‘What’s going on, Pa?’ I said.

He tipped his head in the direction of the study. ‘Diocesan men are here,’ he whispered. ‘Close the door. They’re going through the accounts with Mr Blackman.’

‘Why aren’t you helping them?’

He shrugged. ‘They asked me to leave.’

As I went over to put my arm round him, their reason became obvious. Tucked down beside Pa in the armchair was an empty bottle, and two further bottles lay on the floor beside him. The stink of alcohol was unmistakeable. At midday on a weekday morning, my father was drunk. My world seemed to crumble around me, but I took a breath and tried to gather myself.

‘What on earth, Pa?’ I said, holding up one of the bottles.

He looked up at me shamefaced, his eyes bloodshot. Like a scolded dog.

‘I’m going to find Mrs D, and make you some coffee.’

‘Gone to the market.’ Of course, it was market day. Perhaps it was just as well she was not here to witness my father’s humiliation. But her absence meant Pa had had free access to the pantry where the beer was kept, without her vigilant eyes to deter him.

There were voices in the hallway outside, and a knock at the door.

‘Mr Goddard? Are you there?’

I went to the door and came face-to-face with a tubby grey-haired man in a dog collar and a smart suit.

‘My father is not feeling well,’ I said, standing in the doorway to block his view. ‘I’m his daughter, Molly.’

‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Goddard,’ he said, holding out a pudgy, sweaty hand. I shook it, reluctantly.

‘Can we talk to him?’ Behind him stood Blackman, his face twisted into a smirk, and a younger man holding a large black briefcase.

‘I’ll ask.’ I closed the door and went back to Pa. ‘They want to talk to you. Do you feel up to it?’

He shook his head, and I returned to the door.

‘I’m so sorry. My father is feeling quite poorly. We’ve all been down with a bit of a stomach bug,’ I lied.

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ His expression of compassion, a small frown with eyes briefly downcast, was well practised and clearly false.

‘Perhaps you could come back in a few days’ time?’ I added.

He sighed. ‘I suppose so. It’s very inconvenient, having to travel from Bury St Edmunds. But please tell your father that we will return early next week. Ah, and we’ll be taking the account books with us.’

After the other men had gone, piling into a sleek black motor, polished until it gleamed even in the grey light of the day, Mr Blackman lingered.

‘Is there anything I can do to help, Miss Goddard?’ he asked, peering round me. ‘We are a little, shall we say . . .’ he paused for dramatic effect, ‘concerned for your father’s, erm, welfare.’