"A certain amount of water is necessary. You'll see them drinking at puddles in the spring. They carry the water back to the hive. But the sort of rain we get most summers isn't helpful."
"What happens in the winter? Do you leave some honey in the hives?"
"Certainly. They need it now. All through the winter they cluster on the combs inside the hive and live off their reserves."
"Sometimes if it's sunny in the winter, you see bees outside."
"They go out for a shit."
Burton gave him a long look. He'd been caught before by people taking advantage of his willingness to believe every statement.
"Call of nature, if you want it in polite language," Neary explained in all seriousness. "They don't like soiling the hive."
"You seem to know a lot about it."
"You have to, or you lose them."
"Any chance of seeing inside one of your hives?"
"No chance," said Neary. "Nothing personal, but you don't disturb them in the winter months. Are you thinking of taking it up?"
"Just interested," said Burton. "Do you get stung much?"
"You get a few when you start. Bees aren't usually aggressive unless you do something to upset them."
"You wear protective clothing?"
"Of course. And you have a smoke gun. It keeps them off you. They get a whiff of that and they panic a bit and eat their fill from the honey cells in the hive. Then they're docile."
"Some people are allergic to bee-stings," said Burton.
Neary said with caution, "True."
"It can be fatal."
"In rare cases. Fortunately, I'm not one of them. Beekeepers become immune after a while."
"It's called anaphylactic shock," Burton persisted doggedly with this rather negative line on beekeeping. "The air passages get constricted. The throat tightens. A single sting in the region of the throat can cause suffocation and unconsciousness in just a few minutes. I've been reading about it."
Neary went back to hosing the car again. Sooner or later people who talked to him about bees always got around to their nuisance value.
"People who know they're in danger from bee-stings keep anti-histamine ready just in case," Burton added.
"For God's sake. It's about a one in a million chance," Neary pointed out. "Bees don't attack people for no reason at all."
"I understand that," said Burton, following him around the car as he worked, without realising the risk he was exposed to from the hose. "But just suppose an evil-minded person wanted to kill someone else-someone they knew was allergic to bee-stings. Is there any way they could arrange for a bee to attack someone?"
"Arrange it?"
"Yes."
"Murder them, you mean? You're talking a load of cobblers, Burton."
"It's unlikely, I know, but could it be done?"
"No way. Bees have their own agenda. They don't sting to order."
Burton wasn't satisfied. "Suppose you trapped some inside a house. In a room-a bathroom, for instance-and this person with the allergy went in there to take a shower."
"Trapped bees wouldn't stay around the shower. They'd fly to the window. Why are you asking this?"
"Doesn't matter."
"It's a non-starter. If you're aiming to do away with someone, choose a more reliable weapon than a honey bee."
"I'm not aiming to do anything so wicked," said Burton in an offended tone. "It isn't me."
"Well, it wouldn't work anyway. Even if a bee was trapped, it would be trying to get away and someone with an allergy isn't going to go anywhere near it."
Still he persisted. "You can't think of any way it could be done?"
"1 told you, no." John Neary was firm. Even if he could come up with some freakish theory, he didn't want bees getting a bad name in Foxford.
Burton reluctantly gave up. "I'll see you at that confirmation rehearsal, then." He moved off, unsatisfied, frowning.
Rachel, too, was far from satisfied. Her "comfort" from Otis had not amounted to as much as she had hoped. His latest visit had disappointed her. The freshly baked scones hadn't worked any charm at all. It was too soon after Gary's death to expect a proposal of marriage, she kept telling herself, but she felt entitled to some show of affection behind closed doors. He'd only looked like relaxing when he got up to leave. And he'd made no arrangement to call again. She hadn't asked if he would. That would have been too humiliating.
Besides, he would need to see her from time to time about the accounts. And that was odd. He'd told her his aim would be to trouble her as little as possible. He had used his contingency fund to bank the surplus from the harvest supper and he could deal with various other amounts that were coming in.
Was it his reputation as a man of God that bothered him? Maybe. She had to keep reminding herself that priests can't behave like other men. There would be turmoil going on in his mind, the tug of loyalties between his faith and his animal passion. God, she hoped animal passion would win, and soon.
She wasn't helped by a visit later in the day from Cynthia, keen to know exactly what had happened. Cyn started on the uneaten scones as if she meant to clear the plate, whilst debriefing her with the thoroughness of a spymaster. "You're not telling me you didn't cry on his shoulder and get a cuddle? How did you pass the time, then? Not saying prayers, I bet."
"We drank coffee and talked about the way people find it difficult to approach a widow. It was all terribly serious."
"And totally boring, by the sound of it. What's bugging Otis? He fancies you something rotten, I know he does."
"Come off it, Cyn."
"If it didn't sound vulgar, I'd say it stands out."
Rachel sighed and tried to smile.
"It doesn't? You don't think so?" said Cynthia in disbelief.
"He's a clergyman."
"That doesn't make him frigid."
"He still behaved like a clergyman."
Cynthia paused, and flicked back some hair from her face. "Well, if he doesn't go for you, I'm revising my game-plan."
"What do you mean?"
"I was sure I didn't stand a snowball's, but I may think again now. We got on quite well at the harvest supper." She widened her eyes, watching Rachel for her reaction. "I'd say we clicked, actually. Has he ever said anything to you about me?"
"Not that I remember."
Cynthia looked away from Rachel, making calculations. "It must be getting on for two years since his wife died. He ought to be up for it by now. Someone's going to land him, so why not me ?"
Cynthia, riding roughshod as usual, with no regard for anyone's feelings.
"It's up to you," said Rachel, feigning indifference. She didn't seriously rate Cynthia as a rival.
"There isn't anyone else, is there?" Cynthia said. "I'd like to know where he goes on his day off. Do you think it's a woman?"
"Your mind, Cynthia! I keep telling you he's a clergyman."
She put out her tongue and blew a loud raspberry. "First and foremost, he's a bloke, ducky."
"Well, I don't think he'd behave like that." Not with anyone except me, Rachel thought privately, and not with me, yet awhile, she thought bleakly.
"Some people say he's not above a bit of sinning. And I mean worse things than a bit of parallel parking," Cynthia pointed out. "They say he's a serial murderer."
"Stupid. Owen Cumberbatch is a disgrace, spreading stories like that."
"Remember I told you it wouldn't be long before he accused Otis of having something to do with Gary's death? Well, it happened. He was dropping hints about it in the pub last week. More than hints, I'm told. He was saying your New Orleans-style funeral-not your funeral, Rach, know what I mean? — was put on to divert attention from what really happened."
Rachel's cheeks burned. She wanted to stop this dangerous talk, but she didn't know how.
Instead, Cynthia trundled on like a ten-ton tank. "The way it was done was typical Otis Joy, according to Owen. His modus operandi-did I say that right?"