The Reaper

cathedral. 'That's abominable.' He looked about him as if for support from the shelves of religious books, the palm crosses pinned to the notice board, the gilt-framed print of The Light of the World and the solid glass paperweight of St. Paul's Cathedral. 'Have you no shame?'

'I find it gets in the way. What do you expect-wailing and gnashing of teeth?'

The bishop made a huge effort to get control of his features again. 'You realise, of course, that it's over. You can't continue in the Church.'

'This church? St. Bartholomew's? They haven't complained, have they?'

'The Church of England. You're finished, Joy. You must resign the priesthood.'

'Resign?' The young man made it sound like a foreign word.

The bishop played it down a little. 'We'll find some form of words. A nervous breakdown, some unspecified illness. There are ways it can be handled.'

'I'm not the first, then?'

'And you must make good the money you took. What did you do with it?'

'Blew it.'

'But on what?'

Otis Joy rotated the chair and looked out of the window at the bishop's beautiful car. 'On the trappings of success. Monstrous, isn't it, the cost of keeping up appearances?'

Marcus Glastonbury's voice piped up in outrage, 'I won't let you get away with this.'

'Vengeance is mine, saith the lord bishop.'

It crossed Joy's mind that he might have done himself more good by quoting from the Sermon on the Mount on the subject of mercy, but he doubted if it would make much impression on this bishop. Instead he was compelled to embark on another strategy. He turned the chair to face the front again, pointing a thumb over his shoulder at the BMW parked on his drive. 'The Church does all right. It can afford to write off a few grand. It's a major player in the property market, owns big chunks of London.'

'That's deplorable.'

'How right you are. And it pays peanuts to the clergy.'

'That isn't what I meant. It's deplorable that a priest should characterise the church in such a way.'

'Face facts, Bishop. Lambeth Palace doesn't want a major scandal.'

'Is that a threat?'

'It's why you're here. You see, I don't intend to hang up my dog-collar, not for you or anyone. They call this a living, which means for ever. Or till you find me another just as suitable.'

'But you're morally corrupt. How can you possibly continue as a priest?' j,

'I won't be the only one.'

Their two minds were not in tune, nor ever likely to be.

The bishop became more practical. 'If you can't pay back the money immediately, we can make an arrangement, so much a month.'

'And I continue here?'

'Absolutely not. You're unfit for the ministry. I've offered you a discreet way out and you must take it. We'll use your PC.'

Otis Joy played the words over in his mind. The parish council? The local bobby?

With the air of a man who has just scored the winner, his visitor pointed to Joy's own personal computer on the table against the wall. 'You will sign a letter of resignation.'

'A computer-literate bishop, for all that's wonderful.'

Now the bishop picked up the briefcase and took out a laptop, like a service engineer preparing the invoice. He placed it on the desk in front of him, opened it and started tapping the keys.

Joy asked, 'Is this resignation letter already on disk?'

'In draft form. It doesn't go into details. You and I know the reasons behind this and there's no need for the rest of the diocese to rake over the embers. There.' He passed the laptop across the desk.

'I'm impressed,' said Joy. 'Do they issue these to all bishops?'

'Read it, man.'

Appropriately the little screen was heavenly blue. The words were less attractive.

I, Otis Joy, Rector of St. Bartholomew's Church, Fox-ford, beg leave to resign from Holy Orders with immediate effect. This is for personal reasons. It is final and irrevocable.

'Bit terminal.'

'Do you agree the wording?' demanded the bishop, obviously feeling he had the upper hand now. 'We'll download onto your machine and do a print-out for you to sign.'

'Right now?'

'If they're compatible.'

'More than you and me. Don't I get time to think about it?'

'I shan't leave without your resignation. And I want a written undertaking to repay the church the sum you embezzled, which I estimate at not less than fifteen thousand pounds.'

'Is that on the machine as well?'

'No. We'll do this first.'

'OK.' Joy handed the laptop back to the bishop. 'You'll need paper for the printer.' He opened a drawer, took out a sheet of headed notepaper and handed it across.

This sudden act of capitulation was greeted with a nod that was part satisfaction, part triumph. The high- tech bishop crossed the room and sat at the rector's modest machine. He connected his laptop, switched on and touched several keys.

'I must see this.' Joy got up and came around the desk and stood at the bishop's shoulder.

The text of the letter appeared on the screen.

The bishop touched more keys and fed in the sheet of paper. The printer hummed and brought forth the resignation.

'There.' He took a silver Montblanc fountain pen from his pocket and unscrewed the top. 'Sign.'

The pen was not required. Unseen by the bishop, Otis Joy had snatched up St. Paul's Cathedral. He swung it with tremendous force at the back of the big, bald head.

The impact of solid glass against bone was irresistible. Marcus Glastonbury was killed by the first blow. He got two more to be certain.

After a wedding rehearsal in the church-but before rigor mortis set in-Joy returned to the rectory) his pastoral duties over for the day. He felt as5 shaky as anyone does with a dead bishop waiting for disposal, but he was in control. He trusted himself not to panic. In fact he was experiencing quite a surge of adrenalin at the challenge of the things to be done. A clergyman's life is more structured than lay people ever appreciate, and there is quiet satisfaction at coping with whatever life throws at you and still conducting services on time. He confined himself to a quick supper of pilchards on toast, a banana and a can of beer, whilst thinking over the fine points of his arrangements. He had a plan. When you live with the prospect of someone like Marcus Glastonbury knocking on your door, you think through the options you have. He was a keen student of criminology.

For example, he knew about forensic science. He knew better than to leave traces on his clothes. The blood- spotted stock and dog-collar he'd been wearing that afternoon were already in a plastic sack awaiting disposal.

Before doing anything else about the late Marcus Glastonbury, he went upstairs and stripped completely. As if he was well used to going naked, he padded downstairs to the kitchen, put on rubber gloves, and went to the office to check the scene. The body still lay where it had fallen in front of the computer table. The head wound had seeped badly. Otis Joy was not a man for profanities, but this could only be described as a bloody mess. The old Wilton rug he had inherited from the previous incumbent would definitely have to go.

He knelt beside the dead bishop, not in prayer, but to remove anything that might link him with the killing. An entry in a diary, or a scrap of paper with the rectory address, would be a gift to the plod. Through his job the rector had a privileged relationship with death, so he didn't flinch as he went through the bishop's pockets and made a small heap on the desk. Car keys and a pocket bible. A wallet thick with banknotes and plastic. The high life: