The sacristy smelled of linen and beeswax and old stone. Along a long table lay a procession of vestments: albs white as bone, stoles in green and violet, chasubles embroidered with gold thread dulled by candle–smoke.

Precentor Roberts Goulburn stood at the table, folding a green stole. His fingers moved carefully along the fabric’s edge, but the cloth trembled faintly as he worked.

“Inspector,” he said, without looking up. “Sergeant. You find me in a shamefully prosaic occupation. The Archdeacon is due next month. He likes to assure himself that we are not hiding a moth behind every cope.”

“Order seems to be your gift, Mr Precentor,” Lomas said. “In music, in ritual, in cupboards.”

Goulburn smiled thinly. “Order is a comfort to t...

Please subscribe to keep reading.