Evensong that afternoon drew an unusually large congregation. News of murder, like incense, drifted into every corner of Yorbridge. The curious and the devout alike turned up to stare at the choirstalls and the section of cloister now roped off with a discreet screen.

From his place in the police seat near the south transept, Lomas saw Louise Cooper’s hat before he saw her. It bobbed along the nave like a bright bird, Bijou tucked defiantly under one arm, despite the verger’s horrified whispers. She took a place near the front, where she could watch the boys.

The choir filed in—white surplices, red cheeks, voices like strained silver. Lomas noted Julien Cooper: fair, slight, a little more wide–eyed than usual. Freddy Polkinghorne looked paler; Ivor Handl’s jaw was set in a way...

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