They had known each other a number of years. He was a widower, she had never married. Both were in their mid-sixties. He invariably addressed her as ‘dear lady’. She called him ‘Ducky’. At one time Hortense had imagined the Revd Duckworth was steeling himself to propose to her.

In the kitchen, as she occupied herself with the tea, she suddenly felt on the verge of tears. I cannot live with so much doubt and fear and with so much intensity, she thought. I must talk – otherwise I will burst.

It took her a couple of moments to compose herself.

She re-entered the drawing room and put the tea-tray on the table.

The Revd Duckworth beamed at her. ‘Towards a clergyman, common benevolence expresses itself largely through the medium of a cup of tea. I have no idea if this is a quotation or whether I just made it up.’

‘Sounds like something out of Trollope,’ she said. ‘Trollope teems with clergymen, doesn’t he? All those bishops and archdeacons and prelates swimming in satins and port.’

It would help her if she talked. It would blow away the clinging cobwebs of her low and anxious mood. I don’t have to tell him the whole truth, she thought, I cannot possibly tell him what happened exactly, but I will certainly tell him about the bribe.

‘Who’s that?’ He was peering at one of the photographs on the wall. He was an old fool but she was fond of him. ‘Such an innocent face. Something of the lost angel about it. Brings to mind one of our most accomplished choirboys.’

‘That’s Stephan. Clarissa’s son.’

‘Your great-nephew. Of course. Was he at the funeral?’

‘No. He is not at all well.’

‘A most impressionable young person, I believe you said? Easily led astray? Short attention span? Undesirable friends?’

‘It’s much worse than that, Ducky. I’ve told you.’ She spoke a little impatiently.