‘In my experience, Mrs Tregonning,’ he said, with a light smile that took years off his kindly face, ‘the interruption of a laboured sermon can bring forth the very ingredient one needs to write one of excellence.’

‘Very well, Reverend,’ she said, disappearing from the door but continuing to speak, ‘as you please, I’m sure you know best. I’ll show him in, hope it’s not bad news about his dear mother, poor soul…’

As the housekeeper’s voice faded the Reverend speedily tidied up his desk to show no signs of his mental and spiritual labour, then he rose and took up a position in the middle of the room. He always did this when welcoming a caller, expected or not, not wanting them to believe they were a nuisance or wasting his valuable time. He wanted his flock to feel able to unburden themselves of their troubles or if they had joyful news not to dampen their pleasure. For the finishing touch he created a flexible stance and loosened his features, ready to rearrange them the instant he knew why the caller was here.

Mrs Tregonning ushered Bartholomew into the study with an air of total disinterest. It belied her true character, but this was necessary if the parishioners were to feel they could speak to the Reverend in complete confidence.

Reverend Ivey held out his hand, automatically adopting a fatherly expression as he attempted to read the youth’s eyes.

Bartholomew glanced around the room which smelled faintly of the lavender water the Reverend drank to ward off headaches. He wanted to be sure no other person was there before shaking hands.

‘Thank you for seeing me at once,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s difficult to find spare time to see you and I want to discuss something that can’t wait.’

‘There’s no need for concern, Bartholomew. Please sit yourself down. Can I offer you some refreshment?’

‘Not for me, thank you.’ Bartholomew chose the chair opposite the desk and waited for the parson to be seated. ‘I’ve come about my mother.’

‘I rather thought it might be about your mother. Has her condition worsened?’