Snow fell again for Dyson’s last Sunday in Yorbridge. It came down in soft veils, blurring the edges of the Close, muffling the bells. From the outside, nothing had changed: the Cathedral tower rose; the choristers processed; the organ thundered.

Inside, everything had.

Dyson left under escort two days before the magistrates’ hearing. There was no public scene. Corbett nodded once as he watched the carriage roll away, face unreadable.

“Never liked him,” he said to Lomas. “But he kept the boiler fund topped up. We’ll miss that.”

“You’ll find an honest way now,” Lomas said.

Corbett snorted. “Honest ways are cold,” he said. “But perhaps we deserve a chill.”

In the Deanery, trunks were being aired....

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