The Reaper

Nearby, Owen Cumberbatch had cornered Peggy Winner and was airing a sensational theory. Poor old Stanley Burrows hadn't taken his own life. He was the rector's latest murder victim.

'Owen,' Peggy said, 'you do come out with the silliest nonsense. They were on the best of terms.'

'Until something went wrong,' said Owen, never at a loss. 'Stanley must have found something out about the previous killings.'

'Keep your voice down, for God's sake,' she told him. 'You're a disgrace, putting this kind of thing about.'

'I believe in speaking the truth, however uncomfortable it is,' Owen insisted.

'Like your nights out with your old chum Laurence Olivier. What sort of chumps do you think we are, Owen? You chance your arm all the time, just to get attention. We might have believed you the first time, some of us, but there are limits, you know.'

'I've no need of attention. I'm pointing out facts that ought to be obvious.'

'Facts? A load of apple sauce, and that's putting it politely. If you've got information, take it to the police.'

'I might.'

'I think you're jealous, just because he's popular with the ladies.'

'My dear, I don't need to be jealous of anyone in that department. I've had my moments, and still would, given encouragement. But you put your finger on it when you speak of popularity. He's the golden boy. You've heard that expression 'He could get away with murder'? Well, a certain gentleman has and does, and I'm the only one who sees it, apparently.'

The inquest on Stanley Burrows found that he committed suicide. It was confirmed that he died of an overdose of amylobarbitone mixed with whisky. The burglary was thought to have so unhinged him that he took his own life. 'I can think of no case that better illustrates that familiar phrase 'while the balance of his mind was disturbed,' ' commented the coroner. 'Here was a retired man living an orderly life in a quiet village whose peace of mind was cruelly shattered by someone entering his house and stealing his property. Not only his personal property, but ninety-two pounds that belonged to the church. Mr. Burrows was treasurer to the Parish Council and the money had been in his house ready to be taken to the bank. One of his last acts was to make good the loss from his own savings, but clearly he still felt he had let down the church. Whoever was responsible will have this on his conscience. It is a distressing end to a good life.'

The only matter unexplained was how the amylobarbitone came into Stanley's possession. His GP stated that he had never prescribed this or any other sedative for Stanley. The drug was not much used these days. 'It is not of over-riding importance,' the coroner stated. 'There is no question that the deceased had taken the drug, or that there was a supply of capsules in the cottage. One was found on the kitchen floor, and the empty whisky bottle was discovered on the table. That is established. We may speculate how he acquired them, allowing that amylobarbitone is rather outmoded. People don't often throw old medicines away when they have no further use for them. Sometimes we have to turn out someone's medicine cabinet after their death. I've done it more than once, and if I wanted some sleeping tablets without going to my doctor to ask for them, I could have kept them. It may be as simple as that. Or, more simple still, they may have been prescribed for Mr. Burrows years ago, when he was under the stress of full-time teaching, before he became a patient of his present doctor. The salient point is that he swallowed the tablets and a generous amount of whisky. As an intelligent man, he would have known it was a deadly combination.'

Joy was not called to give evidence. No one knew Stanley had called at the rectory on the evening of his death. And no one knew the rector stocked almost as many varieties of sleeping pill as the average pharmacy. His years of visiting the sick, the dead and the bereaved had given him good opportunities.

The jury returned a verdict of suicide.

On the same evening PC George Mitchell called at the rectory for a game of Scrabble and told Joy how the inquest had turned out. They were having some close matches, and George usually won. He was better at spotting the squares that tripled the points.

Before Gary left for New Orleans with his jazz cronies, he told Rachel her broken wrist wasn't going to stop him going.

She said with dignity, 'Why should it? I can manage.'

'I'm just telling you I don't feel guilty. You'd like me to feel a total shit, but I don't.'

'Come off it, Gary. I didn't break the wrist on purpose.'

'Just an act of God, was it?'

'What?'

'An act of God. It happened in the churchyard under the rector's nose. God arranged it. There's got to be some dividend from all the Sundays you've spent in Church.'

'Drop it, Gary.'

'God could have put the mockers on my trip, couldn't he? I'd have to be a right bastard to leave you here with a broken arm. Well, maybe I am. You take all the sympathy that's going. Wallow in it. I'll send you a postcard.'

'I can't wait.'

He left for Heathrow the same evening.

Rachel opened a bottle of wine to celebrate and picked up her copy of There Goes the Bride, in which she was cast as Miriam in the Frome Troupers' October production. She was half through her first glass when the doorbell rang. She said, 'Heavens above!' — and had a premonition that Otis Joy was there. She dashed to the mirror and scraped her hair into place and freshened up her lipstick.

When she got to the door, Cynthia Haydenhall was standing there, all dressed up for a visit. The disappointment must have been screamingly obvious because Cynthia said, 'Were you expecting someone else, then?'

'No. I was sitting with my feet up, having a glass of wine.'

'Where's Gary?'

Cynthia was unstoppable when rooting out information.

'On his way to New Orleans for the jazz. He left this morning.

'Oh? How long?'

'Three weeks.'

'And you didn't go?'

'It's a sad old lads'thing.'

'You don't mind if I come in, then? I've heard something that will make your hair stand on end.'

With a build-up like that, it was impossible to send her away.

Seated in Gary's armchair, with a glass of Merlot in her hand, Cynthia explained, 'I know someone who knows someone who works for the church, in the diocesan office. She says-this is Gospel truth, Rachel-Marcus Glastonbury, the bishop who killed himself, was into SM.'

'What's that?' said Rachel, thinking it must be shorthand for spirit messages, or some form of worship regarded with suspicion by the church establishment.

'Come on, amigo. We're grown-ups. What do you think it is? Sadomasochism.'

Rachel was speechless, eyes popping.

'Isn't it shocking?' Cynthia launched into her hot gossip. 'He liked to have his backside whacked by women in black corsets. The night he killed himself he was on the phone to some creature who called herself Madam Swish, 'able with a cane.' '

Now Rachel couldn't stop herself from giggling. 'Say that again.'

Cynthia repeated it, shaking with laughter. 'It isn't funny at all really. I bet he didn't tell her what he did for a living.'

'He wouldn't, would he? How do they know about this?'

'His credit card.'

'He used his credit card to make the phone call?'

'Those sex lines are expensive. You'd jolly soon run out of coins.'

'And they traced it back. The church people?' Rachel was smiling again, thinking of some pure-minded person in the diocesan office getting through to Madam Swish.