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Most surprisingly, was a very worried Racer Richards who had recently been approached by an unknown, but obviously unpleasant character who offered him £5 to lose his next race, or face the consequences.
    Racer’s parents had been particularly kind to Jack’s mother when her husband had been killed, so it was natural that the two boys had become great friends almost as soon as they could walk to each other’s home. On leaving The George, Racer made certain that he and Jack set out together on the short walk home. A few minutes later these close friends were deep in conversation, Jack’s normal, smiling face changing to a deep frown.

F OUR
    Morning, Thursday, 28 March
    The sky remained a leaden grey, the drizzle falling on the following Thursday morning as Arthur let himself out of the vicarage. He had taken particular care in dressing for the occasion; Eleanor had insisted on ironing his clerical shirt, frock coat and trousers and with his moustache neatly trimmed and his thick, fair hair suitably parted, she had said how proud she was of him as they parted with a kiss.
    The thirty-mile journey to the bishop’s palace in Canchester would take until mid-morning, so an early start was necessary. The old, rather battered Georgian clock in the hall was showing a few minutes to seven o’clock as he let himself out. He put up his umbrella, wishing he had chosen rather more suitable footwear, but galoshes would hardly be suitable wear to visit the bishop.
    Although he was a well-known figure cycling around the village on pastoral visits, the state of the road to Steepleton and the continuing rain, made such a start inappropriate for his appointment. He was delighted to see that the bowler-hatted and full-bearded Sparky Carey, no one knew why this nickname, was outside with a pony and cart. He seemed able to get his hands on most things needed by villagers and, whatever doubt some may have had about his total honesty, his redeeming quality of kindness was a byword in Rusfield.
    â€˜Mornin’ Rev’rend. Jump aboard. Glad ye ’ave an umbrella. As yer can see, I couldn’t get a proper cover for me cart.’ Arthur clambered aboard with his umbrella still up, noticing that the main part of the cart was full of logs for a later delivery. He held the black umbrella to give as much protection as possible to the two of them, but was glad of his black waterproof cape. The road near the pond was awash and there was a deeply-pitted stretch as they went past Fred Jackson’s farm. Fred had told Arthur that whatever bricks and rubble he placed in the holes, they seemed to be swallowed up, but along Manor Lane the road improved a little.
    Apart from the occasional curse from Sparky, toned down for the sake of his ecclesiastical passenger, few words were exchanged. The rain, fortunately now more gentle, was a strong deterrent to conversation and even as it grew lighter, the sky promised no real improvement. The journey to the station in Steepleton, a town of some 6,000, was four miles. Apart from passing an unrecognisable figure with a sack held over his head, they saw no one on this thirty-minute journey; much care was needed by Sparky as he kept the cart wheels clear of the deepest, water-filled ruts. Reaching the station forecourt, Arthur felt in his coat pocket and pulled out some coins.
    â€˜Nay. Nay, Your Rev’rend. You do plenty for nothing for us in the village, so you keep that. Safe journey.’ With profuse thanks from Arthur and a slightly embarrassed acknowledgement from Sparky the two went their own ways, to very different activities.
    Five minutes until the train was due; a local one which would carry him to Canchester. In spite of its interesting historic buildings, not least the cathedral and its adjacent buildings, Arthur rarely visited the city with just occasional shopping trips with Eleanor, mainly pre-Christmas, and infrequent attendance at concerts in the cathedral. His