Dean Sims Kilbey’s study was as far from Sturmey’s cramped room and the boys’ draughty schoolroom as one side of heaven from the other. A fire burned discreetly in the polished grate. The walls were lined with books in sober leather. A Turkish carpet muffled footsteps. The air carried the comfortable tang of pipe tobacco and good brandy.

Kilbey himself rose from behind his desk as the constable ushered Lomas and Makepeace in. He was tall, with well–kept silver hair and an expression of cultivated concern.

“Inspector Lomas,” he said, extending a hand. “And Sergeant Makepeace. These are anxious days for all of us. Do sit down. May I offer you a glass of something? Port? Whisky?”

“Thank you, no,” Lomas said. He accepted a leather armchair near...

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