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such opposing views should be neighbors.”
    “That was unfortunate, indeed,” Venn said in a low, grave voice. “Would it be too much to ask you about your husband’s death, Mrs. Brook?”
    She set down her tea cup, which chattered a little in its saucer and spilled a dribble down its side. “It was…” She trailed off, wagging her head.
    He touched her arm. “You need not tell me. The vicar himself informed me, when I chanced upon him a short while ago.”
    “I suppose…I suppose he must have been drinking. And dropped his pipe.
    Some have told me that perhaps the alcohol in him, or even the fat of his body, might have caused him to…to burn so…”
    Venn moved his eyes to a window beside him, which looked out across the pastures dotted with sheep like white gravestones, the slope of the vale growing misted blue with the shadows of the late afternoon. Silhouetted against the platinum glow of the sky was the Anglican church in its cage of scaffolding and ladders, like a gibbet under construction.
     

 
    V: The Storm
     
    Though he did not require nourishment Venn could take it, and he stayed for dinner that evening. In fact, his host shyly offered to house him for the duration of his stay in Candleton, knowing that he had no church to go to. He accepted, and told her, “I could perhaps do some work here on your farm, to repay you for your kindness.”
    The widow looked rather horrified at the suggestion. “I could not have you do that, Father! You are my guest, and I expect nothing from you in return.”
    She made up a small room for him on the second floor, explaining that her husband’s mother had stayed here until her own demise a year and a half ago.
    While Venn stood watching the young woman bustle nervously about the room, he asked her softly, “That scar, on your jaw…I don’t mean to make you embarrassed of it. It does not subtract from your loveliness.” He found he had to swallow before he spoke again. “But I was wondering if it were some mishap from childhood.”
    Despite his reassurance, he saw that her fingers flew up to half cover it, reflexively. She met his gaze for only a moment. “I told you that my husband imbibed too freely. One evening, in a fury, he threw at me his pottery mug.
    It…struck me here, and shattered.”
    “I am very sorry that I asked you. It was rude of me. I only meant to show concern.”
    Mrs. Brook smiled at the handsome young priest wanly but sincerely. “Your concern is appreciated, Father.” She backed toward the small room’s door. “I hope you will be comfortable here. Why don’t I…” she looked his black-garbed body up and down, seemed to catch herself, and stammered, “Why don’t I bring you my husband’s gown to sleep in? And some other of his things that I still possess, as it appears you have brought no change of clothing?”
    “I would greatly appreciate that, Mrs. Brook.” He smiled. “Would it be too forward to call you by your Christian name?”
    “Susan,” she said. Then quickly amended, “Sue.”
    He smiled again. “Thank you, Sue.”
    She nodded, and whisked herself out of the room, but not before he saw the flush of blood suffusing her skin.
    ««—»»
     
    Venn lay for a while in the bed he had been provided, but spent most of the night standing by the window of the room, gazing out into the night. In this position, his mind would drift, memories would swim up like phosphorescent sea creatures from their depths then submerge again, this being the closest thing he knew to sleep. To rest.
    One of the images that came to him was of a stained glass window he had seen as a boy, with his father, in the fifteenth century Fairford Church , this particular window portraying the “Last Judgment”. It showed two demons conveying two naked women to Hell. One woman sat astride the shoulders of a blue, scaled demon with a pitchfork, the other woman being flailed by a red demon with a spiked mace. He recalled the mix of uncomprehending