The music room smelled of dust and vellum and the particular mustiness that clings to choir libraries. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, filled with scores in brown paper covers, anthem books with cracked spines, stacks of part–books tied with faded string. A single coal in the grate fought a losing battle with the chill.

Goulburn stood by a table, sorting through a pile of Novello’s octavo scores. He looked up as Lomas and Makepeace entered, his expression weary but composed.

“Inspector,” he said. “You come to see whether my sins are written in crotchets as well as in ink?”

“Something like that,” Lomas said. “We’ve reason to believe Sturmey used music as a hiding place. Hymn pages, anthem leaves, tucked into other people’s shelve...

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