Feeling relieved and a lot happier than yesterday, Jason went Christmas shopping for Emily. He bought a selection of items, including a gold chain and a cookbook he knew she wanted by the Israeli chef Yotam Ottolenghi, then drove out of Lewes and headed for Cold Hill village, through light, late-morning drizzle.

He turned off the main road and crossed the now-familiar humpback bridge. He slowed to take a look at the deserted cricket pitch, with its small wooden pavilion, thinking of ideas for cricketing scenes. He would come down and watch a game when the season began.

He drove on the short distance to St Mary’s, the decrepit-looking Norman church. It was set well back in a commandingly high position above the road and fronted by an ornate wooden lychgate set in a low, stone wall. Beyond was an uneven graveyard, filled with rows of weathered headstones, some partially concealed beneath the spreading branches of a massive, ancient yew tree, some almost toppled over. He could see a lot more graves beyond the rear of the church. He pulled up the BMW outside the house adjacent to the graveyard and climbed out.

A faded, barely legible sign he’d passed by the front gate said, VICARAGE.

It was a modest, somewhat square house of fairly modern construction. Peering closer, he could see the window frames and sills were all rotten – what little paint remaining on them was flaking. A number of slates were absent from the roof, several lying broken amid the weeds that covered what was once a front lawn, and the brickwork was in dire need of repointing. With some serious TLC on the house – and garden – it would actually be rather an attractive little property, given the location. He figured the Church must have sold off the original vicarage years before, unable to fund its maintenance. Not that they’d done a good job of looking after the replacement.

He struggled to open the gate, which was sagging badly on its rusted hinges, pushed it aside and walked up the mossy path to the front door. The closer he came, the sadder and more unloved the place looked. The phrase poor as a church mouse sprang into his mind, as he pushed the bell in its cracked plastic housing.

He couldn’t hear any ring.

He tried again.

Waited.

Nothing.

He rapped the corroded knocker.

Still silence.

He rapped again. The silence that followed was almost oppressive.

Deciding the vicar – and his wife – must be out, he walked back down the path. Just as he reached his car, he saw a figure he recognized from the pub, on Sunday, striding towards him. A wiry-looking elderly man, with white hair and a goatee beard, dressed in a baggy shirt with a spotted cravat, grey trousers and ancient walking boots, and carrying a stout, knobbly stick.

His name was Harry something, Jason recalled. ‘Hi!’ he said as he drew near. ‘We met briefly on Sunday, in the pub.’