The Reverend Charles Blakemore, previous vicar of Upton and Barrow End, collapsed in harness four months ago, mentally unstrung. He’s the reason we’re all here—myself, and the other short-listed candidates waiting behind the imposing oak door. We’ve managed to clear the hurdles set in our way, the applications and panel interviews and parish visits. Upton—and Barrow End—was all I hoped it would be, a village and neighboring hamlet settled on the chalk hills before Domesday, the people at long last cautiously prosperous, not given to show, the handshakes friendly but conditional in a way I perfectly understood. And now it’s down to this odd, unwieldy man with his clumsy tongue and his direct questions. In all honesty, I can’t say it’s going well.

“Please continue.” Frobisher is suddenly curt. Perhaps he’s already thinking about the next candidate. Or his lunch.

“In fact . . .” I clear my throat, take another run at it. “In fact, it was this very situation that attracted me. Mr. Blakemore’s illness was gradual, so the parish may have been fairly rudderless for some time. I’d like to help them get back on course. Bring some cheer, comfort. Guidance. When I visited, I came away with the sense that I could win their trust.”

Frobisher lifts his chin. The strengthening sunlight catches the solid black frames of his glasses. Desperation spurs me on.

“Archdeacon, I’ve been a widower for ten years. My son’s a student now, on the other side of the country. I’ve spent over twenty years at Fulbrook, they need someone new. And I need a fresh start.”

“Ha!” His big hands release each other and each one begins to rub a meaty knee. “We got there in the end.”

“Got where?”

“It’s all very well saying what you can give to Upton. But what I needed to know was”—his words now emphasized by a pointing forefinger—“what Upton will give to you. And now you’ve told me. A fresh start. Thank you, Mr. Acton. You should expect a letter in a few days.”

We both rise to our feet, Frobisher’s relief evident in the stretching of his cumbersome frame. I steel myself for the clammy grapple of his handshake. As he releases me he suddenly says, “Remind me, where was your first parish? The one you served immediately after the war?”

He knows perfectly well that my first parish was Alver Shore, a battered port town on the Hampshire coast. I repeat the name to him obediently.

“Ah, yes. No great distance from Upton, is it. Half an hour’s drive, hmm? I only mention this in relation to your making a fresh start. Some might suggest it might more aptly be described as going over old ground.”