The nave of Yorbridge Cathedral, empty between services, was an echoing cavern. Footsteps rang; voices flew up to the vaulting and came back altered.

At the crossing, near the great brass lectern, stood Dr Bacchus Dyson and Varley Barker, facing one another like two stags on a hillside. Dyson’s bulk seemed to swell with indignation. Barker’s hands were bunched at his sides.

“Mr Barker,” Dyson was saying, in tones of outraged dignity, “you will not address me in that manner in the house of God.”

“You do enough addressing for all of us,” Barker retorted. “Mostly at meals, mostly about yourself. The boys tell me you’ve been hinting that I’m to blame for this mess. That my temper must have got the better of me in the cloister. If you...

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