He darts me a look. “As long as that? Not good, not good at all. However, nothing can be done. Now, this mahogany desk”—he shunts it into position beside me—“will serve as one of our two walls. There is much to be said for a bit of well-joined hardwood. Had it been your modern desk, your plywood gimcrackery, it would be a very different story.” He pauses to throw aside some bales of newspaper, his arms and shoulders moving like a trawlerman’s. “And on the other side a table, what good fortune, in the same material.” He drags, puffs, pushes. “Not as strong as the desk. We can but hope. Finally, your iron bed. Conveniently dismantled, as I said, into three pieces.” Frobisher takes hold of the largest piece, the frame on which the mattress lay—where the mattress is, I have no idea—and heaves it into position across the two walls he has created out of desk and table. He follows with the headboard and the footboard. The result is an iron roof, more or less flat.

Uh-uh-uh. Here comes the gigantic juddering creak again. Surprisingly nimbly, Frobisher ducks down and shuffles into the makeshift cabin. I struggle into a semi-sitting position, lean my shoulder against a ledge of newspapers. It’s much more painful but I must make room for him.

“That noise is probably your main beam,” he says. “Wedged against a bulkhead, but slipping. Not yet weighting down those unsupported rafters above our heads, but that will happen, and the rafters will fall. Along with the beam and most of the roof, I should imagine.” He turns the torch up to the ravaged ceiling. “It’s only a matter of time before the rest follows.” He sighs. “Dry rot, I’ll be bound. In addition to neglect, apathy, scarcity of funds. A near-lethal combination in which the diocese has played its sorry part, in which I, therefore, have a measure of culpability, and I can only apologize to you, Acton, for endangering your life.”

“But you are saving my life now,” I say, aghast to find my voice is unsteady. “Archdeacon, I hope you don’t mind my saying, but you are astonishing me.”

He shifts position, glances down. We’re both sitting on a bed of newspaper. “And you’ve created a bit of luck for yourself too,” he observes. “It appears one of the things you never got round to is clearing up this study. I’m assuming this hoard of old newspapers belonged to Charles Blakemore. So your fall was broken by”—he peers—“the Hampshire Chronicle, no less.” He lifts a finger, entranced. “I say, Acton. You should write in! But for the H.C. I’d have been a goner. It would make a remarkably diverting piece.” His shoulders begin to shake. “Hum hum hum. Probably earn you a lifelong subscription!”

I screw my eyes up tight. I can put up with anything except this chortling.