Fly!’ whispers Gene. He gives the departing guests one last royal wave, and shuts the door. Post-evensong Sunday tea in the deanery drawing room has just finished. The real deal: silver teapot, bone china service, linen napkins. He wheels the detritus back through to the kitchen on an antique wooden trolley. ‘So, what are the archbishop’s views on our next bishop?’ he asks. ‘We didn’t discuss the CNC,’ says Marion. ‘This afternoon was all about Lindchester celebrating twenty years of women priests.’ ‘Do you think he’d try to block Gilderoy Lockhart’s appointment?’ ‘His name’s Guilden Hargreaves, you horrible man.’ ‘I’m aware that Gilderoy’s your preferred candidate.’ Gene holds up a hand. ‘It’s fine – no need to confirm or deny. Maybe he’ll meet someone, then his boyfriend and I can run the diocesan clergy spouses programme together? At last, an end to aromatherapy awaydays! My masterplan enters its final phase – to turn the diocesan retreat house into a Texan bordello!
