Martha Burchill gazed down at her father. He looked asleep, content, at peace. She had seen that look on his face many times before, notably when he had finished another spectacular performance with one or other of his choirs, or yet another of his choristers had landed a prestigious post in a cathedral. She stroked his black wavy hair, tugged his beard like she had done as a child.

‘How did he die, Inspector?’

‘We believe that he was murdered, Miss Burchill. He was held face down in the water tank underneath the organ until he stopped breathing.’

‘Murdered? My father? Who would do such a thing?’

‘That’s what I need to ask you, Miss. But first, shall we go somewhere else? This is not the ideal location to have a conversation with you.’

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