Beyond the canvas there was movement. A light voice said jerkily: ‘I think, if it doesn’t make any difference, I’d like to wait outside. I won’t go away. You can call me, you know.’

‘Yes, of course.’

A canvas flap was pulled aside, letting out a triangle of light on the grass. A man came out. He wore a heavy overcoat and muffler and his hat was pulled over his face, but the constable had recognized his voice and shifted uneasily.

‘Oh, it’s you, Bream,’ said Thomas Ancred.

‘Yes, Mr Thomas.’

‘Cold, isn’t it?’

‘Hard frost before dawn, sir.’

Above them the church clock gave a preparatory whirr and with a sweet voice told two in the morning.

‘I don’t like this much, Bream.’

‘Very upsetting, sir, I’m sure.’

‘Terribly upsetting, yes.’

‘And yet, sir,’ said Bream with a didactic air, ‘I been thinking: this here poor remains beant a matter to scare a chap, if rightly considered. It beant your respected father hisself as you might put it, sir. He’s well away receiving his reward by now, and what you are called to look upon is a harmless enough affair. No more, if you’ll excuse me, than a left-off garment. As has been preached at us souls regular in this very church.’

‘I dare say,’ said Thomas. ‘Nevertheless…Well, thank you.’

He moved away down the gravel path. The London officer turned to watch him. Thomas did not move quite out of range of the veiled light. He stood, with his head bent, near the dim shape of a gravestone and seemed to be rubbing his hands together.

‘Cold and nervous, poor chap,’ Bream said to himself.

‘Before we go any further’ (that was Chief Inspector Alleyn again), ‘will you make a formal examination, Mr Mortimer? We’d like your identification of the name-plate and your assurance that everything is as it was at the time of the funeral.’

A clearing of the throat, a pause and then a muffled voice. ‘Perfectly in order. Our own workmanship, Mr Alleyn. Casket and plate.’

‘Thank you. All right, Thompson.’

The click of metal and the faint grind of disengaging screws. This seemed to Bream to continue an unconscionable time. Nobody spoke. From his mouth and nostrils and those of the London constable, little jets of breath drifted out and condensed on the frozen air. The London man switched on his flash-lamp. Its beam illuminated Thomas Ancred, who looked up and blinked.

‘I’m just waiting,’ he said. ‘I won’t go away.’

‘Quite all right, sir.’

‘Now,’ ordered the voice in the enclosure, ‘everything free? Right!’

‘Just ease a little, it’s a precision fit. That’s right. Slide.’

‘Oh, cripes!’ Bream said to himself.

Wood whispered along wood. This sound was followed by complete silence. Thomas Ancred turned away from grass to gravel path and walked aimlessly to and fro.

‘Curtis? Will you and Dr Withers—?’