“Ha! You’ve got her in one. Top marks, Bailey.” She gives a nod of approval at the dog, who has been butting his small muzzle against the spoon and licking off the contents with a sudden surprising vigor. “Change of scene, you see. Just what he needed. Now he’ll want to do his business. If you put newspaper nearer the back door each day, he’ll soon get the hang of going outside. Well, I must go to work.” She regards me, eyes narrowed in appreciation, lips tightening on a smile. “I must say, Vicar, you’ve saved my bacon. And Bailey’s too.”

—

After Lucy leaves, I go back into the kitchen and stare at Bailey. He meets my gaze, a patient, long-suffering look in his eyes. I scratch my head. “Well, Bailey, here we are,” I tell him. “We have both been thoroughly finessed.”

Thanks to Blakemore’s study, I’m well supplied with newspaper. I haven’t touched the room since my first inspection. It’s just as appalling on a second viewing. I drag out a bale of ancient, yellowing editions of the Hampshire Chronicle, which I carry to the kitchen and set down next to the puppy’s cardboard box. Newspapers are never so fascinating as when they’re spread out on the floor for purposes other than reading. My eyes are drawn to a column enticingly headed News from the Districts, which informs me that two hundred dozen eggs in total, goose, duck, and hen (including bantam), were sold the previous Wednesday at Waltham Market. I peer at the date at the top of the page. It’s 27th September 1950.

We were at Alver Shore back then, Yvette and I, our first parish. Half an hour away on the coast. We’d been there nearly four years. Most of them Yvette was happy, but not that September.

I went out, on one of those September days, to pick some apples from our tree. There were so many and they were so delicious and red. I gathered them in my arms, awkwardly, and brought them into the house. Look what I’ve got for you, I said to Yvette, but she turned her head away. She didn’t even want to see them.

I didn’t understand. I wanted to distract her if only for a moment.

Bloody Blakemore. Curse him and all uncared-for, uselessly hoarding old men. I sweep the newspaper from the floor and take it back to the study, returning with an edition safely dated 30th June 1973. Just as I’m finishing the task, the telephone starts to ring.

—

It’s Althea Brock. I speak to her forthrightly, but then, I feel fairly forthright. “I’m now, for better or worse, the owner of a small, sickly hound pup, Lady Brock. A state of affairs which I lay wholly at your door.”

She crows with mirth. I’m so glad to hear laughter, even if it is directed at me.