right choice was crucial.
Who can find a virtuous woman 7 , states the Book of Proverbs, for her price is far above rubies. Finding the right treasurer was about as difficult. And now that Joy thought about it, a woman was not a bad idea, virtuous or not.
THE CORONER'S officer in his police uniform called at the rectory about four in the afternoon. A civilised time. It was a golden September day and Otis Joy brought tea and cake into the garden. Not coconut pyramids, but a fine three-layer chocolate cake, a gift to the rector (with twenty-four pounds and a few pence in extra takings) from the recent coffee morning.
"It's about Stanley, of course?" he said striking the right note between chirpiness and respect for the dead;
"Only a few questions, Rector." PC George Mitchell was a Wiltshireman through and through, in his fifties now, calm, slow of speech, with a faint smile that rarely left him. The rector had long since learned to respect the intelligence behind soft West Country accents. "He was quite well known to you, I expect?"
"As one of the Church Council? Naturally."
"Treasurer."
"And a good one. He held the office for many years, didn't he? Long before I came."
"A demanding job, would you say?"
Otis Joy smiled and pointed to the piece of cake on PC Mitchell's plate.
Mitchell took a moment to see the point, then let his mouth relax into the start of a smile.
"It never depressed him, so far as I know," said Joy. "Is that what you're wondering?"
"The books appear to be in order. Up to date."
"They would be. Stanley was methodical, as a treasurer should be." He signalled a shift in tone by putting down his cup and saucer. "Nobody informed me you were taking away the church accounts. I have to say I take a dim view of that."
"I was acting for the coroner," said PC Mitchell without apologising. "We don't upset people for the sake of it, but when all's said and done, we have the job to do and the power to carry it out."
"When will we get them back?"
"Today, if you like. We've finished with them."
"Barking up the wrong tree, then?"
"We bark up all the trees, Rector."
A wasp was hovering over Otis Joy's cake. "The cause of Stanley's death is obvious, isn't it?"
"Not so much as you'd think. He didn't leave a note. That's unusual, him being so methodical."
"Surely the burglary ..."
"In my job, you learn not to make assumptions. I just assemble the facts for the coroner. When did you last see Stanley?"
The wasp had settled on the cake. It wouldn't move, even when a paper napkin was waved over it. "Now you're asking. I'm hopeless at remembering."
"But I expect you keep a diary. You'd need to, with all the things you have to do."
"Good thought. Did Stanley keep one?" Joy suggested as a diversion.
"None that we found." PC Mitchell leaned across and flicked the wasp off Joy's piece of cake with his fingernail, killing it outright. "I'd like to see yours."
"1 could fetch it if you like." The offer was half-hearted.
Mitchell gave a nod.
"But I can't let you take it away. I depend on it."
There was no reaction from the coroner's officer.
In the security of his study, Otis Joy turned to the relevant page of the diary. He was ninety-nine per cent sure he hadn't made a note of Stanley's visit on the day of his death. Stanley had not made an appointment. He had come at lunchtime, fretting over the burglary. The chance of anyone having seen him was slight. Mercifully the rectory was not overlooked. It stood at the end of a lane behind the church.
As he thought, there was no record of the visit in the diary.
Back in the garden, George Mitchell had finished his slice of cake, and was biting into a plum he had picked.
"It's just an appointments book," Joy explained. "Baptisms, weddings and funerals and the odd Parish Council meeting."
Mitchell licked his sticky fingers and wiped them on a paper napkin before handling the diary.
"This is the ninth, the day of the burglary."
"Is it? I wouldn't remember."
"You
Who can find a virtuous woman 7 , states the Book of Proverbs, for her price is far above rubies. Finding the right treasurer was about as difficult. And now that Joy thought about it, a woman was not a bad idea, virtuous or not.
THE CORONER'S officer in his police uniform called at the rectory about four in the afternoon. A civilised time. It was a golden September day and Otis Joy brought tea and cake into the garden. Not coconut pyramids, but a fine three-layer chocolate cake, a gift to the rector (with twenty-four pounds and a few pence in extra takings) from the recent coffee morning.
"It's about Stanley, of course?" he said striking the right note between chirpiness and respect for the dead;
"Only a few questions, Rector." PC George Mitchell was a Wiltshireman through and through, in his fifties now, calm, slow of speech, with a faint smile that rarely left him. The rector had long since learned to respect the intelligence behind soft West Country accents. "He was quite well known to you, I expect?"
"As one of the Church Council? Naturally."
"Treasurer."
"And a good one. He held the office for many years, didn't he? Long before I came."
"A demanding job, would you say?"
Otis Joy smiled and pointed to the piece of cake on PC Mitchell's plate.
Mitchell took a moment to see the point, then let his mouth relax into the start of a smile.
"It never depressed him, so far as I know," said Joy. "Is that what you're wondering?"
"The books appear to be in order. Up to date."
"They would be. Stanley was methodical, as a treasurer should be." He signalled a shift in tone by putting down his cup and saucer. "Nobody informed me you were taking away the church accounts. I have to say I take a dim view of that."
"I was acting for the coroner," said PC Mitchell without apologising. "We don't upset people for the sake of it, but when all's said and done, we have the job to do and the power to carry it out."
"When will we get them back?"
"Today, if you like. We've finished with them."
"Barking up the wrong tree, then?"
"We bark up all the trees, Rector."
A wasp was hovering over Otis Joy's cake. "The cause of Stanley's death is obvious, isn't it?"
"Not so much as you'd think. He didn't leave a note. That's unusual, him being so methodical."
"Surely the burglary ..."
"In my job, you learn not to make assumptions. I just assemble the facts for the coroner. When did you last see Stanley?"
The wasp had settled on the cake. It wouldn't move, even when a paper napkin was waved over it. "Now you're asking. I'm hopeless at remembering."
"But I expect you keep a diary. You'd need to, with all the things you have to do."
"Good thought. Did Stanley keep one?" Joy suggested as a diversion.
"None that we found." PC Mitchell leaned across and flicked the wasp off Joy's piece of cake with his fingernail, killing it outright. "I'd like to see yours."
"1 could fetch it if you like." The offer was half-hearted.
Mitchell gave a nod.
"But I can't let you take it away. I depend on it."
There was no reaction from the coroner's officer.
In the security of his study, Otis Joy turned to the relevant page of the diary. He was ninety-nine per cent sure he hadn't made a note of Stanley's visit on the day of his death. Stanley had not made an appointment. He had come at lunchtime, fretting over the burglary. The chance of anyone having seen him was slight. Mercifully the rectory was not overlooked. It stood at the end of a lane behind the church.
As he thought, there was no record of the visit in the diary.
Back in the garden, George Mitchell had finished his slice of cake, and was biting into a plum he had picked.
"It's just an appointments book," Joy explained. "Baptisms, weddings and funerals and the odd Parish Council meeting."
Mitchell licked his sticky fingers and wiped them on a paper napkin before handling the diary.
"This is the ninth, the day of the burglary."
"Is it? I wouldn't remember."
"You
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