and South Haven Point. Lining up the beacon at the end of the training bank, he took them into Poole Bay by the route known as Swash Channel. 'We'll open up a bit now.'
'Us-or the engines?' asked Cynthia, laughing. She was steadily knocking back cognac.
'She'll do thirty-five knots.'
'What's that to a landlubber like me?'
'About forty. Doesn't sound much, but on water…'
'Go on, then. Scare me.'
He gave the pair of 660 horsepower engines more power and the five-bladed propellors fairly whipped the big boat over the water. It was reasonably calm today and he could motor into the waves without too much of a pounding.
'Brilliant!' shouted Cynthia.
He knew these waters well, the overfalls from Handfast Point down to Anvil, and the tide race off Old Harry on the ebb. Often he would steer a challenging course along the coast and test the boat in onshore winds. Today, he headed resolutely out to sea. After a while he eased the throttle imperceptibly- enough for easier conversation.
'Keep a look out for dolphins.'
'Really?' she said. 'I've never seen one outside an aquarium.'
'You could get lucky.'
Over to the east, they got a clear view of the Needles in sunlight off the Isle of Wight. He pointed them put. 'I'd like to take you closer, but this is a south-west wind and it can be tricky.'
'Better safe than sorry,' she said. 'Can we stop?'
'Heave to, you mean. If you like.'
'It's not as if we're in anyone's way. I'd like to enjoy the scenery.'
Suits me, he thought as he cut to dead-slow.
She offered the hipflask again. He shook his head.
'So what do you think of me?' she asked. '1 know I shouldn't have been so nosy, following you this morning, but can I be forgiven? I won't tell a soul. Promise.'
'You'll tell anyone who wants to know,' he said. He was in a candid what-the-hell frame of mind. 'I don't blame you. I thought I was safe using another name all this way from the village.'
'Does it matter if they find out?'
'Yes. It matters. Come on, you know the score. They'll ask how I can afford a motor cruiser. They're suspicious of me already, some of them.'
'How
'By diverting church funds.'
A gasp. 'Oh, my God-you're kidding.'
'No. As you said, my stipend wouldn't pay for it.'
She stared at him, saucer-eyed. 'Let me get this clear. Are you telling me you're a crooked vicar?'
'That's a bit harsh, but yes. I take a cut of the parish income.'
'In expenses?'
He laughed. 'This is some expense.'
'Jesus. How do you square it with your conscience?'
'No problem. It's money we'd pay the diocese to keep the bishop's wine cellar stocked.'
'How do you square it with God, then?'
'He hasn't raised it with me, so I don't trouble him.'
Cynthia stared at him for a moment and then shook her head. 'Half the time I don't know whether to believe you. Isn't it one of the Ten Commandments: Thou shalt not steal?'
He gazed out to sea. 'Yes, I'm not too strong on the Commandments. I can truly say I've never coveted my neighbour's ox, but as for the rest…'
She wagged a finger. 'Otis, you're a wicked boy. Someone ought to teach you a lesson.'
She couldn't have picked a worse thing to say. Muscles were twitching in his face.
Her hand grabbed his wrist. 'Well, if you don't fancy playing the pirate chief, maybe I should. After what you just told me, sailor, I think you should feel the cat o'nine tails across your flanks.'
'Leave it, Cynthia.' He turned to glare at her and twisted his arm free.
'Cyn, if you like, since we're on the subject.' She must have used that joke before. Her mouth was curved into a seductive smile. 'If you can't take the cat, you'll have to settle for a spanking.'
'I'll pass on that.'
'I thought that was why men bought these huge boats, to have fun with their girlfriends. I wouldn't hurt you-much.'
She was giving enough openings for an orgy, only he had a different agenda.
'Why don't you put it on autopilot?' she suggested.
At last he sounded more enthusiastic. 'Top idea. Would you like to come up to the flybridge?'
'Naughty. What are you suggesting?'
'The deck above. Out in the open. Better view.'
'All right.'
'You'll need your coat.' He could have added, 'And a life jacket,' but he didn't.
Eighteen
After the build-up he'd given the carol singing, there was puzzlement when the rector failed to appear on Tuesday evening. Almost everyone else was there in warm clothes, some carrying lanterns, some their musical instruments. For twenty minutes they waited in the crisp evening air outside the church door. 'Happen he's not well,' somebody suggested, so Peggy Winner offered to knock at the rectory door. She got no reply. The place was in darkness. Then George Mitchell remembered that this was normally the rector's day off.
'I expect he's gone off for the day and forgotten,' said Peggy.
'Not our rector,' said George, who had become a staunch supporter through the Scrabble sessions. 'He's not the forgetful sort. 1 reckon he's held up somewhere. Trouble with the car, most like.' People tended to believe George because he was a policeman.
'Where would he have gone?' a woman asked.
Nobody could say.
'He gets up very early on his days off,' Burton Sands said as if early rising was suspicious behaviour. 'He could be miles away.'
'Disposing of another one,' murmured Owen Cumberbatch.
'What did you say?' said George Mitchell.
'Nothing at all, old boy. Not a word.'
They decided to start without the rector. If he turned up late, he would hear the singing and know where to look for them. They walked to the first group of houses and started with a good rallying carol, 'O Come, all ye faithful.'
'Knowing Otis and his flare for the dramatic, this is all set up for a huge surprise,' Peggy confided to Rachel after the last chorus was sung and the boxes rattled at the doorsteps. 'He's going to come up the street in a minute dressed as Santa Claus.'
'I doubt it,' said Rachel. 'Santa isn't part of the real Christmas story.'
'The Angel of the Lord, then,' said Peggy, laughing. 'With plastic wings and a ruddy great halo.'
Rachel didn't smile. Otis's absence worried her. And she was also puzzled as to why Cynthia hadn't turned out. She'd promised to be there.
During the walk from the first carol-stop to the second, and aided by the hipflasks being passed around, a subtle change took place. The singers, representing at least three-quarters of those who filled the church on Sundays, started to chat with a frankness they never managed after service, and much of the chat was critical of
