The schoolroom set aside for the cathedral choristers was large, high–ceilinged, and cheerless. Tall windows admitted a grey light that picked out the gloom of long desks and a blackboard filmed with chalk dust. The air smelled of wet boots, cold stone, and ink.

The Headmaster had received Lomas with stiff courtesy, his pince–nez glittering. “You will understand, Inspector, that I cannot have the boys unsettled. They must sing for Evensong as usual. But of course, if you must… inquire…”

“I’ll take them in twos and threes,” Lomas had said. “We shall attempt not to shake the vaults.”

Now the first pair sat side by side at the front desk. Freddy Polkinghorne clenched his cap so tightly in both hands that the brim was beginning to warp....

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