“Shh.” I rise to my feet, squeeze past him toward the front of the house. Dropping once more to a crawl, I ease my head over the gutter to hear an imperious bang-bang, good and loud, a bailiff’s knock if ever there was one, from a man practiced at summoning people from the depths of large, cold houses with many internal doors.

If only it were a bailiff.

With dismay I stare down at the bald crown that’s presented to me. The portly body steps back from the front door and the face begins to lift—I duck backward away from the edge of the roof and shuffle in reverse along the gulley. Tom is waiting, agog.

“It’s a man called Frobisher,” I murmur. “He’s my archdeacon.”

“You didn’t say anyone was coming.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Weird,” Tom whispers. “Or is it weird? Is that what they do? Just turn up with no warning, like inspectors?”

“Ha,” I say grimly. “No. I’m supposed to have written him a letter, a sort of report, really. On what I’ve been up to. And I still haven’t done it, although he’s asked me three times. And now here he is.”

Tom is a picture of astonished glee. “Dad, that’s heavy. What are you going to say? Bailey ate your homework?”

Voices float up from below. Frobisher’s come around to the back of the house. I can hear him in parley with William. William’s saying, “. . . couldn’t exactly say,” his tone grudging, uncomfortable. I shouldn’t be putting him in this position. Frobisher responds with a hectoring sentence ending in “. . . the roof?” Seconds later, to the audible remonstrations of William, footsteps begin to clang up the ladder.

“He’ll kill himself,” I murmur. “He’s not built for climbing.” Once more I go toward the back of the house. “Archdeacon Frobisher,” I call. “Please wait for me to come down . . .”

I’m too late. He’s already halfway up by the time I get to the edge of the roof. He’s climbing with disconcerting strength and agility, bald head swinging from side to side, like a torpedo finning its way up from the depths. William’s holding the bottom of the ladder. He doesn’t look up.