It was not difficult to find Varley Barker if one knew his habits. When the pressure in the Close rose, he went to the organ.

Lomas and Makepeace climbed the narrow stair to the loft, feeling the stone twist around them. The air grew colder, then suddenly warmer as they emerged into the small chamber behind the pipes, where candles guttered in jam jars and music lay in sliding piles.

Barker sat at the console, hands resting on his knees, feet on the pedals, eyes shut. No sound came from the instrument. For once, he looked spent rather than fierce.

“If you’re here to request a voluntary,” he said, without opening his eyes, “you’ll be disappointed. The only thing I have in my fingers tonight is blasphemy.”

“Blasphemy can be very tuneful,” Makepeace sa...

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