Here's the fifth, and I've decided final, part. It has become a bit of a millstone to other blogging.
And so Harry Johnson squealed. He squealed good. He named everyone who had blocked sensible progress. He named all preachers who had delivered overlong sermons. He named all non-attenders who had ever obstructed minor building alterations. He named and named and named. He cleared the air. He cleared the church. And wider than that. Deaneries crashed. Archdeaconries collapsed. Dioceses tumbled. The episcopal church of (insert name of national church you'd most like to see fail) was closed for good. Harry became the patron saint of everyone who had ever said, 'I wouldn't start from here.' Because now they could. He took the church back to the start whilst the DA put the named away.
Pretty soon the web of church-domination had been extended to patronage trustees. Jerry found himself with blood on his hands. His arrest freed many churches from the restrictive command and control of his society's founders' knock-down nineteenth century purchase.
In exchange for the names, Harry had his freedom. Surgery. Relocation. Not with certainty though. What court could protect him 24/7 for the rest of his days? The Bishop of (insert name of bishop most likely to take someone out) would be first free and had good contacts. Harry would be hiding for ever and ever.
Hope you don't feel too short-changed. Trollope has already written The Warden and Harry's Game has gone too but if demand is high enough I may resurrect him. Hang on. Hang on. Trollope. I feel a sequel coming on in a slightly different style. Watch this space.