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it.”
    They reached a rather imposing building with a small sign that announced the premises of the Northumberland and Durham Savings Bank.
    â€œI won’t be long here,” Thaddeus said. “I just need to send off the collection money.”
    She waited just inside the door, a little intimidated by the solemnity of the interior, although she supposed that a bank needed to impart a dignified atmosphere in order to reassure its clients. It was very quiet. She could hear the low murmur of voices and the scratching of pens, an occasional footstep and the ticking of a clock, but none of the sounds from the street outside seemed to penetrate into this sanctum of finance. The quiet was suddenly disturbed by her grand­father’s slightly raised voice.
    â€œWhat do you mean they’re no good?”
    She took a few steps forward. Even so, she couldn’t quite make out the clerk’s reply.
    â€œI’m not sure what good that will do,” Thaddeus said. “This money came from my congregation. I can hardly go through the collection box and reject what they’ve offered. It would be as good as calling them thieves.”
    Another almost inaudible response from the bank clerk, and then Thaddeus strode toward her, obviously exasperated.
    Martha waited until they were outside before she asked what the problem was.
    â€œThree of the banknotes were counterfeit,” he said. “The bank wouldn’t honour them. The clerk said there’s quite a lot of bad money around. Somebody’s been shoving. The constables know all about it, apparently, but there isn’t much anyone can do unless they catch someone in the act.”
    â€œIt was the notes? The Canadian notes that were no good?” Martha asked.
    â€œYes. Why?”
    â€œIt’s just that sometimes we’d get bad money at the hotel, but usually it would be American coins. You really had to watch the nickels.”
    â€œOh well, I’m not out too much. They weren’t big notes, just changemakers. The clerk showed me what was wrong with them, but honestly, I can’t stand and peer at the money people give. And what am I supposed to do if it’s no good? Hand it back and demand better?”
    â€œNo, I suppose not,” Martha said.
    â€œStill, maybe we’d better forget about chicken for this week anyway. I don’t want to leave you short.”
    â€œWe can use the money you gave me, if you like. I don’t need anything right now.”
    Thaddeus shook his head. “No. That’s yours. To get what you want. That’s the rule. It always was.” He smiled. “But thank you.”
    They went to the farmer’s market, where the stalls were heaped with late summer produce — potatoes, carrots, pears, a few early apples, and in several of the stalls, baskets of blueberries.
    â€œCan you make a pie?” Thaddeus asked.
    Martha looked at him with mock scorn. “Of course I can make a pie. Mine is almost as good as Sophie’s.”
    â€œA blueberry pie would go a long way toward making up for the lack of chicken.”
    â€œThen blueberry pie was just put on the menu.”
    Together they sifted through the baskets until they had a pound of the most succulent-looking berries.
    Thaddeus fished in his pocket and handed over a note in payment.
    The farmer looked at it closely before he took it. “Sorry to be so suspicious,” he said, “but there’s been some odd money float through in the last little while. You can’t be too careful.”
    â€œSo I’ve discovered,” Thaddeus said.
    â€œThat’s what you need to do,” Martha pointed out. “Have a look at it first.”
    The farmer tucked the note in his pocket and made change with coins. “No offence, sir.”
    â€œNone taken. I quite understand.”
    They moved from stall to stall. Martha added potatoes, beans, and half a dozen plums to their basket. She was looking