‘I mean, Miss Witts, that you are coming with me.’
She didn’t resist when he took her wrist. He was both elated by and suspicious of her compliance, but he said nothing as he drew her along the path, through cobwebs and brambles, towards the vicarage.
‘I was coming up here anyway,’ she volunteered, in explanation for her lack of resistance. ‘To see my aunty.’
‘Who?’
‘Your housekeeper. She’s my aunt. I come up and have Sunday lunch with her sometimes.’
‘Oh.’ He fumbled in his pocket for the keys. ‘Mrs Witts. Of course. I hadn’t made the connection.’
‘She’s doing roast lamb today. Mint sauce. Roast potatoes. Carrots and stuff.’
‘Roast lamb can wait. We have things to discuss first.’
‘Do we?’
‘Oh yes. Take a seat.’
He showed her into the living room, then went to find his housekeeper, who was peeling potatoes at the sink.
‘I wasn’t expecting you, vicar – that was a quick service. Ain’t you meant to be going over to Little Minching before lunch?’
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He’d forgotten his commitment to the late morning service in the neighbouring hamlet. But he still had half an hour before he had to be there.
‘Yes, yes, that’s all in hand. I meant to tell you, Mrs Witts, that your niece is here.’
‘Our Evie?’
‘Yes. I want to talk to her first. Could you make tea?’
‘Talk to Evie?’ Mrs Witts put down her peeler and cackled. ‘She ain’t the religious type, I have to warn you.’
‘Well, be that as it may … Tea, please.’
‘Of course. Biscuits?’
‘I think, no. Just tea.’
He returned to the living room to find Evie running her finger along the bookshelves, letting it bump from leather spine to leather spine, over the gold leaf lettering.
‘You read all these?’ she asked idly.
‘Yes.’
‘You must have a lot of time on your hands. Don’t you have work to do? Visiting the sick and whatnot?’
‘Of course. I am a spiritual guide and mentor – which brings me to you. Please sit down.’
‘You want to guide me?’ She turned and let her lips slowly curve upwards. ‘Aww, that’s nice, love.’
‘I said, please sit down.’ Exasperation wasn’t far beneath the surface of the cool, firm tone he had rehearsed to perfection.
‘Dunno if I can, vicar. Got a sore bum, you see.’
He drew in a breath, waiting, trying to ignore the gathering tension in his trousers. She relented and plumped herself down on the sofa.