Mrs Henshall’s parlour was a narrow upright of a room, sandwiched between the lane and the tiny yard behind. A ferns’ worth of greenery drooped in the window; on the mantel, a china shepherdess presided over a collection of seashells.

“You’ll think me foolish,” she said, twisting her handkerchief as she sat opposite Lomas and Makepeace. “An old woman with fancies. I wouldn’t have said nothing, only… you keep asking, sir. About that night. And I keep thinking maybe there was more I saw, only I didn’t know how to tell it.”

“Start anywhere,” Lomas said gently. “At the end, if you like. We’ll work backward.”

“It was after the bell,” she said. “Maybe ten minutes. I were in the sacristy, like I told...

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