He was satisfied with his morning’s work, but in order to bring things to a head, there was one more testament he wished to obtain. It took him a quarter of an hour to come to Fuller’s Mill. The sound of the hammers pounding the wool in the baths of piss came from inside, and something of the smell, too. There was no one in sight. Maybe she was here. This was the place she worked. But there was no sign of her, nor anyone else. The place seemed deserted, free of people, as if the mill itself was alive and running things ably. Father Escrove approached and peered in a window. There was a man and a woman tending the fulling. But not her. He walked around the side of the mill to the house and rapped his peeling knuckles on the door. Nothing. He rapped again, and now the door opened and the wife, Helen Fuller, was there. “Father Escrove,” he announced. “I am Rural Dean. You may have heard of my presence.” Helen nodded dumbly. “Is your husband here? I wish to speak to him.” The woman seemed confused.
