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noticing how the rector, lustily leading the singing, had caught the sun at the fete. It had picked out and reddened the angles of his face—the broad forehead, the interesting cheekbones, the ridge of his nose and the point of his chin, making him look more ruggedly attractive in his robes than any member of the clergy ought to appear. She—it must be said—was singing the words of the hymn without taking in the meaning. And during the sermon, with Otis Joy's dark head and the top of his surplice showing above the pulpit, she tried mentally dressing him in a variety of uniforms, as you would in those children's books with sections you put together in different combinations. Cowboy, soldier, policeman, pilot, boxer, bridegroom.
    All too soon they were singing the last hymn and he said the Grace and made his way up the aisle to the door, passing so close to Rachel as she knelt in prayer that she felt the movement of air from his cassock.
    The pews creaked with the weight of people resuming their seats to dip their heads in a last, silent prayer. These days the church was filled for Morning Service. Two extra rows had to be provided with stacking chairs from the church hall. No other rector in living memory had achieved such support except for the Christmas Midnight Service.
    The organ started up again to the tune of "For all the saints" and the movement towards the door began. Rachel filed out behind two old ladies in black straw hats who always sat behind her and sang half a bar after everyone else. When their turn came to shake the rector's hand, they congratulated him on his sermon, but he didn't appear to hear. He was already in eye contact with Rachel.
    "I didn't thank you."
    "Thank me?"
    "For your help."
    "You just thanked us all, beautifully."
    "At the rectory last evening."
    "It was nothing, really," she said, enjoying the touch of his hand. "We all joined in."
    "But you did more than your share."
    She shook her head modestly and was starting to move on when he added, "Look, there's something else, if you don't mind waiting a few minutes. Would you?"
    She managed to say, "Of course." Her voice piped up in a way she didn't intend, but he had surprised her. Puzzled and a little light-headed, she stepped forward into the sunshine and stood on the turf to one side of the path to let the others pass. Her friend Cynthia Haydenhall emerged in a pink two-piece and a matching hat that she held with a gloved hand in case the wind blew.
    "I've seen the figures. We came out top—and that's official," she told Rachel. "The cake stall took more than anyone else."
    "Great," said Rachel, trying to sound as if it mattered.
    "It isn't just the effort on the day. It's chivvying people to do the baking. I do no end of work on the phone in the week before. And knocking on doors."
    "I know."
    "Shocking about the bishop, isn't it?"
    "Dreadful."
    "There's more to it than they said in the Sunday Times this morning, you can be sure of that."
    "Is there?"
    "The gutter press will be full of it."
    "I haven't heard anything."
    "Bishops don't jump into quarries without a reason."
    "I suppose not."
    The triumph of the cake-stall team over all opposition had strengthened the bond between them, Cynthia was certain. "Are you waiting for someone, poppet, or shall we walk together?"
    Rachel said the rector had asked her to wait.
    Cynthia gave the hat such a tug that it slipped askew and had to be put back with two hands. "Oh."
    "Can't think what it's about," Rachel said disarmingly. "Is Christian Aid week coming up soon?"
    "He doesn't organise the collectors. I do."
    Rachel cursed herself for forgetting that Cynthia was the one woman who couldn't be fooled by that piece of sophistry.
    "Maybe I left something behind yesterday. I'm hopeless like that. Always have been."
    "I didn't see anything of yours when we left."
    "Neither did I. It's a mystery."
    "In that case I'll leave you to find out," said Cynthia, all her chumminess used up.
    "Right, then,"