Josie’s heart sank even lower. Mrs. Wellington was a vast tweedy woman with a booming voice.

“Where are your things?” she asked.

“I left them in my car at the police station,” said Josie.

“Shouldn’t you be in uniform?”

“It’s my day off.”

“Off you go, Mr. Macbeth,” said Mrs. Wellington. “I’ll just show Miss McSween her room and give her the rules of the house and then she can bring her luggage.”

Josie followed Mrs. Wellington into the manse kitchen. It was vast, dating from the days when ministers had servants and large families. It was stone-flagged, and the double sinks by the window were deep and made of stone with old-fashioned brass taps. A long dresser lining one wall contained blue and white plates. The newest item was a scarlet fuel-burning Raeburn stove. High up in the ceiling by a wooden pulley burned a dim single lightbulb. On the pulley hung a row of Mrs. Wellington’s knickers: large, cotton, and fastened at the knee with elastic. Where on earth did one get knickers like that these days, wondered Josie. People didn’t often talk about knickers any more, preferring the American panties. But panties suggested something naughty and feminine. In one corner stood a large fridge and, wonder of wonders in this antique place, a dishwasher.

“Come along,” ordered Mrs. Wellington. “The washing machine is in the laundry room over there to your left. Washing is on Thursdays.”

Josie followed her out of the kitchen, which led into a dark hall where a few dim, badly painted portraits of previous ministers stared down at her. There was a hallstand of the kind that looked like an altar and a Benares brass bowl full of dusty pampas grass.