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old-fashioned—”
    Embarrassment burned. “Yes, I understand. I’m sorry.”
    But he continued in the same tone precisely, and it occurred to Amanda that he had corrected her not out of annoyance but as a means of assistance. “Trinity and St. Michael is full of old-fashioned families. I suppose you know that. You’ll get used to them. The Hennefields will criticize you behind your back, but they do that to everyone. They’re all bark and no bite. The Madisons are probably the worst. They’re a power in the church. You’ll want to stay on their good side. Chamonix Bing was a terror, but she’s gone. The one to watch out for is Mrs. Corning. Have you met her, by any chance? Janet Corning?”
    Amanda frowned, trying to remember. She lacked the facility with names and faces that usually marked pastors of large congregations. She knew to the penny the cost of a single F-35 fighter, and how many hungry mouths the money could feed, but people had always defeated her. “I might have. I’m not sure.”
    â€œWell, you will. Mrs. Corning is head of the Lectors Guild. The one you’ll complain to if nobody shows up to read the Epistle appointed for the day.” A pause. “Her cousin was the reason for the murder.”
    â€œThe one outside my—outside the rector’s office.”
    â€œYes. I suppose you’d like to know the details.”
    She hesitated, not sure which answer he wanted. “I heard some of the women talking,” she finally said. “They seemed to think that some incident from the past would drive me away. Did they mean the murder?”
    â€œProbably.”
    â€œWhy would it bother me, Mr. Taite? From their tone, I assume it was a long time ago.”
    â€œThirty years.” Christopher Taite climbed to his feet. “The rain is coming,” he said. “We can continue tomorrow. I will meet you in the Lady Chapel at ten sharp.”
    He strode off among the trees.
    V
    The Lady Chapel was placed, quite properly, to the right of the altar from the perspective of the congregation. Its low gothic arches reminded her of divinity school. There were six wooden pews and a high altar of cut stone and a low altar of very fine wood. When Amanda stepped inside at five minutes to ten, Christopher Taite was already there, clad once more in tie and shirtsleeves, examining a thurible.
    â€œIt hasn’t been polished in some time,” he said with soft reverence. He ran a fingernail over the gold surface. “The altar guild used to polish both the thurible and the boat, but I suppose they no longer see the need. Another tradition dies.” He put the thurible back on its hook and turned toward her, his face in the shadows. “The thurible should always be gold. And it must always shine. Revelation 5:8. The boat is for the incense, usually carried by a youngster, often a son or brother of the thurifer. The thurifer puts coals in the thurible and lights them, then takes the thurible to the priest, who spoons incense from the bowl onto the coals and blesses the thurible. The rising fumes signify the prayers of the congregation wafting toward heaven.”
    â€œWhy are you telling me this, Mr. Taite?”
    â€œBecause I believe that you will decide to reinstate the tradition, and you have to know how it is done.”
    Again she tried a smile. “I assume I would have the hereditary thurifer at my side, showing me what to do.”
    He showed nothing. No amusement, no perplexity, no offense. “Perhaps. One should not anticipate.” He turned back to the shelf, tugged another thurible from its hook, shook his head and clucked. “You must be sure that the thurible used in the service is properly polished.”
    â€œOf course,” she said. “That one is dented. I noticed it yesterday.”
    â€œIt should have been disposed of.” Again his fingers ran gently across the surface.