Come on, Lancelot, he told himself, ride it well. He pulled his hat down over his eyes, crouched over the wheel of the Volks, and raked at the accelerator. He was back now within the parish boundary, riding the home range, big boss Conroy, the fastest gun in the outfit!

One of his less trusty hands was on the road before him, the postman wavering homeward on his daily round. At the sound of the car, the fellow pedaled over to the left, jumped off, and pulled his bicycle in toward the ditch in mock alarm. He waved, and Father Conroy drew up reluctantly.

“Lord save us, Father, that was a fair clip you were going!”

“Something for me, Tim?” He wasn’t in the mood to be bantered. The fellow was settling himself for a long talk, peering into the car like a camel, to try to see where Father Conroy might have been. A camel’s thirst he had too, as Father Conroy well knew.

“I left it up at the house, Father. One of them brown ones. Ah, sure, it didn’t look very interesting – an oul’ bill, I’d say.” He waited until Father Conroy impatiently shoved the gear into first, then added, “Your uncle James was there.”

“James?”

“He went off again, Father. Couldn’t wait. Sure, he’s like yourself, always on the go.”

“You’re sure he went away?”

“Oh yes, Father.” And as the car moved off, he called, “He’ll be back, though, you may be sure.”

Father Conroy drove the car around by the side of the house and right into the yard, then shut the yard gate. The back door was on the latch; he locked it, in case James returned, and stood a moment, considering his own impregnability. Should he draw the curtains on the front windows? Maybe not. James would notice and, anyway, had probably seen all he wanted to see, with hands cupped against the glass.

In the kitchen, he sat down and rested his elbows on the table. There were still the day’s visits to make; there was dinner to get, but here he was now, under siege, waiting for the enemy to make the first move. By God, he thought, leaning forward on the table and burying his head in his hands, I’m not in form for this. To tell the truth, I’m bloody well beat.

He thought of his bed upstairs, tempted to make the long journey up to it, to crawl into its rumpled warmth. But no, he had never yet lain down by day, not even for a cold or a bout of flu, and he wasn’t going to run the risk of being surprised by James, wasting time on the flat of his back.