Canon Price’s rooms were on the upper floor of a range overlooking the Close, up a stair that creaked in familiar protest. The door stood ajar. Lomas knocked anyway.

“Come in,” called Price’s gentle voice.

The study was much as before: books everywhere, papers in drifts, a small fire trying to be brave. Price himself sat at his desk, a shawl around his shoulders, a pen in his hand. The nib hovered over a sheet of paper; the ink on it shone wet.

“Inspector,” he said, laying the pen aside. “Sergeant. I was expecting you.”

“You were?” Makepeace raised an eyebrow.

Price smiled faintly. “When one drops a paper and a clever boy sees it,” he said, “one must assume that the next knock will be from the man who...

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