The first thing Father George Kemble did when he stepped out of the train station and looked around at the dock, the red-tile roofed houses, and the cliff with the abbey in the background, was scowl. Not the usual expression for visitors, but Kemble was hardly a visitor. He had been here before, and he was not going to be able to leave any time soon -unless that wimp Richards magically recovered - and he was as displeased to be here now as he had been before. Big things were happening in Middlesbrough. The bishop and people close to the bishop were there. There was the promise of being able to climb social ladders and become someone important there. Whitby, on the other hand, was a glorified smuggler's den and fisherman's slum. Safe for the wealthy tourists in summer, there was nothing here. Monsignor Lacy could go to hell for sending him here. 

There was supposed to be a carriage to pick him up and take him to the presbytery. George squinted his eyes and looked around. Of course, it wasn't there. How he hated this place. No doubt it would get worse, once he evaluated the state of his parish. He had the misfortune of knowing Richards and his style. No doubt all his hard work had been undone. This was hell. Now where was that bloody carriage?