that had just opened up. "I heard a rumour that prior to Bishop Marcus's death, he was investigating Joy."
Up to this moment Owen hadn't made any connection between Otis Joy and the death of the bishop. However, no one was his equal at claiming other people's gossip as his own. "Spot on. I heard it, too. And you wonder if he had anything to do with the bishop's death? You bet your life he did."
"It isn't far from here, that quarry," Burton said, more to himself than Owen.
Owen was thinking fast. "Easy enough to dress it up as a suicide."
Burton was appalled. In a wicked, wicked world, surely this was beyond all.
He left the pub soon after with eyes as wide as a bushbaby's.
Twenty minutes later, Owen got off the stool and collected his coat and Russian fur hat-the last relic, he liked to tell people, of his days as an undercover servant of the Queen-without noticing PC George Mitchell leave his place by the fire and fol- low him out. The first he was aware of it was a firm grip on his upper arm outside the pub door.
"A quiet word, Owen."
"Here?" Owen's face was turning strange colours in the lights of the Christmas tree.
"I'll walk with you."
They started along the road.
"Normally I don't take much notice of things said in pubs," Mitchell told him, "but you went overboard in there tonight. It was close to slander."
"Slander?" said Owen. "Not me? I'm a truth-teller, through and through."
"You know who I am?"
"I do, indeed."
"With me, you'd better stick to facts."
"I intend to."
"What is it about the rector, then? What were you getting at?"
Owen was less fluent at this point of the evening. "The rector? You mean…? What do you mean?"
"You were saying the jazz at Gary Jansen's funeral was his doing."
"In a way, in a way," Owen hedged.
"As if he had some ulterior motive."
"Did I?"
"You talked about a modus operandi."
"Well, yes."
"As if he was up to something criminal."
"I can't prove anything."
"You made it up, because you don't like the man."
"No, no. I wouldn't do that."
"So you do know something."
"Things I pick up here and there, that's all."
"Such as?"
Owen sighed heavily. There was no pleasure in giving up his scant information this way. "Well, I knew him before, in his former parish. No one can deny that wherever Otis Joy goes, sudden deaths take place. His young wife. The sexton. He comes here and what happens? The church treasurer drops dead."
"People die unexpectedly every day," said George.
"Yes, but they aren't all closely connected with one man. Then Gary Jansen goes."
"You can't link Gary Jansen with these others. He didn't even go to church."
"His widow does. She's the new treasurer."
George hesitated, weighing what had just been said. "What are you saying? That it has to do with money?"
"I don't honestly know. All I can tell you is that I saw Gary Jansen on the day he died talking to the rector outside the village shop and it didn't look to me as if they were on about the weather, or the state of the world. Serious things were being said."
"By Gary?"
"Oh, yes. He was doing most of the talking. And the rector didn't like what he was hearing."
"Is that it?" said George. "That's your case against the rector? You saw him talking to Jansen?"
"On the day he died," Owen repeated.
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning they weren't unknown to each other, those two, just because Gary wasn't a church-goer. Gary said something that got up Joy's nose. I don't know what it was. But just suppose he found out a couple of things about Joy's past. Wouldn't Joy want him out of the way, and quickly?"
"Owen, this is a crock of shit."
"Do you mind?"
George stopped and grabbed Owen's coat-front and pulled him almost nose to nose. "And if you go on repeating it, people are going to get stroppy with you and I'm not going to guarantee your safety. Do you follow me? So cut the crap."
Rachel made scones for Otis and the whole cottage filled with the smell of baking. She was sure from her visit to the rectory kitchen that he was no cook himself. The shelves had looked bare except for tins and cereal packets. No doubt he lived on convenience foods. Impressing a man with her cooking might not do much for her feminist credentials, but she was sure she could make a real difference to his quality of life. She wondered if his wife-the one who had died so tragically-had been a good cook. It wasn't certain. The French make a big deal of their culinary skills, but they often go out to eat.
The right way was to be subtle about it. Let the scones make their own suggestion.
He arrived on time, buoyant as usual, saying it was a peach of a day for the time of year. Rachel thought he was overplaying the heartiness a bit, probably to gloss over (what happened the last time he came. To avoid more embarrassment on the sofa, she asked if he minded coffee in the kitchen, and he was in there like a terrier scenting rabbit.
They faced each other across the kitchen table, formal as privy councillors. "We agreed instant coffee," he reminded her as she reached for the cafetiere.
"That was a joke."
"I'm glad to hear it."
"You secretly wanted real coffee?"
"No, I mean if you can joke at a time like this, you're winning. Here's one you may not have heard: the first pair ate the first apple. Geddit?"
She managed a smile, but she didn't want this to be a laugh- in. She said straight out, "There wasn't any love between Gary and me. I'd be lying if I said there was."
He shifted awkwardly on his chair.
She had to say more now she had started. "You must have realised. But it's still a shock, becoming a widow, I mean. Well, you understand. You lost your wife suddenly, didn't you?"
He looked even more uncomfortable. He was bound to respond seriously. "It wasn't so much the way I felt in myself. There was grief, but I could handle that. It was the reaction of other people-like you told me on the phone. They cut you. They don't know what to say, most of them, so they stay clear."
She nodded. "You feel as if you've got the plague."
"It doesn't last long. Do the things you normally would and they'll be more relaxed with you. Christmas is coming up. Make a point of joining in things, the carol concert, the midnight service. Parties, if you want."
"So soon?"
"We've left the Victorian age behind. I mean, you don't have to overdo it. I wouldn't walk around waving a sprig of mistletoe."
"Not this Christmas," she said.
She hoped for a positive response. Certainly his eyes opened wider. Too wide. He looked startled. Otis Joy was shockable.
"These are great," he said, holding up a piece of scone, but Rachel wasn't to be sidetracked. She was more in control than when he last came here. Disposing of Gary had strengthened her.
"It must have been different for you, losing your wife."
He looked away. All too obviously, he didn't like talking about his wife. "How do you mean?"
"I expect you were very close. Gary and I weren't. You know how he went off to America for three weeks."
He seized the chance to talk about Gary. "It was important to him, wasn't it-the jazz? Chance of a lifetime?"
"And I thought I was going to share it with him," Rachel said, "but it turned out to be a guys-only trip. Actually I realised while he was away that I was happier without him around."