"George didn't say. I've been trying to work it out and I think they must mean Stanley, for one. I suppose they think I gave that poison to Stanley-whatever it was he took…"
"Amytabarbitone."
"… because I was after his job as treasurer, just to be able to cosy up to you."
"They're way off beam there," he said firmly, too firmly for Rachel's bruised emotions, but she didn't let it show.
"You know what village gossip is like."
"Gossip is one thing. The police are supposed to deal in facts."
"They can get things wrong. I'm the village Jezebel according to some people. They could believe I'm responsible for Cynthia's death as well."
"Cynthia? Why?"
"Because she was a rival. She was always telling people she fancied you."
He shook his head. "Silly woman. I'm a clergyman, not a sex object. What exactly did George Mitchell say? What were his precise words?"
"Something like 'it's just part of a larger inquiry into a number of deaths.' He must have meant Stanley and Cynthia. Who else is there?"
"God knows," said Otis, and the mild blasphemy slipped casually from his tongue as though he were operating at another level.
She was praying that he was, that he would come up with some brilliant suggestion that would save her. If anyone could work miracles, Otis was the one. But for the moment he was locked in thoughts of his own.
The entire dialogue had taken place in the hall. Now he pushed open his office door and gestured to her to go in. It was warmer in there and smelt reassuringly of him. She sat down in the chair in front of the desk. "What am I going to do, Otis? I'm terrified."
He perched himself on the edge of the desk and asked, "How much have you admitted to George Mitchell?"
"Nothing. You're the only one I told."
"You're certain?"
"I swear."
"Then say nothing."
"You don't think 1 should confess?"
He pulled a face at the suggestion, then thought better of it. "To God, yes."
"But not to the police?"
Firmly he told her, "Not to anyone else. We don't know what they'll find when they exhume Gary. You're assuming they'll find traces of aconite, but it may not be so simple. I know a little about-em-chemistry, and I can tell you that you picked a beauty."
She looked at him in amazement.
He said quickly, "I'm speaking scientifically now. Alkaloid poisons like aconite are not easy to detect, even with spectrometry and so on, particularly so long after death as this. Unless you tell the police yourself, they won't know what they're looking for. He died of cardiac failure, and that will be confirmed, but the cause is far less obvious. It's not so simple as looking for arsenic."
"I thought if I confessed I might get a lighter sentence."
He shook his head. "Rachel, you're making all kinds of assumptions. Can you be sure you poisoned Gary?"
"Positive. I wouldn't lie about it."
"You cut up monkshood root and added it to the curry?"
"Yes."
"But you can't be totally sure it killed him."
"Oh, but I can."
His eyes closed and he raised his palm to cut off her flow of self-recrimination. "Listen, Rachel. I'm trying to help you; In the week before your husband died, he saw the doctor because of a heart problem, is that right?"
"Angina."
"That's what old Dr. Perkins believed, but he may have misread the symptoms. Gary had a chest pain, you say?"
"Yes."
"That could have been more serious, a mild heart attack. And he had a second attack, the one that killed him, on the night he died. Was it caused by what he ate, or was it always going to happen? You don't know for sure."
Without fully believing, she stared ahead) at the unexpected escape route he was showing her. "I'd never thought of that."
"It's time you did. Do you know the fatal dose for aconite?"
"No. I just chopped some up and put it in the pot."
"Well, then."
"Quite a lot, actually," she admitted.
"But did he eat it all?"
"Most of it. I threw some away."
"And he had a history of heart problems?"
"Yes!" The exit opened wider. Only Otis could have thought of it. The man was a genius. She stood up and embraced him.
He allowed her to hold him without returning the embrace. He was deep in his own thoughts again. In a moment he said, "It would be sensible if you got away from the village while this is going on. People are going to comment on it. You know how sensitive you are to village opinion. You don't want to be goaded into saying anything the police could use against you."
"Won't that look suspicious?"
"It's understandable to want to be somewhere else when they're digging up your husband."
She had to make a mental effort to grasp her new role as the innocent widow. He was right. She was in such emotional turmoil that she could easily give herself away with an unguarded remark. And she didn't want more questions from the police, either. "But I don't know where to go."
"I do. Can you be ready to leave early tomorrow, say around six:?"
"With you?" Her eyes moistened. She was emotional.
"I'll drive you there. It's my day off. Pack for a holiday. Clothes, money, cards, chequebook. Have you got anything in a building society?"
"A bit."
"Bring your passbook, then. Don't leave anything of value in the house. You'd better bring the parish books as well."
"Where are we going?"
"A secret. If you're going into retreat, it's better nobody knows."
She trusted him totally.
They were at sea by nine next morning. A green, choppy sea with flecks of foam catching the light under a white January sky. Amazed that Otis owned a boat, and at a loss to account for the size and luxury of the Revelation, Rachel sat beside him in the cockpit waiting to see what other surprises this wonderman had in store. "It's my indulgence," he said as if that explained everything.
"Isn't that a religious word?"
He laughed. "I hadn't thought of that."
"What exactly is an indulgence?"
"Remission of punishment for our sins. It's Roman Catholic doctrine. You confess to the good father and he acts as God's spokesman and decides if the offence can be pardoned."
"Nothing to do with expensive boats, then?"
"No, bribing the priest with a motor-cruiser is definitely discouraged. Anyway, we Protestants are dead against indulgences. It was the sale of them that led to the Reformation."
"So you bought this yourself?"
He nodded and looked ahead, tacitly inviting her to drop the subject.
She didn't. "How do you answer someone who says a priest shouldn't live like this?"
"With Ecclesiast.es, Seven, Fourteen: 'In the day of prosperity, be joyful.' Tuesday is my day of prosperity."
"I'm not going to get a serious answer, then."
"All right. I'll try and explain. There's this restless part of me that needs to break out sometimes."
"Snap," said Rachel. "I'm like that, except I do the most appalling things in moments of madness. Well, you know."
"Giddy Girl."
"Exactly."
"So do I."
"Do wicked things?"
He turned and their eyes met briefly and for the first time since that evening he had brought the account books to her cottage she basked in his warmth. She knew he was over the awkwardness that had blighted their friendship. He told her, "You shared your secret with me. I appreciate that."
"Unloaded my fear, you mean."
"It took courage to do what you did."
"Poisoning my husband? Nine parts fear to one part courage."
He laughed. "You improve with practice."
"I hope not." She smiled back.
"You do. I've got better at it."
She heard him, failed to understand, played his words over in her brain, looked ahead for some time, and finally said, "Got better at what?"