“He’s called Bailey,” I say softly. “He was given to me by a parishioner.”

My voice brings the archdeacon to his senses. His face solidifies into its tougher, more familiar mien. He sets Bailey onto the floor. “That’s enough of that, little chap.” He clambers up off his knees and resumes his seat on the kitchen chair. Tom takes a bite out of his toast and, with a final wide-eyed stare at me, sidles to the door.

“I think I’ll go and hit veg ecology,” he says, or something like it—the toast makes it hard to be sure—and disappears.

I put a cup of tea in front of Frobisher, who is once more polishing his head. With another man I might suggest he make himself at home, take his jacket off at least, but just as he’s not a chocolate-spread man, he’s not a jacket-removing man either. I try to think of something to say.

“So you spent the war in the navy, I gather, Archdeacon.”

“Yes, indeed I did. But it’s not germane. Not germane.” He returns his handkerchief with a flourish to his breast pocket. “Your news, or lack of, is the subject at hand. I’m sure you know, Mr. Acton, that I didn’t expect a screed. I can’t abide pages of blither. Who more likely than we who have borne arms to abhor manila folders and red tape, hmm? Those desk johnnies with their chits and dockets.” He gives me a fat, chummy smile.

I can’t bear the phrase borne arms, but that doesn’t matter. I launch into a sincerely meant apology complete with a formal mode of address. “My archdeacon, I’m sorry for being so impolite and so derelict in my duty that I’ve brought about this ridiculous state of affairs,” I begin, “whereby you’re forced to come to my house and—”

“Climb your confounded ladder. Yes. You knew I was down there, didn’t you. But you . . . shall we say, you were rather backward in coming forward?”

I bow my head. I don’t think I’ve ever been so embarrassed in my professional capacity.