Harry Riddles thought himself mad. Madder than he had ever been. ‘You bloody fool’, he said to himself as he walked down the corridor from Brother Germain’s cell to Szabo’s office. Now that he had something to live for, he expected that he would end up dying. ‘By close of play this evening, most likely,’ he grumbled to himself.

It was Philbs who had persuaded him. He had never liked Brother Germain: too holier than thou for his own good. Even the man’s walk was saintly. It was as if he was on castors; either that or the monk hovered above the ground rather than walked on it. ‘It’s your duty, Harry. You must do this.’ ‘No, I don’t,’ Riddles had replied.

Tristram Bishop had gone for a softly-softly approach, but Harry Riddles...

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