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dramatically.
    â€˜All right, I will.’
    â€˜You will what?’ David looked at her in surprise.
    â€˜I’ll see it. I’ll go with you when you go to fulfil Lady Constance’s last wish.’
    â€˜But why . . . ?’
    Lucy smiled with satisfaction. ‘I’ve been meaning to tell you all evening. An art gallery in Norwich – the Bridewell Gallery, I don’t know if you know it – is going to have an exhibition of my paintings, beginning next month. It opens the day before that, Saturday the thirtieth of March, and they want me to come up for the opening. I was going to ask you whether you’d be prepared to put me up in Wymondham for the weekend, and to escort me to the opening.’
    â€˜Yes, of course. But . . .’
    â€˜That’s settled, then. And on the Sunday we can go to Walsingham.’ She laughed at the look on his face. ‘Don’t worry, David! You’ve got over six weeks to clean your house! And I promise I won’t wear my gloves to look for dust.’
    The rest of the evening passed quickly, with lazy conversation and soft music. Over the sound of the music they could hear the wind; it had been a very cold day, and the night would be even colder. But the room was snug and cosy and dark, with the fire providing the only illumination. Sophie, Lucy’s marmalade cat, for some reason much preferred David’s lap to any other, and had been curled there for hours, a warm, purring ball of fur. But when the clock chimed midnight David rose with a groan. ‘Time to get on to Daphne’s, I suppose. She’ll probably be waiting up for me. At least I’ve got my car – it would be a long, cold walk tonight!’ Lucy fetched his coat and went with him to the door, where he gave her the customary affectionate but chaste kiss on the cheek. ‘Good night, Lucy – thanks for the lovely meal, and a lovely evening. I’ll see you tomorrow, around the usual time.’
    â€˜Good night, David.’ She stifled a sigh as she stood at the open door, oblivious to the cold, and watched him climb into his car with a final wave. When will he realise – will he ever realise, she thought, that sometimes you have to take happiness where you find it? Not where you wish you could find it, or where you think it should be found, but where it is? She was wise enough to know that he must discover that for himself; it would be madness to rush him. The sigh escaped unnoticed as she bolted the door, switched off the hall light, and went up the stairs to bed.
    CHAPTER 3
    Â Â Â Â  For they grieved him with their hill-altars: and provoked him to displeasure with their images.
    Psalm 78.59
    It was a raw, drizzly day when the Reverend Bob Dexter paid his first visit to the parish church of St Mary the Virgin, South Barsham, Norfolk. He went on a Sunday afternoon, when all the members of his future flock were safely at home tucking into their Sunday lunches.
    The church presented a less than prepossessing aspect to him as he approached on foot, his car stowed on the grass verge opposite the Two Magpies pub. Last autumn’s leaves still choked the uncut grass between the rakishly tilted gravestones in the churchyard, and the unclipped yew trees dripped dankly on his head as he passed beneath them; Bob Dexter smoothed the unwelcome drops from his wavy hair. A few stubbornly optimistic early daffodils, huddling in the shelter of the church walls, showed defiant yellow faces to the overgrown elderberry bushes.
    It was a long, low building, typical in Norfolk flint. Over the years the churchyard had risen around its walls, giving it a sunken appearance. That probably meant that there would be problems with damp, he thought. The tower was at the west end, and its door, sturdy and weathered, had clearly not been opened for years. Bob Dexter approached the small north porch. Over its door was a small niche holding a plaster statue of the Virgin