“He’d had a lot to drink, according to Beaufort, and a copious meal,” Redfyre said, riffling through the sheets at speed.

“In view of the other cases, we followed this up. We wouldn’t have bothered normally—people eat well when they’re letting their hair down in Cambridge. But with the general, we checked every hostelry, restaurant, guesthouse and college kitchen in town. Not one had offered roast swan and all the regal trimmings. Not one! The nearest we could come to it was coq au vin.”

“He died from a knock on the back of the head? Like Jessup?”

“Beaufort found splinters in the wound. Old wood, tarred with preservative. That cut down the search area. The general was bald, the wound unpleasant but clear. We found a match. On one of the planks shoring up the riverbank near the Anchor pub. Blood traces confirmed. The home office boys and the top brass, who were keen to keep a lid on it for their own undisclosed reasons, leapt on that. Clearly, the general had had a nasty accident while suffering the effects of overindulgence. ‘Drinking too deep of the Old Falernian, eh, what!’ was the conclusion of one old duffer—and he was the coroner! It was concluded that the chap had fallen, bashed his head and rolled right over the foot-high plank into a stolen punt that just happened to be drifting by. Huh!”

Redfyre retained the police scene of crime photograph and laid it out on the table in front of him. Then, sighing, he reached for the second file. “Who’ve we got here?”

“More ‘Corpses About Cambridge,’ I’m afraid. “January of that year. Fresh-fallen snow. It’s the best documented scene of a killing in the annals of crime! There were present: more than twenty photographers, three reporters, two deans and one bishop. All on the spot at or near the time of death,” he said with relish. “They all had plenty to say, and not one word was of any use. The buggers had seen nothing! And I believed them. Here—this official police photo says it all.”