Thanks for the reading and thanks to those who reviewed the first chapter. I'm hoping to post another before Christmas but may run out of time.

At the sound of the voice he whirled around, already knowing exactly who was standing behind him. He wasn't wrong. Jane, dressed in warm outdoor clothing, while keeping a distance that respected his personal space was nonetheless greeting him with a lilt of laughter, "Hello Harry. This is unexpected, where did you spring from?"

He took a couple of seconds to respond, initially he'd been too busy drinking in her appearance, noticing that her eyes glowed with warmth and a flicker of pleasure as illuminating as it was good to see. Phew. He hadn't misjudged, he was welcome. Collecting himself he answered her question,

"I had some business at the University and was passing by. When you weren't at home on a Sunday evening just before Christmas I made an accurate guess as to your whereabouts." Having truthfully explained himself he launched the preliminary excuses to leave, "It's obviously not a good time so I'll just ..."

Jane, who knew better than to ask what the business at the University had been, was being ripped apart by conflicting emotions. Their parting about a month ago had left much hanging in the air, to be honest it had left everything hanging the air, and when he'd not contacted her she'd concluded that he'd recanted on his suggestion that they remain friends. She understood the reasons, he was still employed in the field of work that had precipitated many of their marital problems and while the dead fingers of Ruth Evershed remained trained around his heart Harry was in no way free to pursue any form of relationship with another woman, even a platonic one with his ex. Despite this sensible acceptance, achieved only after she'd given herself many a strict talking too, when she, like most of the congregation honing in on the kerfuffle around the flaming Virgin Mary, had seen him standing there, in person, in the flesh, in the village church partaking of the service she'd been stunned. Caught out by this unexpected materialisation her own heart had performed a nervous somersault. Even so her predominating desire to make him welcome was delicately flavoured with a soupcon of irritation at his characteristic lousy timing. (Jane memo to self: this is the man who chose your wedding day to drop a career bombshell and then stuffed up your first wedding anniversary through getting himself kidnapped by some Irish sectarian sect. Plus on his own admission he'd proposed to the second love of his life after a funeral.) So now, after she'd waited weeks for him to turn up, here he was looking at her expectantly while claiming that he'd just push off. Bloody man, what could one do with him. (Further memo to self: Jane don't even go there.) Despite the fact that they were staring at one another in a building replete with a timeless variety of religious symbols Harry's shenignans were in the process of conjuring up her personal devil of uncertainty. If she accepted his half hearted offer to leave he'd take that as a rejection, and heaven alone knew when she'd see him again. On the other hand she was the one who lived here. Hard on the heels of the speculation that had resulted from her shock announcement that she and Robin were divorcing did she really want to suffer the tsunami of gossip that would inevitably attend her being seen to enjoy the company of, (let's face it Jane) a very presentable male?

Harry wasn't destined to discover the answer trembling on her lips regarding his polite, privately reluctant, willingness to depart. No more was Jane. The opportunity for polite protestations of any nature was dispelled when their joint hesitations were cut sharply through by the county voice announcing decisively.

"Nonsense, you can join us in the Church Hall. Andrea Clark needs to thank you for preventing damage to her idiotic brat."

So much for a quiet private visit to Jane! Harry hadn't received such clear orders since his time training at Sandhurst. At least he had, but he tended to ignore the MI5 variety. Considering that they were still standing in a church Jane, now that the need to make a decision had been negated, was taking a very unholy glee in his discomfort as she reminded him,

"Role reversal Harry. I spent three weeks in your life. Welcome to my world."

Put that way of course it would be churlish to refuse, after all Jane has spent several confusing days enmeshed in the very unholy environs of Section D. It would only be polite to return the compliment.

Defeated on that point Harry decided to bargain. "Very well, on condition that you allow me to escort you home afterwards."

Recognising with relief that he'd just committed himself to staying, without her being forced into couching a reply that sounded either desperate or needy Jane just about thanked him, "Ever the gentleman," before moving on to more practical issues, "Come on then or all Mabel's mince pies will have gone." Looking Harry in the firmly in the eye she added "and more importantly the sherry."

The thought of a church sherry party was enough to make Harry reconsider the option of turning tail. His stomach was already churning at the prospect since it was a toss up which he disliked drinking more, vinegar or liquid sugar. Compromise was the order of the evening then. "I'll pass on the latter, but assuming Mabel's mince pies are as good as her gingerbread lead on."

By now Lottie, impatient to organise elsewhere, was beginning to herd them onwards towards the church door in movements that made Harry wonder if she'd been a sheep dog in an earlier incarnation. Not, he reflected wryly, the most appropriate of thoughts when positioned with both feet firmly planted on the ancient flagstones of an Anglican church. Succumbing to gentle pressure from Jane muttering, "This way," he marched onwards to his fate.

Once outside the crisp frosty air was a refreshing contrast to the wax smelling fug inside the church. Revelling in the sudden coolness on his face Harry felt Jane grasp his arm as she staggered slightly on the slippery uneven path. Steadied, as she attempted to remove her hand he hastily covered it with his own.

"Cling on all you like Jane."

"I thought you preferred independent women. I recall you once describing a friend's date as ivy, as in she clung to everything and tried to choke it."

"That depends on who's doing the clinging Jane."

By now having reached the gate Jane was spared finding an answer, preferring to replicate Lottie's sheep dog tendencies as she steered him out of the graveyard. "The Hall is just this way, about one hundred yards."

The narrow road they were walking along was nearly as uneven as the church path. The tarmac presumably had been overlaid upon a track way whose origins lay in an earlier age, hailing back to an era when wheeled transport was largely limited to horse and cart. Overhung by the winter bared trees of the graveyard, their branches skeletal against the moon and they walked slowly alongside the boundary created by the lichen encrusted stonewall that bounded the church land. The overall atmosphere retained an air of stillness that was not entirely dispelled by the small knots of the chattering groups preceding them, headed, as were Harry and Jane, towards the comforting yellow light outlining what Harry assumed where the curtained windows of the Hall.

Thankful that he'd parked his own car on the nearby deserted green Harry casually noticed a large dark but otherwise unremarkable van parked very inconveniently in the sole spot where the lane widened a little, the local road planners vague gesture towards providing a somewhat inadequate passing place. Aware that many drivers had forgotten that their legs were originally made for walking not just pushing clutch, accelerator and braking pedals Harry was about to vent his views on the total lack of consideration being displayed when Lottie who was walking just behind commented.

"Really do I wonder that whoever has such inconsiderate visitors hasn't instructed them in proper behaviour. Parking like that is a disgrace."

Alarmed that he was inclined to agree with her, the fact that the censorious Lottie had actively forced him hallwards implied to Harry that he'd passed some sort of covert churchwarden test of acceptability, by how many percent points he could only speculate. Feeling a quiver of laughter running through Jane he took advantage of her next stumble to cast a quick appraising glance at her face. She seemed happy, and as he'd thought earlier, so much more relaxed than when they'd parted a few weeks ago. His last glimpse of her having been of an upright strained back walking away from him to catch the train that would remove her from his life and of course vice versa. Glad as he was for her could only attribute this present attitude to her pleasure in kicking Cock Robin, and probably himself, out of her life. He felt a stab of envy as well, if only he could overcome his past so easily. A wish followed almost immediately by the anguished question as to whether he really, truly, would ever want to wipe out all his memories of Ruth, even with the everlasting pain, the dull ache of guilt that remained with him. He'd finally come to accept that Jane's comments, when he'd finally broken down and admitted his whole angst ridden history of Ruth, mixed as it was with the whole sordid story of Elena, were not wholly inaccurate. Acknowledging that it was better to have loved and lost etc etc etc, yet again he wondered why he was here, what was he expecting, perhaps he should just cut and run. If that had ever seriously been his intention he'd left it too late, they'd arrived at the church hall.

In the darkness Harry could make out little regarding the exterior other than it was a single storey building unremarkable in every way. The interior, at first, second and third sight was equally utilitarian, plank wooden flooring, its once polished surface generously scored with the usage of generations, scuffed chocolate brown gloss paintwork combined with flaking whitewashed walls. The only significant feature, and that was not uncommon, a basic stage positioned at the far end of the room, the original bright crimson colour of its concealing curtains having long since faded into a dull nondescript red. Despite this less than sparkling decor the building itself seemed sound enough, no hint of roof leaks marred the ceiling whose fluorescent strip lights made Harry blink as he entered.

For once, although he would despise to show it, he was a little out of his social comfort zone. On the increasingly rare occasions on which he ventured into the world beyond the Grid it was usually to seek shelter in the oak lined precincts of his club or to attend black tie formal events, the most recent of which had seen him shot. Otherwise his social encounters consisted of occasionally joining his staff for drink at the George, although these days he even avoided that more often than not, too many memories, not just of Ruth but also Ros...Adam... Facing current reality, glancing around to take his bearings he realised that a number of the more expensively dressed members of the religious throng regarding him with laser beamed stares. If this was the normal reaction to strangers in their midst it was small wonder that the Church of England was rapidly bleeding members. A firm nudge from Jane pushed him towards the stage end of the hall where stood a number of food laden trestle tables additionally decorated with the religiously bizarre mixture of jolly red faced Santas intermingled with anaemic angels and holly. Bearing in mind some of the pagan customs hijacked by the very early Christians he gazed ceilingwards with a degree of alarm. Thank God, no mistletoe. Jane was one proposition, Lottie and her incipient moustache was quite another.

Harry's progress down the hall was halted when he was suddenly waylaid by an agitated woman who seized his hand to pump it vigorously while speaking very quickly, "Thank you so much for rescuing my daughter. I said it was dangerous, all those candles and children."

Lottie's strident tones and equally strident opinions intervened. "Nonsense Andrea, the only danger is when children fail to follow instructions properly."

Andrea, the mother tigeress, vehemently objecting to this criticism of her darling child, seemed ready to square up for a fight, but battle was mercifully averted by the arrival of the Vicar. At closer quarters Harry realised he was not quite as youthful as he'd seemed in the candlelit church. Around thirtyish he thought, tall and appeared to be blessed with a casual charm that reminded Harry of the late Adam Carter, although in colouring he more closely resembled Lucas...blast it he kept forgetting... not Lucas North, John Bateman.

While Harry was speculating the man in charge, a nominal designation given that Lottie was standing next to him twitching to usurp the instant he contradicted her, skilfully choked them both off as he poured a deluge of the traditional oil over troubled waters. "Yes Andrea, we'll re-think the children carrying candles next year, in the meantime Mr er..."

Keen to reveal as little of his identity as was consistent with being sociable the reply was simple and friendly, "Harry please."

"Harry it is. We are very much in your debt. Ah Jane is here to rescue you and with her to say thank you ..."

Harry once again found himself staring into the deep blue eyes of the moppet, still wearing a long blue dress, who held up a mince pie as she lisped. "Fanks Sir. I've brought you a pie.' "The effect rather marred by her twisting around to ask in a stage whisper. "Was that alright Mummy?"

Mummy, failing to reply, was looking very embarrassed, her confusion rescued by Harry's smiling response to her daughter. "That was very alright, and thank you for the pie."

With one hand holding the plate and pie he was unable to resist Jane's thrusting a glass into his other hand, with the words. "And something to wash it down with."

Before he could protest hush fell as the Vicar clambered onto the stage. Having positioned himself in front of the tatty moth eaten velvet curtains, whatever spiritual statement he was about intone was suddenly drowned out by a plinky plonk sound, an indication that some enterprising children, having assuaged their boredom by wriggling beneath the threadbare nap were now amusing themselves by loudly hammering out chopsticks on a very out of tune piano. A cacophonous recital that in musical terms was still infinitely more melodious than the noise perpetrated earlier by Tara Winnick. Making a shudderingly unwelcome aural association Harry noted that the delightful teen, whose tasteful makeup tips seemed to have originated from the 'Plasterers' Gazette', was currently flashing her heavily mascaraed eyelashes in what Harry assumed would prove a futile attempt to attract the hapless vicar. Harry the experienced serial seducer of yesteryear and eligible single man, currently being stalked by those seeking to assuage his pangs of loneliness, possessed few illusions about the challenge that the dog collar would present to some members of the female population, especially when that symbol of moral untouchability was being worn by someone who, in a modern parlance, was definitely a babe magnet. James was either oblivious to this manifestation of the occupational hazard, or feigning ignorance as he tactfully removed the children with the request, 'Come and help Mabel hand around the crisps'. Having obtained the requisite silence he then proceeded to display a very unusual clerical grasp of the fundamentals of life. Recognising that with all the mouth watering nibbles on offer few would want to be held up by the lengthy prayerful demands of religion he uttered a speedy grace, "For food and fellowship we thank you Lord" followed by, "Thank you for coming friends and strangers alike. To everyone who took part tonight your contributions were appreciated, once again thanks to Mabel for the delicious looking catering. Finally a happy and holy Christmas to you all."

While that last sentence put Harry forcibly in mind of Tiny Tim, a child of nauseating piety, in realistic terms he fully appreciated that the incumbent could say little else. What was the alternative? "Have a horrible time" Not really. The dog collared one wasn't to know that for Harry, who along with Malcolm had volunteered for the Christmas shift, a dire day was a definite possibility.

The reference to strangers had, not unnaturally, directed a great deal of attention back onto Harry, not all of it friendly. Seeing several pairs of curious eyes centred upon him Harry prepared to sacrifice his tastebuds in the interests of conformity and took a small sip of his sherry. He could always eschew the rest on the plea that he was driving. To his astonishment it was excellent. Jane registering his shock explained in an undertone,

"Steven sorts out the booze in his role as the parish's semi resident alcoholic. He reckons that if he has to come to these things he wants a decent drink." Adding as an afterthought "You two should have a lot in common."

"You say the nicest things Jane. Oof..."

The last caused by something suddenly cannoning into the back of his legs, nearly making him topple over onto Jane. Harry was deeply thankful that he'd just about managed to keep his balance. He'd done his fair share of grappling with women in the past, especially Jane, but never in public. Turning around to face the source of the thump he heard someone being berated. Looking down he saw a small boy aged about seven snivelling, while his mother continued to admonish him for his carelessness.

"Wayne, say sorry to the gentleman."

Wayne casting his eyes to the floor totally ignored his mother as he continued to snuffle. "I've lost a bit off me Bionicle.'

Harry was slightly banjaxed by this bizarre utterance until the boy held up for his attention a red construction that approximated to the human body shape. Looking near his foot he noticed a piece of red plastic wedged between a gap in the floor boards. Bending down he retrieved it to the grateful sound of "Ta Mister." as the child waved the figure expectantly at him. Securing the piece to what seemed to be the appropriate fastening Harry enquired, "What is a bionicle?"

Mum developed a longsuffering face as Wayne, tears gone, began an excited talk in which the words 'Mata Nui', Toa' and other weird phrases were all jumbled up. More incomprehensible than the average terrorist rant Harry did manage to glean the words 'Lego', 'belonged to our Tom' and 'not made now' from the verbal soup. When Wayne had finally wound down Harry expressed a polite gratitude, "Thank you for explaining Wayne. Lego's changed a bit since my son was your age." All the while fighting the pang arising from the memory that when Graham was this child's age he'd been a divorced father rarely seeing his son. Wayne, more used to adults yawning, and possessed of the childhood habit of classifying everyone over thirty as being the same age asked excitedly, "How old is your little boy?"

"Not so little Wayne, he's nearly thirty."

Wayne was not to be deflected from his interrogation. "Do you have a little girl as well?"

Harry proof against most forms of questioning baulked at rebutting an innocent youngster, "Yes but she's older than my son."

The torrent of questions was mercifully halted by Mum rescuing Harry via a firm instruction to her son. "That's quite enough Wayne, time we took you home." With a nod to Harry she added, "And thanks for being so understanding." as Wayne was summarily removed from his orbit.

With no one to distract him Harry had the opportunity to notice that the crowd was gradually thinning as some had evidently decided it was time to head for home. Those still standing around munching and imbibing came under the generic heading of mature, a euphemism for elderly or ancient, or alternatively were the parents of older children, mainly teenagers who'd been dragged along and were now seated in a phone texting huddle at the far end of the building. Unfortunately for Harry the departing contingent had included the nativity play brigade most of whom, after Harry's quick thinking and avuncular response to their children, had taken to him. Whereas the teenagers indulging in their electronic sulk at being forced to attend something so uncool were just ignoring him, several members of the remaining, allegedly adult crowd, were those who from the moment he'd stepped across the Hall threshold had been glaring at him with the unspoken hostility Harry more commonly encountered from those he had just bested in a Thames House operation. Unusually in Harry's experience it was the women not the men who were giving him the evil eye, matched by an occasional condemnatory glance spinning in Jane's direction. A mystery solved when Jane whispered a warning. "Robin's fan club."

Harry, instantly enlightened, commented, "Ah the drinkies and social climbing set."

The shadow of a grimace crossed Jane's face as she begged, "Yes and don't, please don't, let on that you're not a Mr, I couldn't stand the fawning."

Harry was about to reassure her that he only ever dusted down his title when attending formal occasions or when forced into revelation by extreme circumstances. Using it to hijack the homage of Robin's groupies didn't qualify, even if he'd wanted their adoration, which he certainly didn't. Before he could assuage Jane's worries on that account the Vicar, having realised that the welcome of his remaining flock was not the religious world's greatest advert for evangelism, approached Harry again.

"Sorry I didn't really get a chance to introduce myself properly, I'm James Endersley, vicar of this and a couple of other parishes. I gather you're a friend of Jane's."

Harry wasn't certain if this was a fishing comment, but if so it was phrased tactfully, entirely lacking the insinuation that many would put into those words. Even so the answer wasn't easy, not least because Harry wasn't sure if he and Jane were actually friends.

Temporising, "We go back a long way, to university in fact. I had some business there today so thought I'd look her up while I was passing." Well it wasn't exactly a lie.

Any inclination James had to enquire further was prevented by a middle aged woman, jangling with baubles that made a Christmas tree look overdressed by comparison, materialising at his side. From the over enunciation Harry identified her immediately as Emma Winnick in the first instance, and from the filthy look she shot at him, clocked her as a member of Robin Tindall appreciation society in the second. It wasn't easy to ignore Harry, he radiated a natural air of presence and power, but Emma Winnick embarked on her tunnel vision quest didn't succumb as she elbowed him aside, pointedly turned her back to him as she prepared to monopolise James' attention.

It was with some amusement that Harry noticed a flash of disgust cross the cleric's face at such a blatant display of bad manners. "Not so saintly then". Harry wasn't a great one for religion, years of dealing with fundamentalist nutters of all descriptions had tended to diminish his respect for it, but now confronted with the church in action it occurred to him, for the first time, that being a clergyman wasn't, in an increasingly secular age, necessarily an easy call. Given him MI5 any day of the week, at least he didn't have to be endlessly polite to any idiot who came along, or coo over a community of volunteers all of whom presumably thought God was on their side in a dispute. The only time he had to worry about someone taking their bat and ball home was when England looked like losing the Ashes.

Emma Winnick meanwhile having obtained her audience was gushing wildly,

"Such a wonderful evening and so lovely to see everyone in a full church. My Tara's singing was so admired by one and all."

Before James could summon up a sensible response that didn't do violence to the ninth commandment Jane, in what Harry recognised as her mischief voice silenced for years in his hearing suggested,

"You really ought to ask Harry's opinion, he's something of habitué at the Royal Opera House and a connoisseur of vocal performance."

Emma Winnick, taking this news on board, failed to see the sardonic gleam in Jane's eyes as she cast them Harrywards with a twinkle that basically announced, "Get out that one."

Harry, as ever when challenged, rose to meet it, stating sincerely in his most mellifluous tones, "I can truthfully say that the sound of Tara's voice is unique. I've heard nothing like it before."

Rapt with this apparent appreciation it was fortunate that Emma Winnick, gazing in Harry's direction, failed to see James biting his underlip while flicking his eyes from Harry to Jane who were seizing the moment to indulge in a private eye contact, expressing mutual amusement. James had to admit, he was increasingly intrigued by this mystery man with the excellent manners who was giving little away about himself.

James' speculations were disturbed when a sudden almighty clash resounded across the Hall. The noise emanating from the stage area beside the table, where Mabel still held sway, made them all jerk their heads in that direction. The strong smell of sherry combined with the shards of several wine glasses shattered across the floor and now being crunched underfoot by a body staggering around meant that no great exercise of detective skills was required to ascertain the cause of the disturbance. It was apparent to all that a gentleman, already somewhat inebriated had, while in the act of pouring yet another drink, had toppled with his full weight against the trestle table with results as seen. A wholly unnecessary confirmation of provided by Lottie's crystalline condemnation.

"Emma kindly take your husband home, he is clearly unfit for company."

Emma while bridling with indignation wasn't about to take on Lottie, the sole glimmering of intelligence Harry had so far perceived in her. Instead she called her family to order, "Tara, Crispin, Giles come. We're leaving."

Crispin, a youthfully handsome boy of about seventeen looking somewhat discomfited, showed some slight sense of conscience as he managed to stammer, "But Mum. The mess!"

"I'm sure Mabel can deal with that." Emma swept out on her metaphorical high horse followed by her family, Giles weaving his way unsteadily, Tara tossing her hair in imitation of whichever starlet she was modelling herself upon, with an uncomfortable shamefaced Crispin still glancing behind him bringing up the rear. As the door swung shut behind them Jane and Lottie were united in mutual if silent fury. A seething Jane turned back to Harry and James,

"Would you excuse me, I need to help Mabel."

The Winnick family's departure had hastened that of all but a few stragglers. As Jane, Lottie and Mabel were taking the opportunity to start packing away the few remaining eatables on the excuse of clearing the mess the hint was duly taken and within five minutes of the incident only Harry and James were left in the Hall along with the female trio. Harry wondering if he should help with the clearing up or if he should just leave. That last thought stymied by Jane's calling, "If you're thinking of running away don't. I at least owe you a cup of coffee after this."

His other option of offering to help was spiked by James advising him, "Mabel will have been a little upset by Emma, experience suggests that Jane and Lottie will be better at cheering her up than my humble self."

Since smoothing down upset females was one of the few tasks Harry shied away from he had to admire this demonstration of the art of clerical delegation. He acquired even more respect when James lightly touching his dog collar added, "Thanks to this I'm debarred from expressing a frank opinion." Warming to the man by the minute Harry shot him a one of his rare smiles as he commented, "Presumably the reason why the spouse is often accused of murder."

"You think that, I could not possibly comment." While Harry was debating the possibility that James had somehow outed him as a habitué of Whitehall Harry's own comment had in its turn reawakened James' curiosity as to Harry's marital status. The absence of wedding ring indicated nothing whatsoever, beyond the fact that he didn't wear one. James on a polite fishing trip opened with a more neutral enquiry

"And your profession Harry, or are you retired?"

The slight twist in Harry's heart as he considered the circumstances that had made him stay on in post caused an imperceptible pause as he replied "Not yet, I'm a civil servant. Basically I advise the government on criminal activity and statistics."

James had noted the very slight shadow in Harry's eyes as he spoke, although he ignored it as he replied to this revelation with a light, "That could be a job for life if you wanted it."

Repressing the thought that it was more usually a job for death: in Harry's line of work, even though he found the existence of James' God a very dubious proposition, that he hadn't, as yet, died in post was a minor miracle. Pushing away the memories of all those deaths, especially one, and determined to keep the conversation as impersonal as possible he asked in what he trusted was a causal conversational tone,

"So in the interests of informal research what is the biggest problem around here, poaching, larceny – characters getting a bit too friendly with the sheep."

James responded with a groan, "In the past possibly but at present lead thieves. They've stripped a number of church roofs in the district, the regulations on heritage building state that we must replace like for like."

"Meaning that they then whip the replacement lead." Harry was no screaming modernist but he could understand why the heritage lobbies were sometimes regarded with disdain as a set of fossiled relics with so little appreciation of the realities of the modern world they might as well have based their offices on Mars.

Before he could convey his opinion Jane came over.

"All done Harry. I hope you don't mind escorting me back to my place with Mabel accompanying us."

A rhetorical question of course. Was he likely to insist that Mabel struggle home on her own!

"No objection at all Jane but at your age do you really think you require a chaperone."

"Leaving aside the chivalrous reference to my age – how you ever managed to charm any woman defeats me now – Mabel is encumbered with a few cake tins so I thought..."

Straightening himself up with an ostentatious squaring of his shoulders he assured her, "Harry the pack horse at your service m'lady."

Standing on the sidelines of this verbal ping pong match without making any comment but watching avidly as the pair made their way out of the hall with a bundled up Mabel between them James found himself increasingly intrigued by the relationship between Jane and this stranger. Whatever it was they were clearly much more to one another than just old friends.

Thanks for reading and if, in the middle of all the pre Christmas hassle you have a chance to review please do so.

The line 'You may say that' etc comes from the British version of 'The House of Cards' broadcast in the early 1990s