The Reaper

by Peter Lovesey

  "It's not going to make any difference now," she said without giving a straight answer. "Gary's gone, and that's it."

  "You have a right to know, Rachel. Old Perkins could have put anything down. He's a touch absent-minded."

  "I think it's sealed."

  "But only just. Would you like me to open it and see what he put?"

  "I don't know if we should."

  "Nobody said we shouldn't."

  "All right, but be careful," she called from the kitchen, not wanting him to know she had looked inside the envelope already, and sealed it again.

  She brought in the coffee.

  "Coronary occlusion," he told her. "An occlusion is blockage of a coronary artery. A heart attack, in other words."

  "You're well up on the jargon."

  "It goes with the job. I'm often called when someone is not long for this world. Or just after. The good news is that he hasn't initialled the form on the back."

  "What would that mean?"

  "Whenever there's anything iffy about the cause of death, the doctor says so on the certificate and initials the back, to show he's reported it to the coroner. This one couldn't be more straightforward. You take it to the registrar and get the death certificate. We can fix the funeral as early as you like. That's if Gary would have wanted a Christian service."

  "He would, I'm sure."

  "So?"

  "The sooner the better."

  "It's Saturday now. Tuesday morning?"

  "Isn't that your day off?"

  He sacrificed his day off with a flap of the hand. "Did Gary ever express any preference about burial or cremation?"

  "Not really. He never thought about dying. You don't, do you, at our age? Black, or white?"

  "A dash of milk, please. Most people choose cremation these days."

  "That's it, then."

  "Is anyone helping you with the arrangements?"

  "Cynthia Haydenhall. She's a good friend, a great support. She'll come with me to the register office."

  "I found myself beside her at the harvest supper." He made it sound like pure chance.

  Rachel suppressed her first smile since Gary died.

  "Full of the joys of life," he said.

  "That's Cynthia." She sat across the room from him, in Gary's chair, as proper as a Victorian lady 'at home' with a guest.

  "And on message. Not much in the village escapes your friend."

  It sounded very like a caution. She gave a smile that said she didn't need warning about Cynthia.

  He changed tack. "Oddly enough, I spoke to your husband only yesterday. First he came up to me in the street. He'd met someone with a similar name to mine."

  "No," she corrected him. "He met someone who knew someone called Otis Joy."

  "Was that it? I got muddled, then."

  "But you didn't mind?"

  "Not in the least. It's one of those things. The laws of chance make it likely that someone, somewhere in the world, will share the name, and somebody I run into at some stage in my life will know of it."

  "The long arm of coincidence."

  "Right." He looked into his coffee. "Actually there was another matter Gary wanted to talk about."

  She blushed. "You and me?"

  "Well, yes. He was all fired up. Seemed to have the idea-"

  "I know," she broke in, acutely embarrassed. "Gary was like that, quick to think the worst of me. Quite mistaken, couldn't have been more wrong. I tried to stop him speaking to you, but he would insist. He wasn't violent, was he?"

  "No, no. I defused him. Invited him up to the rectory for a man-to-man chat, as they say. By the end of the afternoon, when he came, he'd calmed down a lot. It was civilised. He accepted a drink, listened to my version of events-everything I told him was the truth, by the way, though I didn't go into unnecessary detail-and went away with a better opinion of us both."

  It all sounded so simple, find she could believe it now.

  "Thank you. I wish …" She didn't complete the sentence.

  He made a dismissive gesture. "By the way, Rachel, I can easily arrange for someone else to take over the books, at least for a time."

  For a moment she wasn't sure what he was talking about. "Oh, the parish accounts. No, I can manage. Really. I'll be glad to have something to do."

  "I'll visit you anyway," he said, clearing his throat. "It's one of the duties of a priest to comfort the bereaved. If you need comfort, that is."

  "I do. Please come," she said. "I'm not sure about comfort. As you know, Gary and I weren't all that close as a couple. It's a matter of getting used to being alone, I suppose."

  "And we must talk about the funeral, choice of hymns, and so forth. We can do a simple committal at the crematorium if you wish."

  A simple committal. How boring. She looked down at her wedding ring and turned it and the frivolous part of her character stirred. "I had something else in mind. It's not very practical, but I'd love to give him the sort of send-off they do in New Orleans, with a procession and jazz musicians serenading the coffin along the street."

  "In Foxford?"

  "It would be different."

  He was frowning. For once, this supremely confident man was unsure how to react. "Are you sure you want that? I thought you had a low opinion of jazz."

  "It's Gary's funeral, not mine."

  "True." He was still hesitant. "It's an amazing thought. I just assumed you'd want something low-key."

  "Like I said, this is for Gary." She wasn't being honest here. This was not just for Gary. She wanted it herself. It was inspired. She didn't want to be the main player at the funeral, with all eyes watching to see how distressed she was-or wasn't.

  As if he sensed that she wouldn't be budged from this eccentric idea, he snapped his fingers and laughed. "Hey, I love it! A procession to the Pearly Gates. He'd be so proud." Then as a sudden difficulty struck him: "But can we find a band at such short notice?"

  She brushed that small problem aside. "His friends will do it, I'm sure. I think they used to jam together occasionally."

  It was evident that the lady's mind was made up and the best Otis Joy could do was bite the bullet. "If I know anything about jazzmen, they take any chance to launch into a spot of Dixieland. They probably know other musicians, too. Let's do this in style."

  Thirteen

  There was a complication when Rachel went with Cynthia to register the death. Neither of them much liked the fussy little man who took them through the form, but that need not have mattered. When they'd supplied all the information, including things Rachel considered unnecessary, such as her own date of birth, he asked if she had decided about the method of disposal.

  Cynthia glared at him as if he'd broken wind. "That's a horrible way of putting it."

  He said, "Madam, I know of no phrase that expresses the matter more tastefully."

  "You could say his last journey. 'Have you decided anything about his last journey?' "

  "It wouldn't do. People would think I was talking about the hearse."

  "There must be better words you could use. Let's face it, you're dealing with someone who has just lost her dear husband."

  "Personally," he said, drawing himself up, "it jars with me when people speak of losing their relatives, as if they expect them to turn up at a lost property office."

  "Leave it, Cyn," said Rachel. Turning to the registrar, she said firmly, "I've chosen cremation."

  "That was the deceased's wish?"

  "He expressed no wish. That's my decision."

  He said, "I only ask because there are certain formalities that your doctor may not have explained. Before a cremation can be authorised, a second doctor must examine the-er-remains."

  "Why?"

  "The law requires it, Mrs. Jansen. Just a safeguard. The doctor will visit the mortuary. It needn't concern you."

  "But it does concern me. We've supplied the death certificate. What's all this about?"

  Cynthia, trying to be helpful, said, "You can get on
e of Dr. Perkins' partners from the health centre."

  "Not a partner," the registrar corrected her. "This must be an independent opinion from a medical practitioner of at least five years' standing. He must certify that he knows of no reasonable cause to suspect that the deceased died either a violent or an unnatural death, or a sudden death of which the cause is unknown."

  Cynthia said, "He was being treated for heart disease, for heaven's sake."

  "That's the point of a second opinion. If there's any uncertainty, that doctor informs the coroner, and a post mortem is held."

  "I don't want that," said Rachel impulsively. "I hate the idea of it. We'll have him buried."

  "Don't let him sway you, love," said Cynthia.

  "I've decided."

  The registrar said, "I should warn you that a burial is more expensive."

  "So be it. Gary has suffered enough. I want him laid to rest without any more doctors interfering."

  Otis, when she told him on the phone, sounded surprised.

  "I just want to get on with the funeral," she explained. "No red tape. No second opinions. I know what doctors are like. It could have been referred to the coroner. This way, we can give him his send-off, as planned, on Tuesday."

  "Do you have a plot?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "A place in a cemetery."

  "That plot. Yes. At Haycombe. I wouldn't want him in Fox-ford churchyard."

  Jazz sessions can be found in most towns most weekends, but funeral gigs are something else. Foxford had seen nothing like it. Come to that, the whole of Wiltshire had seen nothing like it, and maybe the whole of England. From an early hour on Tuesday morning, people started claiming the prime positions along the village street. They stood about waiting, cheerful without being rowdy. Some sat or stood on the drystone walls and a few dropped cigarette packets and drink cans into village gardens, but no serious damage was done and the mood was respectful. The cars, minibuses and coaches were directed into one of Norman Gregor's fields at the approach to the village. Free, but compulsory parking, with a police barrier to enforce it.

  In the two days since it was arranged, Gary's New-Orleans-style send-off had caught the public imagination to such an extent that jazz bands were being bussed in from as far away as Brixton to join the procession. The story had been in the Sunday tabloids, on television and radio. Camera crews were setting up at all the obvious vantage points along the street and above it on scaffolding. The service would be relayed on loudspeakers because there was no way everyone could crowd into the church.

  Rachel was caught off guard by all the interest. Having suggested the street procession herself, she could hardly call it off, but she had no idea that the jazz community would find it such a draw. The phone had gone so often over the weekend that she'd had to have her calls redirected to a public relations agency. They made it clear she was not available for interviews.

  Others in the village were happy to talk, and Gary got a better press than he deserved, because no one wanted to be heard speaking ill of the dead. In death, a pig of a man had become not just a Very Important Person but a great lad, popular all round, who loved his jazz, liked his pint in the local and had a good word for everyone. Never gave a hint of his heart problem. To be cut down at forty-two was cruel.

  The organisation of the music was taken over by a black trumpeter from Bristol who called himself King Gumbo and had a sixteen-strong band. In keeping with New Orleans tradition, the shuffling progress to the church was to be solemn and plaintive, a slow blues march. Other bands would take their cue from King Gumbo's beat. Later, after the cremation, there would be another procession through Foxford, when the mood of the music would become playful and irreverent.

  Not everyone in the village thought all this was a good idea. One or two called it a freak show and worse, but the majority were willing to keep an open mind and joined in cheerfully. Otis Joy had announced the arrangements in church on Sunday, urging everyone to respect Gary's love of jazz, move to the rhythm and rejoice in the Lord.

  The main assembly point was in front of the Foxford Arms (not yet open for business). King Gumbo, magnificent in black tails with gold satin lapels and epaulettes, top hat, white gloves and a huge gold-fringed Gumbo Jazz Band sash across his chest, marshalled the marchers as well as anyone can marshal jazz musicians. Five bands and several solo players-totalling seventy or more-drew up in formation across the street, brass instruments gleaming in the pale October sun.

  Hats were removed in respect when someone spotted the hearse approaching the village along the lane. What wreaths covered the big black Daimler! The roof rack was a mass of colour and the coffin hardly visible for floral tributes shaped into trumpets, saxophones, tubas and drums. Rachel's wreath was a huge music stave made of white Arum lilies. She arrived with two of Gary's jazz friends and took her position behind the hearse. She was in a new black coat with artificial fur trimming and a black straw hat. When she saw the crowds she had a moment of panic and thought of going straight to the church, but having suggested the whole thing she had no choice except to join in.

  A whistle blast from King Gumbo at the head of the procession alerted everyone. The Gumbo band drummer began a slow beat. Responding to a plaintive note from King Gumbo's muted trumpet, the saxes took up the touching blues melody "Spider Crawl." Trumpet and clarinet combined and spoke to each other between the twelve-bar chord sequence. Further back in the line, other bands blended in. Swaying, taking tiny flat-footed steps, the leaders of this extraordinary cortege took the first steps up Foxford's street towards the church. The hearse crawled behind them and after the hearse came Rachel, walking alone at the head of; a column of mourners from the village.

  The strains of "Just a Closer Walk with Thee" took oven The crowd listened respectfully, many swaying to the music. Gary, everyone agreed, would have approved.

  They took almost forty minutes to reach the church, only six hundred yards off. At regular intervals King Gumbo stopped and bobbed and swayed to the beat, and everyone was compelled to do the same. The hearse-driver quietly cursed and kept the engine running and thought about asking for a higher fee. But all along the route, the visitors enjoyed the music and the spectacle, following along and joining the end of the procession.

  Otis Joy waited at the lychgate of St. Bartholomew's to receive the coffin, dressed simply in black cassock. Behind him, the church was full except for the places reserved for the principal mourners and the Gumbo Jazz Band. "I am the resurrection and the life…" he began, when the coffin was finally withdrawn from the hearse and borne towards him. Hundreds came to a halt, in the churchyard and a long way back along the street.

  Inside the church, the coffin, with just Rachel's wreath resting on it, was lowered onto trestles. Rachel took her place in the front pew. She was the only family mourner, but she had Gary's jazz friends sitting beside her. They had helped choose the hymns, gospel numbers movingly sung by a choir that specialised in spirituals. That line of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot"- coming for to carry me home-had a poignancy she had never been aware of before. She pressed a Kleenex to the corner of her eye.

  And Otis was equal to the occasion when the time came, finding noble things to say about a man who had not had a noble thought in his life. " 'Behold, I show you a mystery,' " he began with a text from St. Paul. " 'We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed. In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump: for the trumpet shall sound and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed.' "

  He spread his hands, his voice subdued. "Never in its long history has our church echoed to such singing. Gary's devoted wife Rachel and his friends decided this was what he would have liked, and how right they were. He loved his jazz. It's a strong consolation in a time of great sadness that he managed to visit New Orleans shortly before his final heart attack. Gary was not specially religious by temperament, but he found spirituality in music, and he would rejoice that the music he loved has provided th
is marvellous send-off today. He was taken from us at only forty-two, gathered, very suddenly, on the evening of our harvest supper. He could have told you of great jazzmen who died young, like Bix Beiderbecke and Charlie Parker. I'm often asked for a reason why good men and women are sometimes taken from us prematurely. We have to accept it. In those words I spoke from the Prayer Book, "The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away." Our thoughts now must be with Rachel. May she come through the grief of the present days and find peace. For Gary, there is peace already. Like Mr. Valiant-for-Truth in The Pilgrim's Progress, 'So he passed over, and the trumpets sounded for him on the other side.' And today in our village they sounded for Gary on this side as well."

  After the service, the Gumbo Jazz Band serenaded the coffin with the "Beale Street Blues," a number traditionally played in slow-drag tempo. Then the hearse was driven to Haycombe for the burial. Rachel had resisted all suggestions of using a plot in the village churchyard.

  Inside the cemetery gates, the undertaker (who had been rather upstaged by King Gumbo) had his moment of attention, walking in front of the cortege wearing his top hat. Rachel and the jazz friends went to the graveside with Otis, who spoke the words of committal. Quietly, they took leave of Gary.

  On their return to Foxford they were greeted with the enlivening blare of "When the Saints Go Marching In" played lustily by King Gumbo and his lads. This was up-tempo time. The mutes were off, the top hats were back on and the music swelled. All the bands joined in, giving full vent to their playing, bobbing, stomping and swinging to the end of the street and back again, ending at the pub.

  King Gumbo sank two glasses of beer in a short time and said, "Man, oh man, that was some boogaloo."

  In Rachel's cottage, over cheese and wine, the real Foxford people, friends and neighbours, had come, as if to reclaim the occasion for the village. Long after the camera crews and jazz bands had gone, this was the community that would help the young widow adjust to her changed life. More humdrum than big drum, as Bill Armistead put it. The talk was subdued compared to the bedlam in the pub, but all agreed it had been a day to remember. "And wasn't the rector wonderful, the things he said?" Peggy Winner enthused. "I was so proud of him. He had me in floods of tears, and between ourselves I was never very fond of Gary."