The houses in St Augustine’s Crescent were a world away from Nether Row. Where Sturmey’s lodgings hunched under the eaves, these stood tall and smooth, their stucco fronts freshly painted, iron balconies gleaming, steps scrubbed to a pale shine. Laurel bushes guarded their front doors; polished brass numbers winked in the grey afternoon.

“This is where the Dean’s ‘elderly ladies’ live,” Makepeace murmured. “The ones with legacies.”

“Among others,” Lomas said. “One of the choristers, Cooper—a treble with a fair tone, if memory serves—gives this as his home. His mother requested a word with me after rehearsal. I thought we might oblige.”

Number 14 had a fanlight adorned with coloured glass and a bell–pull of ridiculous ornat...

Please subscribe to keep reading.