Helen stood next to me by the chapel altar in the late-evening dark.

By ten on Friday morning, the church council room smelled of pine cleaner and damp coats.

I set my pastoral logbook flat on the oak table before six church elders.

Arthur sat at the head of the table, rubbing his heavy gold signet ring against his suit lapel.

“We’re here to deal with a matter of pastoral ethics,” Arthur said, his voice sinking into the low, smooth tone he saved for funeral eulogies.

Elder Miller adjusted his glasses.