Olivier Laverne stepped off the train. His eyes stung like never before. It took him several minutes to acclimatize to the heavy air. Acrid smells accosted Laverne on every side. He searched for a porter; none was available. Fellow organists had warned him about Hartley; now he believed them. Had there been a direct train back to London he would have used his return ticket then and there. But the furthest he could travel that evening would be Wakefield, which might be just as unwelcoming. In any case, Laverne had made a commitment, and he was a man of his word. There was no way that he was going to break his agreement, much as he already knew he would hate every minute of his time in the town.    

‘May I help you, sir?’ The porter’s politeness came as a contrast to the...

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