“Good morning, Archdeacon Frobisher,” I say with the smoothness of a man who has been at his desk for an hour. “What can I do for you?”

“For a start, sir, you can answer my letter.” He starts to chortle in that gobbling way that I remember. “Or letters, for they have become plural, have they not?”

There are now three of them, each more adamant in his intention to visit. Why haven’t I replied? I remember mentally putting him off, once because of the filth of the house, and then again during the tail end of the flood, due to the state of the roads. “I do apologize. The thing is, I—”

“Hmm.” Frobisher’s hmm is exceptionally sonorous. There’s a great deal of chest for it to reverberate in. “The thing is. I’m not enthusiastic about that phrase. Too often it heralds some oversight or pretermission that has been left unattended to. Unremedied. Wouldn’t you say, Mr. Acton?”

I’m at fault, I know. But I don’t like being browbeaten.

“You’re quite right, Archdeacon,” I say mildly. “In my defense, I’ve been so busy that replying to your letters—well, I simply haven’t got round to it.”

“Yes, that’s another one, isn’t it. Got round to it. Well, never mind. I’m glad at least to learn you’ve been occupying yourself. I wish to hear more, in person and in considerably more detail, as soon as possible. How about . . . say, tomorrow at noon?”

Tomorrow at noon is the exact start time of my housewarming party.

I could suggest a later time tomorrow. But how long will this shindig go on, and how much clearing up will there be? I suppose I could invite him to the party . . .

No, I could not. Apart from Blakemore’s loathsome study—my rationale being that no one will go in there—I’ve cleaned this place until the paint is fairly scrubbed from the walls. I deserve a relaxed sociable interlude getting to know my parishioners better and putting more names to faces. Not shepherding my archdeacon about. Shuddering as his awful laugh rises above the buzz of conversation.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. Next week would be better.”

“No good. My diary is full,” snaps Frobisher.

“In that case, may I write to you suggesting some dates the following week?”

“Write to me?” He roars with choleric laughter. “That very much depends, doesn’t it, Mr. Acton. On whether you’ll get round to it.”

“Archdeacon, I—”

“No, I will admit no protestations. For reasons I can’t begin to guess, you’re trying to elude me, sir, and it will be in vain.” His finger wags at me down the telephone wire. “You can run as fast as you please, but you will find me at the end of the course, waiting.”