Lomas did not intend, when he woke that morning, to return to the Cave at midnight. But the day drove him there.

The hours between Evensong and Compline were consumed by statements: a formal deposition from the Dean, written in a tremulous but steady hand; a second, more detailed account from Mrs Henshall; a signed statement from Tuttle about the rope; carefully phrased notes from Chalmers, ensuring his department appeared, at worst, naïve.

By late evening, his head rang with other men’s voices.

“You need air,” Makepeace said. “And space.”

“And a sense of how this actually was,” Lomas replied. “Not just how they tell it. Come on.”

They took lanterns. The vergers, now used to strange requests, surrendered the keys witho...

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