"I think he must have spent most of his time on the Costa del Sol calling at churches instead of relaxing in the sun. Eventually he found a priest who produced a wooden box containing foreign coins, some of them English. They did their little deal, and Stanley returned with six coins of the realm. I congratulated him. He said yes, it was progress, but unfortunately the coins had been kept a long time. They were pennies of the old sort, no longer legal tender. However, he hoped we might be able to sell them. They went into the toffee tin.
"Not to be beaten, he got in touch with a coin dealer, who offered to come and look at them. Pennies of certain years when not many were minted can be worth quite a bit of money, we discovered. Our hopes were raised. But the pennies from Spain turned out be common ones and the dealer wasn't willing to make an offer. Then-of all;things-the dealer took an interest in the toffee tin. It was at least fifty years old, he said, and people collected old tins, so he gave us a fiver for it. Five pounds for a rusty old tin! Truly the Lord works in mysterious ways. So now we keep the pennies with all the foreign coins in a plastic Tupperware box and whenever I see it I think of Stanley's broad smile when his efforts finally paid off."
After the service, the coffin was taken to a local crematorium where the close family took leave of Stanley at the short committal conducted by Otis Joy. A younger brother from Leicester said a day that could have been an ordeal had been made uplifting by the rector's sensitive handling.
Back at the cottage, Stanley's family had got in a few salad things, some cooked meats and cheeses. And there was wine. It didn't amount to anything so riotous as a wake, but everyone was welcomed and the mood was relaxed and positive.
Stanley's brother Edward brought the rector a cup of tea and said, "I was wondering if by any chance you're from Market Harborough. There are quite a few Joys there."
"I'm sure there are. No, I've been asked before. No connection. I'm not sure where my family originated. Father travelled all over Europe. He was an acrobat."
"What-with a circus?"
"You name one-he was in it."
"And did you learn circus skills?"
"Am I one of the Joys of Spring? Not really. My parents died when I was seven. I could juggle a bit, once."
"Don't you keep it up?"
The rector laughed. "Not much call for juggling in the Church of England. As for walking the tight rope …"
"Well, you need confidence to stand up and preach a sermon, I'm sure."
"True. But I have off days. Then I'm tempted to wake everyone up by walking up the aisle on my hands."
He moved into another room, spotted Rachel, and went over.
She was coping quite well one-handed, drinking tea, until he approached. The hand with the cup jerked and some slopped onto the carpet.
"Clumsy," she said, annoyed with herself. "Will it stain?"
"It won't trouble Stanley if it does."
The ends of her mouth curved. "True."
"I was about to ask how you're coping."
"Quite well until a moment ago."
"Back at work yet?"
"Yes. They make allowances."
He looked about him to make sure no one else was listening. "Ever done any simple accounting?"
Rachel pricked up her eyebrows in a look of mild alarm. "I leave all that to my husband."
"But you know the principles, I'm sure. Double entry bookkeeping, that sort of thing?"
"We had a few lessons at school. I don't think I shone, exactly. Why?"
He shrugged. "A wild guess. You have this aura of efficiency. I can picture you whipping out a calculator when you go shopping."
She was laughing. "An aura of efficiency! I've had some things said about me, but that's a first."
"Sorry," he said. "I guess that's the last thing a lady wishes to hear. I'm not very tactful, am I? I tell the prettiest woman in the village she's efficient."
She flushed scarlet. "That's a first as well."
He pointed to his collar. "With this on, Rachel, I can speak the truth without fear or favour. You know more about figure-work than you let on."
He moved off to another, group. Rachel remained where she was, dazed and disbelieving., j
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 return
ed 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.
"No, the police. They found it on his bill from Visa. You see, his state of mind on the night he died has to be investigated. There's got to be an inquest. They reckon he was so ashamed after using the sex line that he killed himself."
"Poor bloke." She felt guilty now, for laughing.
"He'd marked his bible at some passage about harlots. It was found in the car with a porn mag."
"That's awful."
"Of course it won't get out," Cynthia said. "They're going to keep it confidential."
Some chance, with you telling all and sundry, thought Rachel. "Surely it will have to be made public at the inquest?"
Cynthia was at her most irritating now, airing her supposed inside knowledge. "There's no need for that. In a case like this, the police tell the coroner ahead of time and he agrees to take certain bits of the evidence as read. It won't affect the verdict. There's enough to show that he meant to commit suicide. I mean, you don't drive your car into a quarry and park it at the top by accident."
"But they have to show he was depressed."
"That's no problem usually. Bishops are under a lot of stress. Someone will say he was overworked and worried about his health, or the state of the world. It's the best way to handle a sensitive case like this."
"Maybe," said Rachel, not entirely convinced.
"For the sake of the Church."
"And his family, I reckon. Did he have a wife?"
"No, but there are two sisters in their seventies. They wouldn't want the sordid details in the papers."
The facts were clear. Little else of substance needed saying, but Cynthia plainly didn't want to leave it.
"Of course, you know why some men want to be humiliated like that, don't you? I've heard the excuse that it goes back to the public school system, canings, and so on, but it goes much deeper than that. It's all about guilt. They're men with troubled consciences. Their minds are filled with lustful thoughts about women, and they feel so guilty that the only remedy is a good thrashing. It's the natural thing, really-for men of that sort, anyway. I don't think women are like that at all. Suffering is built into our lives, our monthly cycles, childbirth. Guys don't have any of that. They need punishing."
"You sound as if you wouldn't mind dishing some out," ventured Rachel, as the wine talked.
Cynthia smiled and took another sip, becoming skittish. "Why not, if they're attractive men? I could name a few bottoms I wouldn't mind beating."
"Bishops?"
"God, no. They'd be flabby and covered in pimples."
"Who, then? Name them. You said you would." Rachel could be just as shameless as Cynthia at stoking up the girl-talk.
"I said I could. I didn't say I would."
"Go on," she coaxed her.
Cynthia hid most of her face behind the wineglass. "Michael Owen, Leonardo DiCaprio, Johnny Depp."
"I thought you were talking about people we know."
"I couldn't"
"Couldn't do it or couldn't say?"
"You've made me all flustered now."
"Never. Attractive men, you said. Are there any in Foxford?"
"Several. All I'm willing to say is that they're under thirty and not at all like the bishop." Cynthia reached for the bottle and filled her glass again. "My idea is that they deserve a good beating and have to report to me and bend over my laundry basket for me to administer six of the best. And I make it sting."
"Wow!" said Rachel. The detail of the laundry basket gave Cynthia's whimsy unexpected substance. This was a full-blown fantasy. "So what have they done to deserve this?"
"Oh, passed me in their car without offering me a lift. Or ignored me in the village shop."
"You're very severe."
Cynthia smirked. "Only on the ones I secretly fancy. If I'm feeling lenient I wait for a second offence. It's only in my head, so it doesn't really hurt anyone."
Rachel was imagining some innocent bloke accepting an invitation to a meal in Cynthia's cottage.
"The other day, after the church fete, when you didn't get invited back to the rectory did you …?"
"Take it out on the rector? You bet I did. He got a right seeing-to."
"Oh, Cynthia!"
"Well, it wasn't very nice of him, considering all the work I do for the church. You're going to tell me it
wasn't deliberate, just an oversight, and perhaps it was, but he ought to have thought of me first-well, among the first."
"Hey," said Rachel, "do you think he knows about the bishop? Would they tell him?"
"I'm sure he doesn't. The clergy are the last people they would tell. It might undermine their respect for bishops in general."
"Or give them ideas."
"I don't think Otis is in any danger of going the way of the bishop," said Cynthia. "I hope not, anyway."
Yes, ducky, thought Rachel, it would ruin your steamy little fantasy if he enjoyed being whacked.
Soon after, with no sign of another bottle being opened, Cynthia got up and left, no doubt to startle someone else with her privileged information.
Seven
Bad news for the confirmation class. Their service was postponed because of the death of the bishop. Immediately Burton Sands demanded to know why another bishop couldn't take over. The church was an inefficient organisation if it couldn't cope with a sudden death. There were over a hundred diocesan and suffragen bishops in the country and surely one of them could step in.
This bloke is a pain, thought Otis Joy before answering patiently, "In theory you're right, Burton. There's nothing to stop us inviting another bishop, but this is our diocese, and we think it's rather special, like a family. It wouldn't be the same without our own bishop."
"But our own bishop died last week. The one who confirms us is going to be a stranger, whoever he is."
"Or she," chipped in Ann Porter.
"There's no such thing as a woman bishop in the C of E," said Neary.
"So what's the delay?" asked Sands, not wanting to get into that debate.
"These things can't be rushed," said Joy. "All kinds of consultation has to take place."
"And praying," John Neary helpfully reminded him.
"Praying as well, yes."
"Would you go for it?" Ann Porter asked.
"Go for…?"
"Bishop."
"Me?" Joy laughed. "I'm just a baby. They won't take anyone under thirty. That's official. What's more, you have to be of good character."
"Is that a problem in your case?"
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