Chalmers came down from London the next day with ice on his whiskers and impatience in every fold of his greatcoat.

“What in God’s name do you think you are doing?” he demanded, as soon as he had Lomas in the Bishop’s parlour. “Arresting the Principal of a Royal College in full term? The papers will make a feast of it.”

“Better they feast on Dyson than on the Prince,” Lomas said. “And on one body in the cloister than a dozen boys’ names from Sturmey’s book.”

Chalmers frowned. “You have it, then?”

“We do,” Lomas said. “Thanks to Mrs Couper’s dog and her son’s conscience. It will not go further than my lock box without a warrant. I give you my word.”

Chalmers eyed him. &l...

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