"I can supply one."
"OK. Do you have access to a scanner and e-mail? We could do this today. I'm here until six, our time."
Burton said he would see to it, and they exchanged e-mail addresses.
That head and shoulders shot in the Wiltshire Times would do if he could get hold of a sharper print. They sometimes had the originals on file at the newspaper office in Trowbridge and sold copies. He left work early and drove over there. They had a brown envelope stuffed with pictures of the man from various functions they'd covered. Burton went through it and found the print he wanted. A nice glossy postcard-size mugshot.
On his own computer at home, he scanned the photo and sent it with a short e-mail message to Toronto. Within a couple of minutes his phone rang.
"I don't know this man," said the Deputy Principal. "He never attended this college."
"Did the picture come over cleanly?" Burton asked.
"It's very clear. I know my students, and, this man was never one of them. I also rechecked at our alumni office and there was only one Otis Joy in attendance here in the past twenty years. If someone of that name is claiming affiliation with our college, he's an impostor."
Burton put down the phone and experienced a pleasurable sensation of power amounting almost to rapture. "Got you, you bastard," he said aloud.
He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes to get showered and dressed for the last confirmation class, followed by the rector's party.
Watching the man behind his great desk in the rectory, with the books of sermons behind him and The Light of the World to his left, listening to his confident and lucid interpretation of the Order of Confirmation, Burton still found it difficult to credit that this was a bogus priest.
"And when the moment comes and the bishop lays his hand on your head, you will hear some of the most comforting words in our liturgy: 'Defend, O Lord, this thy Servant, with thy heavenly grace, that he may continue thine for ever.' Defend-it's a word we find throughout the Book of Common Prayer. 'Defend us thy humble servants in all assaults of our enemies.' " Joy curved his hand over the glass paperweight of St. Paul's Cathedral. " '. . and by thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night.' Some people have told me they felt strengthened by God at this moment, and of course they are."
Burton had spoken to nobody of his sensational discovery. This evening he felt detached from the confirmation candidates, watching them listen respectfully to the man he would soon expose. They were in for a shock, but not yet. He would choose his moment. This evening gave him the chance to settle the business beyond reasonable doubt. This was a high-risk plan, but he had right on his side, and if you can't rely on God's protection in a Church of England property, it's a poor lookout for mankind. There was another "defend" in the Prayer Book that Joy had not chosen to mention: Psalm 42. "Give sentence with me, O God, and defend my cause against the ungodly people: O deliver me from the deceitful and wicked man."
The spiel was coming to an end. "And then, of course, there follows a communion, your first, and we went through the service last time. Simple, beautiful, comforting." Joy's eyebrows formed the shape of a Norman arch as he closed his prayer book. "If any of you have last-minute questions, or concerns, I'm here to help. I'll be with you at the service, and should you feel nervous just imagine how the new bishop will be feeling. Let's not forget that it may be your confirmation, but it's his baptism."
The doorbell rang and Joy got up. "I asked the parish council to join us and all of them are coming except Rachel Jansen, who sends her regrets. This kind of get-together is difficult for her so soon after Gary's death." He went off to receive his first guests.
"Where's it happening?" asked John Neary.
"In that big room, for sure," said Ann Porter. "Shall we go through?"
"You carry on," said Burton casually. "I'll join you presently."
"Didn't know you were a smoker," said Neary.
"I'm not. I need a few minutes to myself."
"Says you."
The minute the others were out of the room Burton crossed to the filing cabinet by the door. Joy would be busy with his guests for some time, a perfect opportunity.
It wasn't locked. The top drawer was stuffed with bulging files that turned out to be circulars from the diocesan office at Glastonbury. He tried the next. Letters, hundreds of them. Local societies wanting a speaker. People researching their family history. And quite a batch about brass-rubbing. Useless. With hope ebbing away he pulled out the third and last drawer. Agendas and minutes of parish council meetings. Orders of service from years back. Sermons. But no personal papers^.
The doorbell rang at least! three times while he was still in the office. Sudden noises weren't good for his nerves.
He tried the drawers of Joy's great mahogany desk. Blank stationery, stamps, paperclips and a stapler. A wire basket on the windowsill excited him briefly. It was stacked high with paper. Catalogues of religious books.
This was not so simple as he'd hoped.
The two box files on the bookshelf were the only possibilities left. One was filled with church music and when he opened the other dozens of communion wafers scattered across the floor. He used valuable time picking them up.
Outside the office he stood in the hall for a moment listening to the voices in the front room. They sounded well launched into conversation about how they'd celebrated the new year. With luck, he wouldn't be missed for a while.
This, after all, was the last opportunity he would get to search the rectory for evidence of the man's real identity. But which room? Apart from the drawing room where everyone was, and the kitchen, dining room and cloakroom-unlikely places to keep private documents-there was only the upper floor. Was it worth the risk? Fainter hearts than Burton's might have abandoned the search. He braced himself and crept upstairs. Joy's bedroom was as likely a place as any.
The stairs creaked horribly. If the front room door was flung open and Joy demanded to know where he was going he'd say he needed the bathroom. How was he to know there was a cloakroom downstairs?
He'd reached the landing halfway up when the doorbell went once more and Joy came out into the hall. Burton backed out of sight and waited.
Peggy Winner, downstairs, said, "Am I the last?"
Joy told her, "Don't worry, Peggy. We're still missing someone, but I can't think who it is."
He took her coat and hung it in the hall and they went back to the others.
Burton climbed the rest of the stairs. He'd have to be quick now. Tiptoed along the upstairs passage, opening doors. Found the bathroom and a guest room bare of everything except the bed and a wardrobe.
The next room had to be Joy's.
It wasn't how he imagined a rector's bedroom might be. No crucifix, Bible or embroidered text. A music centre, portable TV and double bed with a quilt covered in a Mondrian design. Two shelves of fat paperbacks. Every sea story Patrick O'Brian had written. Quite a few Hornblowers.
He looked around for the kind of box or briefcase that might contain personal papers. Nothing. Looked into the wardrobe, the chest of drawers and the bedside cupboard. Felt on top of the wardrobe and among the shoes at the bottom.
Then the bedroom door opened and a voice said, "What the fuck are you doing?"
He swung around guiltily.
It wasn't Joy, thank God. It was John Neary.
"Poking around," he answered.
"What for?"
"You'll find out soon enough."
"Bloody hell. I was sent to collect you from the study. He thinks you're overcome with shyness, or something. I heard you moving about up here, so I came up."