After the service, Rachel managed once again to slip out unseen, squeezing behind a couple who were telling Otis about their trip to the Holy Land. She couldn't bear the formality of shaking hands when she really wanted to be hugged and kissed.
She didn't escape Cynthia, who caught her before the lych-gate.
"I saw you giving him the go-by. What is it between you two-have you crossed him off your visiting list?"
"He was talking to the Cartwrights."
"Come off it, darling. You didn't even give a wave as you went by. Listen, if you don't watch out some of us are going to throw our hats in the ring-or something more intimate."
"I'm not stopping you," Rachel said.
"Beg pardon?"
"I said I'm not stopping you. It's a free country."
"Don't be like that. I was only kidding. Are you turning out for the carols?"
"I may give it a miss this year."
"Better not. It's much better if you get back in the swing of things."
She recalled Otis saying much the same thing.
Cynthia was saying, "It's always a fun evening."
"You're going?"
"Out in the dark with Otis? Try and keep me away. You never know who you might bump into."
She warmed to Cynthia's hearty optimism. "All right, I'll come-if only to see how you make out."
"Brill. Let's have tidings of comfort and joy. You can have the comfort…"
There was an overnight peppering of snow and the old Cortina was reluctant to start this morning. Too many short trips on parochial duties: the battery was weak. Otis Joy tried the starter a third time, and got the motor stuttering into action. One day he might get something better than this old runabout. Unlike most men, he'd never taken much interest in cars. He knew of a more exciting way to spend money. Anyway, the long drive to come would recharge the battery nicely. Yours and mine, old friend, he thought.
He cruised out of the rectory gates humming "The holly and the ivy," enjoying being awake at an hour when most people hadn't even thought of getting out of bed. It would be an hour or more before he could turn off the headlamps. So he wasn't aware of the smart blue Renault that followed him out of the village and along the A350 keeping at a distance. It was just a pair of lights in the rear-view mirror.
After his usual treat of a cooked breakfast at the cafe in Blandford Forum and a few more miles of driving in daylight he did notice one blue vehicle steadily fifty yards behind. Nothing to worry about, he decided. On this narrow stretch between Blandford and the coast everyone drove in convoy or risked death.
The further he got towards the coast, the better he felt. The carols got livelier. "God rest ye, merry gentlemen"-what he could remember of the words-kept him going for a while, followed by a quick-tempo version of "I saw three ships come sailing in." This was Tuesday, his own day to spend as he liked-or at least until the carol-singing round the village. He didn't think of what he was doing as an escape, but simply a,precious blank page in his diary, a chance to relax. Happily he had never regarded his church duties as drudgery. They were his purpose in life, uniquely satisfying. But he needed a break once a week doing something else. Six days shalt thou labour and do all thy work.
The blue car remained behind him after the roundabout linking with the A35, and he still didn't attach any importance to it. He couldn't see who the driver was because the sun was up with that silvery light you get in winter and everyone had their sun shields down. So he drove all the way to Hamworthy and his usual spot beside Holes Bay without suspecting anyone had tracked him here. And when a boat man gets to the coast, he doesn't spend time looking around the car park. Cobb's Marina was not so swanky as the Poole Harbour Yacht Club at Salterns, yet some fine boats were berthed here, valued in big bucks, and his own craft was one of the most admired.
A fellow owner greeted him as soon as he opened the car door. "Nice day, Bill."
"A bit fresh, Terry," he responded, reaching behind for his crew cap. He was well known here from his regular visits, but not as the Reverend Otis Joy. To the yachting crowd he was Bill Beggarstaff. If you're going for an assumed name, don't choose Smith or Jones. People are readier to accept you if the name is memorable.
"Not so choppy, though," said Terry. "Thinking of taking her out?"
"I doubt it. I don't have much time today."
"But you'll fit in a beer at lunch?"
"I expect so."
"Not long to Christmas. Are you coming down then?"
"Christmas is a busy time for me."
He gathered a few things from the car and carried them across to the marina and out along the pontoon where the love of his life, his sports cruiser, was moored with the largest boats.
The Revelation was a gleaming white forty-footer, Italian-made, only two years old, in immaculate condition, with radar arch and an echo sounder. In his black quilted blouson, canvas pants and boots, "Bill Beggarstaff" was a familiar figure here each Tuesday keeping his property spruce and seaworthy.
After a check to see that everything was as he'd left it-apart from a few seagull-droppings that he wiped off-he went aboard and below to the saloon. Some heat would be a good idea, and then coffee. He had just switched on the air system when he heard steps above. Someone had come aboard.
He assumed it was Terry. You don't board other people's boats unannounced, but as they'd just had the snatch of conversation it was excusable.
This wasn't Terry. A woman opened the saloon door and came down the steps, bold as the first crocus. Otis had so fully disengaged himself from Foxford that he needed a moment to register who she was.
Cynthia Haydenhall.
His two worlds collided horribly.
The last time he'd spoken to Mrs. Haydenhall was at the harvest supper, when she was all sparkle and cleavage. This morning she was in a striped sweater and jeans but she had the same predatory look.
"Morning, Rector."
He said, "I don't understand."
"Nor me," she said, her big blue eyes swivelling at the luxury of the surroundings. "I wondered how you spent your days off, but I never pictured this."
"Mrs. Haydenhall-"
"Cynthia."
"How did you …?"
"I watched you get out of your car and walk across to the marina. I was certain it was you, so …" She stopped, sighed, and said, "No, I'd better come clean. I followed you from Foxford."
"The blue car?"
"Yes. The Renault. You spotted me, then. It's a damned liberty. Nothing can excuse it."
"You got up early, specially to follow me?"
"Absolutely. May I sit down?" She sank onto one of the shaped leather cushions. "I don't want you thinking I'm a stalker, Otis. Being furtive isn't my style at all. My curiosity got the better of me, so I thought what the hell, I'll trail him all the way and find out where he goes each Tuesday. And now that I know, I can't creep away without even saying hello."
Otis didn't give a toss for the social niceties. He was livid with himself for being so careless. Too angry even to plan his next move. "Coffee?"
She flashed a wide, gratified smile. "Please. I had to sit in my car and wait when you stopped for breakfast in Blandford."
Trying to keep his fury in check, he stepped into the galley, switched on the kettle and spooned coffee into two mugs. "And is the curiosity satisfied now?" He sounded calm, even though he had this electric storm in his head.
"Not yet, if you want the truth," said Cynthia candidly. "If you don't mind me asking, do you own this?"
"She's mine, yes."
"Must have cost a bomb."
"All my savings and a bit more."
"Wow!"