of rigor mortis had already come and gone.
The circumstances of Stanley's passing horrified everyone. It was assumed that the trauma of being burgled had brought on a heart attack, and for a time a lynch mentality took over. If the burglar had been identified for sure he would not have lasted long in the village. As it was, a number of youths came under strong suspicion and were treated with contempt by everyone who had known Stanley. Two of them were drop-outs from the new Sixth Form College, a point that would not have escaped the old headmaster.
The death was reported to the coroner, who ordered a post mortem. The analytical findings demonstrated that Stanley had died from the effects of amylobarbitone, a sedative, mixed with whisky. An inquest was arranged.
Suicide, then? This was even more shocking than the heart attack theory. No note was found, but it is common knowledge that you don't take barbiturates and alcohol together unless you want to do away with yourself. The idea of the heartbroken old man alone in his cottage mixing his fatal cocktail moved people to tears. They had known Stanley was in a state of shock after the burglary. They hadn't realised it amounted to black despair.
On Sunday, Otis Joy referred to the tragedy in church. 'Stanley Burrows was a loyal member of this congregation for over thirty years. He served on the parish council as our treasurer, a very able treasurer. Stanley was a staunch friend to me, but of course most of you knew him much longer than I did, as your headmaster, or the headmaster of your children. His passing is hard for us to bear-the more so because of the tragic circumstances. I'm not going to speculate on what happened, and I urge you all-everyone in the village-to be restrained in your reaction. Stanley was a gentleman in every sense of the word. He, of all people, wouldn't wish this to lead to thoughts of revenge. He taught the virtues of civilised behaviour. Let us remember that as we pray for his immortal soul.'
In his pew towards the back, Owen Cumberbatch exhaled loudly and impatiently. His sister, beside him, gave him a sharp dig in the ribs.
To end the service, the rector chose a hymn Stanley had often sung in school assemblies, 'Lord dismiss us with thy blessing,' and hands were dipping into pockets and bags for Kleenex long before the 'Amen' was reached.
To Rachel, in her usual pew, the rector's words had been specially touching. He had this gift of striking exactly the right note for the occasion. On her way out of church she almost complimented him, and then decided it was inappropriate. Instead she smiled and put out her left hand (her right was still in plaster) and found herself holding two of his fingers and giving them a squeeze. He smiled in a restrained way. 'I hope it's mending nicely.'
'I expect so,' she said.
'How long do you have to wear this?'
'Another four itching weeks.'
'I've always said the best cure for an itch is to scratch it. Try a knitting needle.'
'Well, it's not all bad,' she managed to put in. 'I got some lovely flowers out of it.'
'Mind how you go, then. Watch out for Waldo's grave.'
She was tempted to ask if he'd remembered what it was he wanted to see her about on the day of the accident, but that might have seemed pushy. She moved on.
By the lychgate she overheard a snatch of conversation she found mystifying. Bill Armistead was saying to Davy Todd, who kept the shop, '… out of order, totally out of order and told him so.'
'Silly old bugger,' said Todd.
'It's daft. He couldn't hold down a job like his, telling folk how to behave, praying and preaching, if he were up to things like that.'
'Nobody could. What would be the point?'
'Mind, they do go off the rails, some of them.'
'Yes, a bit of how's your father, drinking, gambling, but this is way beyond that. No, it's bullshit. Got to be. If he believes that, he wants his head testing.'
Rachel edged around them and walked up the street. She couldn't believe anyone had been spreading malicious stories about Otis, and didn't want to find out.
The senior churchwarden, Geoff Elliott, spoke to the rector after everyone else had gone. 'It may seem indecently soon to be speaking of this, but we'll need a new treasurer now.'
'Spot on, Geoff,' said Joy. 'The sooner the better.'
'We churchwardens can act in a temporary capacity, but we need someone to take on the job properly. For the sake of continuity, he ought to come from within the PCC, as Stanley did.'
'Is that a problem?'
Elliott cleared his throat. 'I've, er, sounded out the others and nobody is too confident of taking it on. You need someone good at figure work. We have the power to co-opt, of course.'
'And you have someone in mind?'
'That young fellow Sands is a chartered accountant, I understand.'
'Burton Sands?' said the rector, unable to disguise his horror. 'He's in my confirmation class. He isn't confirmed yet.'
'He will be, won't he?'
'Well, as it isn't by selection, yes. I wouldn't have thought of him for treasurer myself.'
'He's a regular church-goer. A serious young man. Very stable, I would think. And we can be sure he understands how to draw up a balance sheet.'
'I don't doubt that.'
You solve one problem and another rears its head. Joy could not in his wildest dreams imagine himself disclosing the existence of the contingency fund to Burton Sands. Neither did he wish to operate extra accounts without the treasurer's knowledge. That had been the problem in the last parish, ending with the visit from the bishop. Far better to find someone cooperative, like Stanley. What a crying shame Stanley had ruled himself out.
'Is there a problem with Burton?' Elliott asked.
'I wouldn't put it so strongly. It's just a feeling I have that he may upset people. He's a prickly character. A parish treasurer needs tact. He'd be dealing with ordinary folk who get things in a muddle or forget to ask for receipts or hand in money later than they should. I don't know how Burton would measure up.'
'Well, of course we need someone you can work with, Rector.'
'I can work with anyone, but… Let me think about this before we ask him. There may be someone we've overlooked.'
'He's the only accountant in the congregation.'
'But Stanley wasn't an accountant. As he remarked to me once, almost anyone could do the job. It's commonsense stuff.'
'But a lot easier if you're a trained accountant,' said Elliott stubbornly. 'In the meantime, Norman Gregor and I will plug the gap.'
'Top stuff,' said Joy, and added optimistically, 'Who knows? Maybe you'll find it's a doddle.'
'It's only until we get someone permanent,' Elliott stressed. 'We're thinking of days rather than weeks. And we can't do much without the account books.'
'Take them over as soon as you want. It's just a matter of collecting them from Stanley's cottage.'
'The books aren't there, Rector. The police have them.'
Joy's face twitched into stark horror.
'You know PC Mitchell-George, from the cottage with the willow growing in the front. He also acts as the coroner's officer. He took possession of the books. I think it's to make sure they're in order, just in case something worried Stanley enough to make him suicidal.'
Joy shook his head. 'If anything made him suicidal, it was the burglary.'
'They have to do the job properly.'
'George Mitchell should have come to me.'
Eliott's face coloured deeply. 'My fault, Rector. He explained to me what he was doing and I ought to have mentioned it to you before this.'
