Peggy would have none of it. "He's a man of God, Owen. They don't go in for murder."
"Plenty of it in the Bible, dear," said Owen.
Rachel wished someone would murder Owen.
They moved on steadily through their repertoire, stopping at all the traditional points, and still the rector hadn't joined them. Almost two hours after the start they ended up at the Foxford Arms.
"He's probably sitting inside with a smile on his face," said Peggy.
"He'll owe us a drink if he is," said Norman Gregor.
But he was not in the pub. Unkind things might have been said at this end of the evening if Joe Jackson had not been standing just inside the door behind a steaming punchbowl. Normally a solemn figure, he was wearing reindeer horns and an apron made to look as if he was wearing a corset. He ladled generous glasses for everyone except the children, who were given their own non-alcoholic concoction. And there were more mince pies that most people passed by.
The singing started up again. Not carols. "Nellie Dean," because everyone knew the words. Then Joe Jackson, who had a good bass voice and hadn't used it singing carols, gave them an old gallows song, "Salisbury Plain," followed by "Barbara Allen," the ballad of the fair maid who ignored the man who died of love for her, and then, full of remorse, died herself.
"Lovely tunes, but such morbid songs," said Peggy Winner. "Can't you give us something more cheerful? Rachel's slipped off home already. I'm sure it was the singing put her off."
Joe said in a huff, "If it's something cheerful you want, ask George for 'The Laughing Policeman.' "
Sarcasm often misses the mark. Peggy took Joe at his word. "Would you, George?"
George Mitchell pretended to need persuading, but everyone knew that once asked he would get up and give his party piece. Nobody minded that he wasn't much of a singer. It was a treat to hear the law making an ass of itself.
It wasn't Joe Jackson's choice of songs that drove Rachel away. She'd left feeling strangely dissatisfied because the evening had lacked the two people who had urged her to join in. She was mystified why Cynthia hadn't turned out, and decided to call on her before it got too late. But when she got to Primrose Cottage the place was in darkness. Cynthia couldn't have gone to bed ill because the bedroom curtains weren't drawn. Odd. The silly woman had been so gung-ho and joky about going around in the dark with Otis Joy. What could have cropped up that was more of an attraction?
Feeling let down, she returned up the street to her own cottage.
Just before reaching the village shop she was dazzled by headlights. She stepped aside in case the driver hadn't seen her. The car was coming at a speed that was downright dangerous at night in a village. She thought it was going straight through, but the brakes screeched and it came to a halt outside the pub. A male figure got out and went inside as if desperate for a drink before the place closed. He need not have hurried. On the carol-singing night the Foxford Arms always remained open long after the official closing time.
When she got closer she saw that the car was Otis's Cortina. So he'd only just got back.
Curious as she was to know where he'd been, she didn't go back into the pub.
She would have heard Otis Joy telling the carollers, "I don't know how to face you all. I let you down badly. One of those things you can't possibly predict. A woman dropped dead in front of me. You can't walk away from that, can you, whoever you are? And if you happen to be a minister of the church, well… It was very sudden. Mercifully she didn't know much about it, poor soul, but the sight of her could have been upsetting for others. You do what you can to cope with an emergency like that, and of course it takes longer than you can spare. And I wasn't near a phone. I suppose I ought to get one of those mobiles, and you can bet if I do I won't find another occasion to use it. Anyway, I do apologise to you all. How did it go?"
They told him the singing had been well received and people had been generous all round the village. Geoff Elliott had just counted the money and bagged it up-over two hundred pounds.
"I'd like to put in a fiver myself," said Otis at once. "Where's Geoff?"
Elliott waved from across the room. Otis went over, produced a five pound note and offered to take care of the money overnight. "I don't see our treasurer here."
"Rachel? She left earlier. She was with us for the carols."
"Good. I'm glad she's getting involved in village life again."
He left soon after, cashbags in hand. It had been a harrowing day, he said, and he was due at the school to take class six for scripture in the morning.
The story of the woman who had dropped dead put a premature end to the singsong. It would have been insensitive to start again. Many of the carol party were getting, up to leave, among them PC George Mitchell. I s "So when can we talk?" Burton Sands pressed him.
"What about?" said George as if he hadn't heard Burton's earlier approach.
"You know …" Burton's eyes shifted to the door. The rector was outside starting his car.
George said slowly, spacing his words, "If it's anything more than tittle-tattle, come and see me at the station tomorrow. If not, I suggest you forget about the whole thing."
Burton reddened and reached for his coat.
Before daylight Rachel took a walk to the other end of the village and saw that Cynthia's curtains were still pulled back as if she hadn't slept there. No lights showed in Primrose Cot- tage. The morning paper had been delivered and was half sticking out of the letterbox.
She went back and tried phoning. Cynthia's voice on the answerphone told her to wait for the signal and then leave a message.
"It's not like her to go off without telling anyone," she said later in the shop.
"Some family crisis, I expect," said Davy Todd in his unflustered way. When the Day of Judgement arrived, Davy would still open the shop and put out the newspapers.
"She could have gone away for Christmas," said the girl who helped in the mornings.
"She'd have cancelled the papers," Davy pointed out. "She's very well organised, is Mrs. Haydenhall. I reckon she'll be back some time today. We thought the rector was missing yesterday, and he came back."
Quick to follow up, Rachel asked what explanation Otis had given and was told about the woman dropping dead and throwing his plans into confusion. It was such an original excuse that it had to be true.
"Did he say where this happened?"
"No one asked him," said Davy. "So we still don't know where he goes on Tuesdays. He's entitled to some privacy, I say, same as the rest of us."
"Of course," said Rachel.
Her concern about Cynthia increased after hearing about the woman who dropped dead. Suppose she'd collapsed in the house and nobody knew. Poor Stanley Burrows had lain dead in his cottage for at least two days before anyone thought to look inside.
"Burton," said George Mitchell after listening impassively to the list of appalling crimes laid at the door of the rectory, "this is not respectful."
He was with Burton Sands in one of the interview rooms at Warminster Police Station. Sometimes people called at George's cottage in Foxford to report things, but this was the official place, and Burton was determined to do things by the book.
"He's not entitled to respect if he did these things," the dour young man insisted.