There was a chorus of answers, some of them correct.
Otis raised his thumbs. "Right. Santa Claus. Or Saint Nicholas, to say it in full. Saint Nicholas was a very kind bishop who lived an awfully long time ago, and we are told he was one of the wise members of the Council of Nicaea who met to write down what Christians believe. There was a man called Arius who was trying to put about some ideas that were wrong, and the story goes that Bishop Nicholas socked him on the jaw. I don't know if that's true, but I do know that Nicholas helped to write the Creed that we said this morning. Who can tell me the first words of the Creed?"
The Sunday school teachers must have done a good job because "I believe in God the Father" was clearly audible in the mix of replies.
"Yes, and the Creed is still used by Christians everywhere, and not just in the Church of England. So whether you are Protestant, Roman Catholic or pastern Orthodox, you speak the words that Santa Claus approved each time you come to church. That's a good enough reason to believe in him, isn't it? Because he was so wise and generous, he became the children's saint, your special saint, and it is an ancient custom in some countries for someone to dress up as a bishop, as Santa Claus, around Christmas time, and give small presents to good children. It's the custom we adopted, and long may it continue. Happy Christmas, Santa. Happy Christmas to you all."
At the end, Rachel waited in her pew and was the last to leave except for Geoff Elliott, who was right out of earshot, collecting hymnbooks from the lady chapel. Otis smiled when she reached him. "Glad you came," he said.
She smiled. "So am I.I loved the sermon."
He looked thoughtful. "When I was a little kid in the children's home, we had a visit each Christmas from a guy dressed up as St. Nick. He wore a mitre and a false beard and carried a crook and each of us was given a present that we had to share with the others. I got the same thing two years' running, Bible Stories for Little Folk. Didn't matter, because we had to give them in at the end of the day to be used in the reading class."
"Not much of a Christmas."
"The nuns enjoyed it. A noggin with old Nick. How are you spending today? Quietly?"
She nodded.
"Alone, I mean?"
"Yes."
"Then you won't mind if I call about tea-time?"
Elated, she said, "I'd love to see you. Come earlier if you can."
"I have some other visits to make. People who've had a rough time of late. Some of the old folk. The kids in hospital. I guess I'll be with you about four-thirty to five."
"Poor you."
"Not poor at all," he said. "This is the best day of the year. I'm privileged." And he obviously meant it.
"Will you get a Christmas lunch?"
"Lunches all the way if I could eat them." He held up his hands. "No, Rachel. I know my limits."
Every pulse in her body pounding, she moved on air all the way back to the cottage, planning what she would cook, wear, do with her hair. She had come alive again and Otis was forgiven for being so distant in recent days. The remark about the treasurer's hat must have been just a blind in case people overheard. He'd chosen to see her, of all the people in the parish, on this of all days. Ah, the transforming magic of Christmas!
The time went amazingly fast. So much had to be packed in: tidying up, dusting, lighting a wood fire, showering, shampooing, ironing her silk top, dressing, defrosting cakes, adjusting the lighting, rearranging the Christmas decorations, choosing the right CDs, putting away the photos of her mother and father. There it was-four-thirty-and she was just about ready in her black leather pants and crimson top, with her hair loose and the lights winking on the little Christmas tree and the fire glowing nicely.
It was closer to five-fifteen when he came, still in his clerical shirt and dark suit. "My," he said when he saw her. "I should have changed."
She'd been over her first words many times. "I expect you're awash with tea so I thought you'd go for a small scotch."
He showed how small, with his thumb and forefinger almost touching.
"I'm not going to force any food on you, but there's blackcurrant mousse or raspberry cheesecake, or something savoury if you prefer."
He was frowning slightly. "Don't get me wrong, Rachel. I just came for a quiet chat."
"Didn't anyone tell you it's Christmas Day, Otis?"
The even teeth flashed and the man of the world in him said, "Nice one. Back of the net."
"I mean you can relax. Duty done."
"Just about."
"This isn't duty, is it-cheering up the lonely widow?" She poured two generous whiskys and handed him his. "Once again, happy Christmas."
He took the drink to the armchair, rather than the high-risk settee. "I would like to talk shop for a moment."
She settled opposite him, seated on the shaggy rug in front of the hearth, enjoying the way the firelight picked out his high, sharp cheekbones. "Go ahead."
"I'm told I've lost the confidence of some people in the parish."
Feeling a chill run through her, she said, "You don't mean me?"
"No, no. Others. Only one or two, but they talk to one or two more, and so it spreads."
Shocked that he knew so much of what was going on, she started to say, "I don't think-"
"Let's face it," he said. "I let everyone down on the night of the carol-singing."
"Otis, it couldn't be helped."
"Maybe, but I know some of the things that were said. Wide of the mark, actually. The problem is that once questions are asked, they don't go away. Drip, drip. Sooner or later someone is going to start digging for dirt. They may want to go through the accounts."
"They've no right."
"I think you'll find they have the right."
"Everything's in order."
"I'm sure, but you know what people are like where money is concerned."
She said, "We're talking about Burton Sands."
No observable reaction came from Otis. "That's one name I was given. Burton is still smarting because I didn't ask him to be our treasurer. Understandable. I'm sure he can do double-entry book-keeping with the best of them. But the PCC chose you."
"To my amazement," Rachel admitted.
"And we're mighty glad we did." He raised his glass in tribute. "If Burton or anyone else asks for a sight of the books, you can say you're currently working on them. The end of the year is upon us. They have to be audited in January ready for the February meeting of the PCC. You can't be parted from them at this busy time-which must be true."
"It is."
"You don't mind me mentioning it?"
"Of course not." She gave a nervous laugh and, trying too hard to be sympathetic, came out with something she immediately regretted. "Some of the things being said about you are so ridiculous you wouldn't credit them."
He smiled faintly. "About me knocking off my parishioners left, right and centre?"
He knew. She couldn't think where to look, she was so mortified at bringing this up.
Otis appeared unfazed. "Dear old Owen has been putting that one around as long as I've known him-and that was at my previous parish. Talk about dwindling congregations. I wouldn't have any left at all by his count."
She insisted firmly, "Nobody takes him seriously."
"That isn't quite true," he said. "Burton is half convinced already. In the end, people do begin to have their doubts. The old drip, drip. It could force me to leave."
Stricken, she blurted out, "Oh, no! But if it's untrue …"
Otis closed her down. "What are you doing on the 3rd of January, Rachel? I'm giving a rave-up at the rectory for the confirmation candidates. One or two of the Parish Council will be there. Can you make it?"
She was reeling from what she had just been told. He couldn't leave. She loved him. She'd committed murder for him.