Yorbridge in March was all damp stone and steam. The Cathedral towered over the red–brick streets; cabs rattled; clerks hurried past with bundles of paper like offerings to some new, secular altar.

Makepeace arrived with the 9:05 from Hartleydale. Lomas was waiting for him, with Sturmey’s little black book locked in a battered leather case. Neither spoke much on their way to the Crown Court.

“Ever testified in a case where half the witnesses wear cassocks?” Makepeace asked, as they climbed the steps to the place where Dyson would be tried.

“Not yet,” Lomas said. “I imagine the Almighty will get more mentions than usual.”

Inside, the court had the same geometry as any other: dock, bench, jury box, public gallery. Only the clothes differed. There...

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