your sins and renounce evil.'
'So will I go to hell if I'm not confirmed?' Sands asked.
'Snap out of it, Burton. Be positive. Lead the Christian life and you may enter the Kingdom of Heaven.'
'But if we don't,' persisted Sands with his interest in the other side of the balance sheet, 'if we sin and break the Ten Commandments and forget to say our prayers, what then?'
Neary yawned and said, 'Let's face it. It's impossible to keep the Ten Commandments. Everyone breaks the old thou shalt nots.'
'All of them?' chipped in Ann Porter. 'Speak for yourself.'
'No, I'd rather hear it from you, love,' Neary was quick to respond. 'You must have broken some. Which ones?'
She reddened. 'I'm not going into that.'
There were children of twelve and thirteen in the class, looking interested. 'We don't have to make this personal,' the rector cautioned.
'What she means,' Neary continued to bait Ann Porter, 'is that she has a clean sheet on number six. She hasn't murdered anyone.'
'Not yet-but I might, and soon,' murmured Ann.
'I guess we're all in the clear when it comes to that one,' Neary blithely carried on. 'Murder, I mean.'
There was a pause.
'Well, don't all shout at once,' said Neary.
'I'm still waiting for someone to answer my question,' said Sands like a dog with a bone. 'What exactly is hell?'
All eyes were on the rector, who for his own reasons had gone quiet. It was Neary who offered a partial reply. 'The Bible talks about hell fire, so we know it's hot.'
'Oh yes?' said Ann Porter, glad of the chance to get back at him. 'With little red demons prodding you with tridents?'
Otis Joy made a serious effort to get back on track. 'It may not be the same for everyone. We may all have our personal hells.'
'Like a Barry Manilow concert?' said Neary.
'For all eternity,' said Ann.
'Do you have to reduce everything to a joke?' said Sands. 'You talk about personal hells, Rector. What's yours?'
'Mine?' Joy blinked, startled to be asked. Confirmation classes were not his favourite duty. You could bank on getting some bumptious candidate like this one, wanting to challenge theology. 'Losing my job is the worst thing I can possibly imagine.'
'But that happens all the time, people being made redundant.'
'Not to the clergy,' said Neary. 'That's a job for life. It's even called a living, isn't it, Rector?'
There was a day in the week, generally Tuesday, when Joy was free of parish duties. He arranged his diary to preserve that one clear spot, and got in his ancient car and drove out of the village early in the morning and was not seen all day. The lights in the rectory did not come on until late. He never spoke of what he did, and nobody had the cheek to ask.
Theories abounded, however. It was put about at first that he was a betting man and went to the races. Later, that he bought and sold antiques, or books, or postage stamps. There was a strong rumour that he visited a mentally handicapped brother in a residential home in Bath. Another, more earthy, that he had a mistress, a married woman living on the south coast.
Stanley Burrows said, 'What does it matter as long as he carries out his duties here? It's none of our business. He doesn't demand to know how we spend every minute, so what right have we to poke our noses into his private life?'
'He is our rector,' Cynthia Haydenhall said at the bring-and-buy coffee morning Otis Joy had asked to be excused from. 'We expect him to be above reproach.' She had become cooler towards Joy since he left her out of his tea party after the fete.
'There's no reason to think he's doing anything to be ashamed of,' said Stanley.
Over by the door, Owen Cumberbatch rolled his eyes as if to suggest that the complacency of these people was beyond belief.
His sister, whose inescapable toffee crispies were being offered around, was quick to say, before Owen opened his mouth, 'I think our rector is the best thing that ever happened to Foxford. We've had some dull old sticks at the rectory in recent years. He treats the job as if he enjoys every minute. It's infectious. That's why the church is full on Sundays.'
Mr. Prior, the eighty-year-old sidesman, came in on the end of the conversation. 'What's that? Who's infectious?'
'Our rector, according to Miss Cumberbatch,' said Cynthia unhelpfully.
'Is that where he is today-having treatment?' asked Mr. Prior.
So another rumour was hatched.
Between the raffle, the sale and the fifty pence entrance fee, seventy pounds was raised for the church. At the end of the morning, Stanley took it home in a brown paper bag.
He was in for a shock. A burglar had entered his cottage while he was out. Ninety-two pounds was stolen, together with a video-recorder, a Waterford rose-bowl-the last memento of his grandparents-his ivory chess-set and the silver clock he had been given by the school on the day he retired.
George Mitchell, the local policeman, came eventually. He asked to see the place where the break-in had happened and Stanley had to admit that he never locked his back door. Living in the village, he'd thought he was safe. People in villages trust each other. So the thief had just opened the door and walked in. PC Mitchell clicked his tongue and shook his head. He told Stanley he had better not mention to the insurance people that the house was left open. Stanley said he didn't see why it should become an insurance claim if the police did their job and the property was recovered. PC Mitchell shook his head and told him to get real and said theft was the most commonly reported offence. The chance of catching anyone was about one in a hundred. They didn't have the manpower to hunt down petty thieves. Stanley was outraged. He pointed out that it must have been a local person who knew about the bring-and-buy sale and had chosen a time when the cottage was empty. PC Mitchell agreed and said someone would take fingerprints, but if he were in Stanley's shoes he would file that insurance claim.
Stanley didn't tell the police or anyone else that the stolen cash was church money waiting to be banked. He should have paid it in the previous day, only it had been a fine afternoon and he'd mown the lawn instead. Now he was conscience-stricken.
As soon as PC Mitchell left, Stanley drove to the bank in Glastonbury and drew a hundred in cash from his personal account. So as not to make the transaction obvious, he passed the next twenty minutes sitting on a bench looking at the Abbey ruins. Then he returned to the bank, picked a different teller and paid ninety-two pounds of his own money into the church account together with the seventy raised at the bring- and-buy. No one would find out he had been so careless. But he decided after all he would no longer continue as treasurer.
He called at the rectory the same evening. Unfortunately Otis Joy had still not returned from his day out.
The local policeman may have treated the incident lightly, but the rest of Foxford did not. Burglaries were rare in the village. The last had been three years ago, when a series of garages were raided at night, and a number of power tools taken. Professional thieves were responsible that time, the local CID had decided. A spate of similar crimes had been going on in Wiltshire villages all through the summer. A gang operating out of Bristol was suspected. Amateur or professional, the outcome was the same. No arrest.
Nobody doubted that Stanley's burglary was a local job. It was common knowledge that he lived alone and had some nice things in his cottage. And the whole village knew he never missed a church social event.
Cynthia Haydenhall was convinced unemployed youths were to blame. She said in the shop next morning that if she were the police she would raid three houses on the council estate and she could guarantee she would recover Stanley's property. 'We all know who these petty thieves are. You see them hanging about the street looking for trouble. In times past we had a village constable who dealt with them. My gran told me about an incident during the
