The Deanery drawing room was less comfortable in daylight. The fire had gone down to ash; the heavy curtains admitted a thin, wintry light that showed the scuffs in the carpet and the faint tidemark of damp at the skirting board where the river mists crept in each autumn.

Dean Kilbey stood on the hearthrug, his hands clasped behind his back, as if about to make an announcement at Chapter. His silver hair was as well ordered as ever. His eyes, however, had a strained brightness.

“Inspector,” he said, as Lomas and Makepeace entered. “Sergeant. To what do I owe this… renewed attention?”

“To the late Mr Sturmey’s ingenuity,” Lomas said. “And to a cassock that appears to have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

He laid the fo...

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