The house in Nether Row had once been a respectable townhouse. Time and hard use had squeezed it thinner, like a candle burned down to a stump. Its paint peeled in long curls from the door; its brass bell–pull was tarnished to the colour of old soup.

“Third floor, front,” said the landlady, wiping her hands on a stained apron. “Mr Sturmey. Quiet as a mouse, he was. Kept himself to himself. Paid punctually on Saturdays.”

“Did he have many visitors?” Lomas asked.

She pursed her lips. “Not that I saw, sir. Gentlemen of the Cathedral come to the door sometimes of an evening, and him gone out. They never left their names. I don’t trouble with what’s above my knees.”

“Nor below the collar–line, I daresay,” murmur...

Please subscribe to keep reading.