The Verger

The bishop died at a quarter to seven, in the middle of the laying on of hands, and the verger would like it noted that the service was not finished. Hester Cadwallader has run St Milburga's, Wistanbury, for thirty years: the heating, the keys, the flower rota, three vicars, and the bolt on the priest's door, which goes across at four. She knows how long a sermon takes and how long it ought to. She writes everything down in pencil. So when a retired bishop drops dead during a confirmation, in front of seven candidates and most of the town, and everybody agrees it was his heart, Hester does not. She made the tea. She knows which cup the bishop had, and she knows somebody washed it while he was still lying on her chancel step. She knows he said the east window had gone the colour of mustard, because she wrote that down too. And she knows that in thirty years she has never once left a service unfinished. Nobody wants to hear it. Not the detective, who has a seventy-three-year-old with a heart condition and a coroner. Not the Archdeacon, who is holding things very gently and would like the church turned into a festival church by Easter. Not the vicar, who calls Hester a gift. The only person who will listen is the curate everyone has decided to blame, who drove the bishop there, and who left a door open. Cold church. Warm vestry. Two sugars. A completely standalone novel of murder, liturgy and the rota, from the author of The Warden and The Mudlark.