He shrugged helplessly. ‘Attendances are on the slide. We regularly suffer crime, as you’re no doubt aware. The latest missive from the bishop is that if we can’t turn things around, we’re likely to get closed. It’s happening everywhere these days. We have fewer priests, fewer Catholics, parishes are merging. But the last time I thought we faced this danger was in 1959, when the old Manchester Railway that used to run through here was decommissioned and the terraced neighbourhood that stood alongside it got demolished. Of course, they built Hatchwood Green soon after that, so everything looked peachy again.’

‘1959,’ Lucy said, impressed. ‘You’ve been here that long?’

‘I was a young deacon then. No more than twenty or twenty-one. I became the parish priest in 1977. I have to be honest … in all that time, I’ve never known events like these.’ He shook his head. ‘I should have realised they were too good to be true.’

‘You’re referring to this “manna from Heaven”?’

‘Yes.’ He sat up straight, bracing himself against the wooden backrest as though to ride out a storm. ‘As I say, the first time, it seemed like a Godsend. One morning, we emptied the collection box for the Church Structural Repair Fund – it’s over there near the font – and found an envelope inside it that was bulging at the seams. When we opened it, it was crammed with twenty-pound notes.’

‘How much would you say in total?’ Lucy asked.

‘Just over £2,000.’

‘And that kind of gift would be unusual?’

‘It certainly would here.’ He puffed his cheeks out. ‘To be honest, in an age when charity very firmly begins at home, I think it would be unusual anywhere.’

‘You checked that it was real money … not counterfeit?’

‘I followed some procedures that we found online. It appeared to be the real deal.’

‘And you’ve no idea who donated it?’

‘None at all.’ His eyes widened as though he was still surprised by the incident. ‘I mean … it could have been anyone. Someone could have come into the church during the day; we’re open during the week, as you’ve seen. It could even have happened during Mass. Quite often, it’s at Communion when people make donations to our various charities – usually on their way back from the altar rail.’

He relapsed into silence, as he pondered.

‘So, you thought this unusual,’ Lucy said, ‘but not unusual enough to report it?’

‘Report it to whom?’ He almost laughed. ‘The police? The diocese? What could they say? It’s not as if it’s illegal to make generous donations. But the truth is we were so gobsmacked at our good fortune that we praised the Lord and put it to the best use we could.’

Lucy flipped her pocketbook open, and took out a pen. ‘Okay, when would this have been?’