A rustling sound behind me made me turn around. There stood the vicar with rather an unhappy look on his face.

"Not good news, I'm afraid," he said. "Mrs. Archer tells me that Bert has gone up to London for a training course and won't be back until tomorrow, and there's no answer at Culverhouse Farm, where I had hoped to put you up. But then Mrs. I doesn't often answer the telephone when she's home alone. She'll be bringing the eggs down on Saturday, but by then it will be far too late. I'd offer the vicarage, of course, but Cynthia has quite forcibly reminded me that we're in the midst of painting the guest rooms: beds taken down and stowed in the hallways, armoires blockading the landings, and so forth. Maddening, really."

"Don't fret, Vicar," Rupert said from the stage.

I nearly jumped out of my skin. I'd forgotten he was there.

"We'll camp where we are, in the churchyard. We've a good tent in the van, with wool rugs and a rubber groundsheet, a little Primus stove, and beans in a tin for breakfast. We'll be as cozy as bugs in a blanket."

"Well," the vicar said, "if it were solely up to me, I--"

"Ah," Rupert said, raising a finger. "I know what you're thinking: Can't have gypsies camping among the graves. Respect for the dear departed, and all that."

"Well," said the vicar, "there might be a modicum of truth in that, but--"

"We'll set up in an unoccupied corner, won't we? No desecration, that way. Shan't be the first time we've slept in a churchyard, will it, Nialla?"

Nialla colored slightly and became fascinated with something on the floor.

"Well, I suppose it's settled then," the vicar said. "We don't really have a great deal of choice, do we? Besides, it's only for one night. What harm can there be in that?

"Dear me!" he said, glancing at his wristwatch. "How tempus does fugit! I gave Cynthia my solemn promise to return straightaway. She's preparing an early supper, you see. We always have an early supper on Thursdays, because of choir practice. I'd invite you to join us for potluck, but--"