I let go of the railing and whipped off my hat. "Mr Bransby? That is, have I the honour-?"

"Yes, you have." He stared at me with pale blue eyes partly masked by pink, puffy lids. "What do you want with me?"

"My name is Shield, sir. Thomas Shield. My aunt, Mrs Reynolds, wrote to you, and you were kind enough to say-"

"Yes, yes." The Reverend Mr Bransby held out a finger for me to shake. He stared me over, running his eyes from head to toe. "You're not at all like her."

He led me up the path and through the open door into the panelled hall beyond. From somewhere in the building came the sound of chanting voices. He opened a door on the right and went into a room fitted out as a library, with a Turkey carpet and two windows overlooking the road. He sat down heavily in the chair behind the desk, stretched out his legs and pushed two stubby fingers into his right-hand waistcoat pocket.

"You look fagged."

"I walked from London, sir. It was warm work."

"Sit down." He took out an ivory snuff-box, helped himself to a pinch and sneezed into a handkerchief spotted with brown stains. "So you want a position, hey?"

"Yes, sir."

"And Mrs Reynolds tells me that there are at least two good reasons why you are entirely unsuitable for any post I might be able to offer you."

"If you would permit me, I would endeavour to explain."

"Some would say that facts explain themselves. You left your last position without a reference. And, more recently, if I understand your aunt aright, you have been the next best thing to a Bedlamite."

"I cannot deny either charge, sir. But there were reasons for my behaviour, and there are reasons why those episodes happened and why they will not happen again."

"You have two minutes in which to convince me."

"Sir, my father was an apothecary in the town of Rosington. His practice prospered, and one of his patrons was a canon of the cathedral, who presented me to a vacancy at the grammar school. When I left there, I matriculated at Jesus College, Cambridge."