The doctor waved in the direction of a line of labelled specimen jars on the shelf of a cupboard. “All present and correct and ready for your inspection. No noxious substances, so you don’t need a mask. He was quite definitely not fed any known poisons or drugs. Apart from the alcohol, which I’ll come to . . .”

He pointed to the bottles and drew Redfyre’s attention to the numbers on the front. “I thought I’d treat it like a menu and go through the courses in reverse order of discovery, if you see what I mean.”

Redfyre peered at the bottles with distaste. “I can only count to three. Short menu? Hardly what we were expecting for a bloke who’s just been invited to break bread with a coterie of epicures.”

“Quite so. But there were eels! Now, how on earth could you have foreseen the eels?”

Redfyre gaped. “I didn’t! I was making a silly joke, Beaufort. Displaying my very sketchy historical knowledge of food-induced deaths.”

“Well, here they are. The first course. Not lampreys, I think, just common or garden eels out of the River Ouse a few miles north of here. They’re in season at the moment. And these ones—a modest portion, by the way—are what a Cambridge man or a Londoner would call ‘jellied.’ In the Pie and Mash shops, they shuck their eels into rounds and boil them up in water and vinegar, flavour the stew with black pepper, nutmeg and lemon or herbs and let them cool. The eel is a gelatine-producing fish, according to an angling friend of mine, and what you get in your little round dish is usually four chubby pieces of eel in a shiny and nutritious jelly. Yum!” he added unconvincingly. “Kept the Victorian poor on their feet and working for decades.”

“Right. And to follow that?”

“Jar number two. Common or garden apple pie. Mostly pastry, with a touch of blackberry jam for colour. Washed down with water. And that’s it. A modest meal.”

“Jar three seems to be almost empty.”

“Yes it is. The last swab. And taken not from his gullet, but the inside of his mouth. Brandy. From the bottle we found with the body, I’m guessing. He didn’t ingest any. Someone might have poured a shot into his mouth after death and splashed it about a bit, hoping the lumpen plod would assume he was a drunk.”

“I’m afraid I did!”

“It’s very easy to envisage a tramp who’d strayed into the college and helped himself to a bottle of booze. One of his fellow roughs challenging him for possession in the churchyard where he’d sloped off to down the brandy in peace and killing him in a drunken rage. A fight between down-and-outs, that’s all. ‘Nothing of interest to see here! Move along!’ is what you’re supposed to be saying, Inspector.”