“Ah.” I know this name. “He’s next on my list after you.”

Lady Brock gives me a glare of rank incredulity. “I’m on Perry’s blasted visiting list? The absolute cheek of the man. And there I was, thinking you wanted a word about the church flowers!” The glare disappears—she guffaws, her teeth large, stony with age, held in place by a picket fence of gold wiring. “There’s only one way off that list if you’re over eighty. It’s the kiss of death. Kindly remove my name at the earliest opportunity. But I’m being fearfully rude, making you stand out here. Come with me.”

—

She scrapes her Wellingtons on the metal rack by her back door. When she steps out of them I see that they are cut down to the level of ankle boots. The dark hallway smells of tinned dog meat and damp coats. But the impacted odor of neglected old person, that I’ve come to dread as I walk in through my own front door, is absent here.

“I’m awfully sorry but I’ve only got ten minutes,” she announces. “My friend Mr. Kennet is taking me to look at some Sussex trugs. I can’t abide plastic baskets when I’m gardening, and they’re pretty thin on the ground these days, proper wooden trugs. You won’t find the church flowers up to much, I’m afraid. This time of year we have to fall back on chrysanths, a bit of monkey grass, and lots and lots of leaves.”

“I saw the flowers last night. Admittedly it was about one in the morning, so the lighting was rather dim, but I thought they looked very nice.”

“What on earth were you doing in the church at that hour?”

“I’d just driven back from my old home.” I explain my move, the events of the previous day.

“My word. Only just landed, and you’re up against Meg Sutton tomorrow. Well, perhaps that’s for the best. There are some ordeals it’s better not to dwell on beforehand.” She leads me into her sitting room. The sofa, armchairs, and tables are covered in pieces of armor, some misted with polish, others a brilliant silver. Lady Brock picks up a breastplate and dumps it on the floor. “I’m about halfway through.” She nods toward a wooden armor stand in the corner of the room, which is topped with a shining silver knight’s helmet. “Sir Gregory usually stands guard over there, you see. Goodness, he was getting dull. I can’t stand dull men. Your archdeacon, now. Ronald Frobisher. What an absolute crasher. Tried to buttonhole me about pectoral crosses, my view on same. As if it could possibly matter, when poor Charles Blakemore was going off his rocker.”

“I find him rather fascinating,” I say.

“Who? Blakemore?”