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thought. ‘And she’s supposed to stay here with us? In this house? Where would we put her?’
    â€˜On the sofa bed, of course.’
    David frowned. ‘For three weeks? It would be all right for a night or two, I’m sure, but for three weeks? Rather in the way, I’d think. And she’s bound to have great quantities of clothes, and other bits and pieces – teenage girls do, don’t they? She’d probably leave her things all over the place. This house just isn’t big enough for three people.’ Lucy looked at him quizzically, and in an instant he saw the danger in that line of reasoning: it was after all her house, not his, and if he wasn’t careful, he’d find himself the one without a place to stay for three weeks. ‘Oh, never mind,’ he muttered, then effected a rapid change of subject. ‘More wine, Lucy love? The bottle’s almost empty.’
    CHAPTER 2
    Â Â Â Â  Nevertheless, when he saw their adversity: he heard their complaint.
    Psalm 106.43
    For the past several minutes, the only sound in the parlour of the clergy house had been the loud ticking of the longcase clock in the corner. Seated opposite each other on expensively upholstered chairs, the two churchwardens remained silent, regarding each other uneasily.
    The two men had little in common, save their office – and their high churchmanship. Martin Bairstow, the younger of the two, was a wealthy man, having made his fortune in the City. Single-minded, he had early in life directed his energies to the amassing of wealth, and that accomplished most satisfactorily, he now devoted his time outside work to being the most conscientious and hard-working churchwarden that St Margaret’s Church had ever known. He was still only in his mid-forties, and was possessed of looks that most women found handsome, if somewhat stolid: he was large and well-built, his thick dark hair was only slightly threaded with grey, and his features were pleasingly even, though dominated by a heavy jaw.
    Norman Topping, on the other hand, looked the part of the amiable buffoon, with his peculiar bullet-shaped head and his comical jug ears; what little hair he had was in the form of colourless stubble. He was short and slightly flabby, and his deep, somewhat nasal voice betrayed his northern origins. Topping was good-natured and amiable, but completely without imagination. Nearly sixty, and approaching retirement from his career as a mid-level civil servant, he had been churchwarden of St Margaret’s for a number of years.
    The clock chimed four o’clock; Norman Topping jumped slightly, drawing a bemused and somewhat contemptuous look from his fellow warden. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘I thought he would have been here by now.’
    Unnecessarily, Bairstow looked at his handsome gold watch. ‘He’s thirty minutes late,’ he confirmed. ‘It’s not like the Vicar to be late.’
    They turned expectantly as the door of the sitting room opened, but if they thought to see a contrite Father Keble Smythe, they were disappointed. Instead the housekeeper made a diffident entrance. ‘It’s gone four,’ she said. ‘I can’t think what’s keeping Father, but I thought that perhaps you might like some tea.’
    Used to making decisions, Bairstow agreed instantly. ‘Yes, thank you, Mrs Goode. That would be very nice.’
    â€˜Yes, a cup of tea would go down a treat,’ Topping seconded.
    â€˜If it’s not too much trouble, Mrs Goode,’ added Bairstow with his most winning smile. ‘It’s most kind of you to offer.’
    Martin Bairstow was a particular favourite with Mrs Goode, as he was with a great many middle-aged and older ladies in the parishes of St Margaret and St Jude: excellent and devout Anglican women every one, who appreciated his consideration and his various little kindnesses towards them, and who regularly confessed to