1. In the Vicarage

"Have a seat, Alfie, and I'll get us some coffee."

Bunburry village's vicar, the Reverend Philip Brown, disappeared into the kitchenette before his guest could decline. Alfie McAlister obediently sat down on the lumpy settee, which was covered in a length of colourful African-printed cotton. The last thing he wanted was a vicarage coffee. He had no idea what brand of instant Philip served, but it always tasted as though it had been rinsed through an old gym sock.

"Can you set up the little wooden table?" the vicar called out. "The coffee will take a while."

Alfie obeyed again, although he couldn't see how the coffee would take any time at all: it only needed boiling water poured on the revolting granules. But perhaps Philip had to retrieve the jar from the very back of a cupboard where it had been festering since 1990.

Alfie could hear the sound of the kettle, and the vicar chatting to himself as he made the preparations. "Now where did I put - ah, yes, there it is. And the bigger plate. Just move this out of the way. So kind of them. Oh, must remember to tell everyone about the change of day for the social justice group."

After a time, the vicar re-emerged, carrying a cake and two side plates, with sheets of kitchen roll as napkins.

"Cherry Madeira," he announced, laying them down on the small table. "Sometimes I think I should tell the ladies of the parish to stop providing me with their delicious home baking, and then I think, no, that would be uncharitable."

"Very uncharitable," Alfie agreed. The home baking was the only thing that made the coffee bearable.

"It's probably ready by now," said Philip, heading back to the kitchenette.

This was going to be the worst yet, a hot drink that was already tepid.

Philip returned with a tray and unloaded two mugs, a milk jug and a cafetiere, which exuded a tempting aroma of real coffee.

"Do you think it's time to press down the plunger?" he asked. "I'm still trying to get used to it."

"It looks just right," said Alfie in relief. "Have you had it long?"

"Since yesterday," said Philip. "Mrs Morgan had been dropping hints about wanting one, and on her birthday, she got one from her daughter and another from her son. She very kindly gave me the spare one."

Alfie wondered whether this was true or whether Mrs Morgan had been as fed up as he was with the vicarage's substandard coffee. Perhaps the ladies of the parish had had a whip-round.

The vicar reached a nervous hand towards the plunger, dislodged the lid, and sent coffee spattering over the table. Alfie grabbed the sheets of kitchen towel and mopped it up.

"Oh dear," the vicar sighed. "It's very complicated. I think it's safer if I go back to instant."

"No!" said Alfie, more loudly than he intended. "I mean, it's really not complicated at all, and there's still loads of coffee here."

He pushed the plunger down slowly and steadily, then poured the coffee into the mugs.

"There," he said, handing one to the vicar. "I'm sure you'll find it's a bit more full-bodied than instant."

"Full-bodied," repeated Philip thoughtfully after taking a sip. "Is that what it is? It's certainly rather palatable. As I'm sure the cake will be."

He cut two generous slices of the cherry Madeira before sitting back with an apologetic grimace.

"I'm sorry, Alfie, I thought we would be back in time for the grand opening of the new antique shop."

"I'm quite glad to have missed it," Alfie confessed as he added some milk to his own coffee. "The place would have been packed. Much better to go when the initial excitement's over."

"That's kind of you to say. It was good of you to give me a lift to the hospital," said Philip. "That's the second time my car hasn't started. Probably the spark plugs again. But I feel hospital visiting is one of my more important duties. People can be frightened and in pain, and it's a long day if there's nobody visiting them. But I'm sorry I took up so much of your time."

Alfie took a mouthful of coffee. It was smooth and strong.

"Delicious," he said, vowing to ensure that Philip was kept stocked up with coffee beans and didn't revert to the granules. "A more than adequate reward for giving you a lift to the hospital. In any case, it was scarcely a hardship. I was able to catch up on some reading, and I even had a chat with one of the nurses."

He gave a rueful smile and continued: "The one who's responsible for all the ridiculous rumours about Emma and me getting married."

"Oh, she's the one who's responsible?" said Philip in a mildly enquiring tone.

"Yes, all right, maybe I had something to do with it as well," said Alfie, turning his attention to the cherry Madeira cake.

He could never forget that terrifying night three years ago when he rushed to the hospital, the night when he knew for certain that he was in love with Emma. She had been stabbed, and he had no idea at that point how badly injured she was, whether she might die. He was frantic to see her, but he knew the nurses would only let in relatives. So, he lied that he was her fiancé.

He subsequently had to backtrack and claim that they'd decided against marriage, since what was important was the relationship rather than a piece of paper.

But when all those months later he discovered that Emma was in love with him too, the non-existent engagement was publicised as fact throughout the village.

"The nurse knows Emma's moved in with me," he told Philip. "I think she thinks I'm just too stingy to pay for a wedding."

And he could imagine the rumours that would result from that. He sometimes still found it difficult to believe that he was a multi-millionaire following the sale of his start-up. He would be pilloried as Bunburry's J. Paul Getty, the world's richest man, who was known for installing a payphone in his mansion to avoid having to pay for his guests' calls.

Philip laid down his coffee mug. "Perhaps you'll allow me a question."

"Of course. Anything," said Alfie, disguising his apprehension, hoping he wasn't going to be asked how he justified lying.

The vicar took a moment to speak, apparently weighing up his words. "From our conversations in the past, I know how much you wanted to marry Vivian. I'm intrigued as to why you and Emma have decided against matrimony."

Philip had sensed that his question would be unwelcome. And he was right. Alfie didn't like anyone asking about his relationship with Emma. But the question also reminded him of how much support he had had from Philip. He had come to Bunburry to escape his home in London, half-mad with grief after Vivian's death. Death was a taboo subject for discussion these days, but the one person you could talk to was a vicar. And Philip had let him talk, had listened as Alfie said he would have married Vivian in a heartbeat. But Vivian had firmly refused, telling him that marriage was a social construct that subjugated women.

And now he was in exactly the same situation with Emma. He knew Philip was asking a genuine question. There had been times when Alfie felt wrong-footed by him. But he had come to realise that the vicar was never judgemental and always benevolent. This wasn't a veiled criticism because they weren't planning a church wedding.

"It's not exactly been a joint decision," he admitted. "I haven't asked her. She's a strong, independent woman, just like Vivian, and I can do without the embarrassment of her turning me down."

"Ah," said Philip. There was a silence before he went on: "That's quite an assumption, I hope you don't mind me saying."

"Really?" said Alfie.

"I'm not one for giving unwanted advice, but perhaps you should consider asking Emma for her views."

For once, the vicar's suggestion was unhelpful. Alfie wasn't going to do anything that could be construed as pressuring Emma. Philip was from a different, older generation, thinking that a woman's goal in life was to get married. He didn't understand that, for a young woman like Emma, what was important was her career as a police officer. She had talked about sitting the sergeant's exam, and Alfie would support her absolutely in whatever she wanted to do, even if that excluded marriage.

Perhaps his own yearning for marriage was exactly the same as his love of good food and expensive clothes - a reaction to his childhood. His father, Calum McAlister, had walked out on his mother even before Alfie was born, and now Alfie was simply trying to create a sense of stability after being brought up by a single parent. Emma wanted to be with him, and that should be enough.

"I appreciate your advice," he said politely. There was another silence. He broke it by saying, "Anyway, as I missed the grand opening of the antique shop, I suppose I should go to tonight's meeting in the village hall."

"Most certainly," said Philip. "A golf course for Bunburry, a fascinating concept. I can't say I know anybody in the village who plays golf, but perhaps that's because we don't have a course."

Alfie doubted that the villagers were expected to become club members. He had never met the developer, Herbert Sinclair, but he had frequently read about Sinclair Holdings in the Financial Times, and knew the...