“Exactly. I set the lads to combing every inch of the pavings. Moving all those bloody wreaths about! Nothing untoward. But then, there wouldn’t have been much of a sign. The subject had thick hair, and the skin of the scalp wasn’t breached. Bruises and swelling had begun to gather, that’s all.”

“So he was killed elsewhere?”

“No. Right here on the spot! One sharp-eyed beat constable helping us out, thought of examining the plinth. He looked first all around the stonework at the height of a man’s head, and there it was! On the western side, facing away from the road. Discreetly in shadow. The smear!”

“I thought you said there was no blood?”

“Brilliantine! He’d clearly been out on the town that night. Snappy dresser, our friend. Took good care of his appearance. Hair as thick as his, it needed a bit of restraint. There was a round patch—a stain on the stonework, and the gunk contained several hairs matching the hair of the dead man. He’d been lured round the back of the memorial and had his skull cracked, then was lowered and dragged the short distance round to the stern end.”

Redfyre sighed. “And his last supper?”

A paper-clipped sheaf was put into the inspector’s hand. “Read this in your own good time. You’ll find the formula is becoming familiar. Wine and brandy again, following some fancy soup or other. My ma would have called it leek and potato, but I see the doctor has it down as vichyssoise. Then venison—appropriate for the time of year, November being well into game season, and after that, a blackberry tart and cheese.”

“And his identity? Who was he, this man about Cambridge?”

“Again, all forms of identity were removed to slow us down. Odd, that! This killer apparently likes to suppress distinguishing facts about his victims. To allow himself the time to get away? But he goes to a lot of trouble to make sure their corpses are displayed, making them identifiable to anyone who knew them. There’s no distortion or damage to any facial features. They all looked pretty enough for our photographer to take a portrait of them. We were getting the prints ready to take all round Cambridge to the hotels and restaurants seeking identification. They wouldn’t have frightened the horses. But in the end, we didn’t have to bother.