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shoulder.
    ‘You’d better go back, Father,’ she murmured. ‘Watkin’s wife has her mind set on murder!’
    Athelstan took the hint and strode back into the house. Benedicta was right; the soup had simply provided extra strength and now the entire group was standing, everyone shouting, no one listening. Athelstan clapped his hands noisily and refused to stop until every one of them had fallen silent. He stared at them sternly.
    ‘We have all taken the sacrament,’ he announced, ‘and have all exchanged the kiss of peace, so these arguments will end. When we meet again I will ask for a vote about the cemetery and, if there’s a majority, then our decision has been reached.’ He looked at the beggar man still crouched on his stool. ‘Leif!’ he shouted. ‘Stop eating my soup. It’s supposed to last me for a month!’ He stretched out his hand. ‘Now, the rest of you, take your seats, sit down and shut up!’
    He went into the scullery and brought out a flask of wine, an Easter gift from Cranston . He poured them each a small measure. His parishioners murmured their thanks, smiling secretly and winking at each other for it was very rare for their parish priest to lose his temper. Benedicta rejoined them and everyone took their seats again. After a short bantering conversation in which he made an appeal for unity, Athelstan deftly turned the discussion to the parish preparations for the feast of Corpus Christi .
    ‘The children,’ he declared, ‘will stage their play in the nave.’
    ‘There’s a procession,’ Watkin added.
    ‘And maybe a new painting?’ Huddle demanded expectantly. ‘Just near the door, Father. Christ feeding the five thousand.’ Athelstan smiled and held up a hand. ‘One thing at a time, Huddle.’
    ‘More importantly,’ Cecily interrupted, her face becoming angelic, ‘we must set up a curtain between the pillar and the wall just near the sanctuary. Remember, Father, you are to hear our confessions and shrive us before the great feast.’
    Athelstan closed his eyes. Hearing his parishioners’ confessions was something he would gladly have avoided for he knew the inevitable outcome. After it was all finished, Watkin’s wife would come and interrogate him on what her husband had confessed and, of course, Athelstan would have to reassure her without lying or betraying confidences. Benedicta, who must have sensed his apprehension, quickly intervened with the idea of a flower festival on the Wednesday before Corpus Christi , and they were in the middle of a more peaceful discussion when the door was flung open and one of the workmen rushed in.
    ‘Father! Father! Come quickly!’ The man’s eyes were rounded and fearful. Beads of sweat coursed down his dust-covered face.
    ‘What’s the matter?’ Watkin declared. ‘I am sexton and leader of the council. .
    ‘Shut up, Fatty!’ the workman shouted. ‘Father, it’s you we want. You must come!’ He waved his hands in agitation. ‘Please come. We have removed the flagstone...’ The fellow gulped and stared round. ‘We removed the flagstone under the altar and found a body!’
    Athelstan went cold, banging on the table to quiet the uproar. ‘A body?’ he exclaimed. ‘And under our altar?’
    ‘Well, Father, to be honest, a skeleton, perfectly formed, lying there. Just lying there! It has a small, wooden crucifix in its hand.’
    Led by their priest, the parish council strode out of the house and into the church, all animosity forgotten. Just inside the entrance, Athelstan stopped and the whole group jostled and shoved each other.
    ‘Oh, no!’ he groaned.
    ‘Don’t worry, Father,’ Watkin announced cheerfully. ‘It’ll all be put to rights in a week.’
    Athelstan stared at the chaos. The rood screen had been taken down and the sanctuary now looked more like a builder’s yard. The old flagstones were piled in untidy heaps and, as they strode up the nave, Athelstan could glimpse the huge hole over which the altar had