The Cave, when empty of boys and music, was merely a low, barrel–vaulted chamber with bad acoustics and a smell of chalk and old sweat. Its benches looked smaller without choristers perched on them. The blackboard, still bearing the ghost of Barker’s last furious instruction on dynamics, loomed like a reprimand.

Mr Tuttle, the steward, hovered in the doorway. He was a lank man with thinning hair and a nervous habit of rubbing his hands together as if perpetually washing them.

“You’ve got the run of it, sir,” he said. “I’ve unlocked the side lobby too. Only mind your heads in the passage; it’s low.”

“We’ll take care,” Lomas said. “You were on duty the night Sturmey died, Mr Tuttle?”

“Yes, sir,” Tuttle...

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