"At least Macbeth had a conscience."
"At least I've told you the truth."
She felt sick to the stomach. "Would you take me back now?"
"Weren't you listening, Rachel? There's no going back once you've stepped in blood. Let's go up to the flybridge and get some air."
Twenty-three
Rachel was not seen again in Foxford. But her absence caused no concern at all for the first week, particularly after word got round that Gary's body had been exhumed early on Wednesday morning. It was no wonder she didn't wish to be at home when the press came knocking at her door. And there was no suggestion that she was running from the law; the police had no suspicion that she had murdered Gary.
They were waiting for the post mortem evidence that would nail Otis Joy. Meanwhile inquiries with the Toronto police confirmed Burton Sands's information. A theology student called Otis Joy had died in a car crash in Vancouver in 1993. It was also confirmed that someone of the same name was ordained into the Church of England in Brighton in September, 1994.
The person glorying in that name continued his parish duties with unflagging enthusiasm, a charming Baptism on Saturday (babies never cried when he held them), the usual Sunday services and an ecumenical meeting on Monday evening. Even by his own dynamic standards, his energy in these first days of the new year was remarkable. The sermons were inspired, delivered with passion and humanity and not without the touches of humour that were his trademark. He increased his visits to the lonely and the sick; the schools; the hospitals; the clubs and societies. It was almost as if he knew his days in Foxford were numbered.
PC George Mitchell and DCI Somerville were in attendance- standing well back-at the post mortem examination of Gary Jansen's remains. If they expected results, they were disappointed. "There's nothing in the naked-eye findings to challenge the doctor's diagnosis," the pathologist summed up, as he peeled off the gloves. "Nothing inconsistent with simple cardiac failure. If you're looking for signs of a poisoning, I can't help you with what's here. It's going to be up to the forensic lab. I've taken all the samples I can, and we'll see what a toxicologist finds, if anything. I wouldn't put money on it."
George Mitchell was horrified. Outside he said to Somerville, "What if the results don't show anything? He could get away with serial murder and still be preaching to the village on Sundays."
"George," said Somerville, "get real, will you?"
"What?"
"Some bastards do get away with it. We know they're guilty, but we don't have enough to convict."
George said forlornly, "We pinned everything on this. This was our best hope of getting the evidence."
"Right. Let's be positive. They'll test for all the poisons in the book. You can be sure of that. Let's see what they come up with."
"And meanwhile …?"
"Don't let him know he's in the frame."
"Do I go on playing Scrabble with him on Monday nights?"
Somerville laughed. "That's up to you, but I wouldn't drink the coffee."
"It's no joke. He's murdered people."
"Conjecture."
"We know he's a phoney. He changed his name."
"So did St. Paul."
George sighed heavily.
Sensing, perhaps, that a senior CID man should be more upbeat, Somervilte said, "While we wait for these results, we'll beaver away, collecting statements from other crucial witnesses. I want to interview the woman, the widow, Mrs. Jansen."
"Rachel? She's not at home."
"Where's she gone?"
"Don't know. Could be on holiday."
"That's a pain. If any of this has truth in it, her dealings with the rector could be crucial. Can you find out where she went?"
"I'll try."
"She's the parish treasurer, isn't she?"
George nodded.
"We'll need the account books to see if the rumours about Joy milking the funds have any basis. I suppose they're in her house?"
"That's where I'd expect them to be."
"You don't think she's covering up for him?"
"For the rector? I hadn't thought of it."
"If there was an affair going on…"
"Village gossip. I wouldn't pin too much on that. He's got his faults, God knows, but I don't think he's after the women."
"She's got to be interviewed soon. Find her."
She was not found, that week or the next. George asked around and discovered nothing. Rachel had told no one of her plans, just as Cynthia Haydenhall had gone off before Christmas without a word to anyone. A horrid possibility crept into George's mind.
Burton Sands called on George one evening and asked why the rector had not been arrested yet.
"It's out of my hands," said George.
"It's disgraceful," said Burton. "I gave you enough evidence to put him away for the rest of his life. He's still at liberty."
"They're working on it. You know Gary Jansen was exhumed," said George.
"That was ten days ago."
"It can't be hurried."
"He'll get away if you don't arrest him."
"He hasn't gone," George pointed out. "He could have gone, and he hasn't."
"Bluffing it out."
"That's why we have to make sure of everything."
"Did they find any poison in the body?"
"We don't know yet."
The test results came in from the Home Office Forensic Science Laboratory at Chepstow on a Friday morning two weeks after the autopsy. Tissue samples taken from Gary Jansen's body showed a minute trace of aconitine, one of the most virulent poisons known.
DCI Somerville called the lab to find out more.
"You might well ask," said the toxicologist on the end of the phone. "We don't know of a case in Britain since eighteen eighty-one. We were very excited when the gas-chromatographic screen picked it up. It's an alkaloid, a plant poison, derived from monkshood. The stuff grows wild in shady, moist places all over Europe and North America. You've probably got some near you. There's a cultivated variety as well. Usually it's purple in colour, but you can get it in white, pale blue and reddish-blue. Are you a gardener?"
"Some chance."
"It was common at one time, flavour of the month, but you have to go a long way back. 'Stepmothers' poison,' the Greeks called it. And the Romans used it so much that the Emperor Trajan banned them from growing it in their gardens. Right through the Middle Ages people were poisoning their rich uncles with it. It fell out of favour in modern times because the neuropathy is so obvious. Tingling and numbness in the mouth, throat, hands and limbs. Severe stomach pains, nausea and vomiting. Diarrhoea. Want me to go on?"
"Be my guest."
"OK. Loss of power in the limbs, giddiness, deafness and impairment of vision, indistinct speech, loss of consciousness and convulsions. Didn't the GP pick up on any of this?"
"He wasn't called till late."
"Who called him-the patient?"
"The wife."
"She must have seen him suffering."
For a moment the case against Otis Joy teetered slightly. Then Somerville remembered. "No. She was out all evening. Got back late."
"Poor sod-having to endure all that on his own. Horrible symptoms."
"When she got back he was too far gone to talk. The diagnosis was a heart attack."
"Correct, in a sense. The ultimate cause of death is cardiac or respiratory failure from paralysis of the brain. Why wasn't there a PM at the time?"
"The GP had been treating him for a heart problem."
"Even so."
"Perkins is one of the old school. Ought to be retired."
"He will be, if this comes to court."
Somerville thanked him and said they were sure to be in touch again. He phoned George Mitchell and told him the news.