He reached for the greatcoat. This was the most significant item, he felt. Everyone he’d interviewed had referred to “Dickie” as wearing a greatcoat like this. He looked at the label. Label? There was one sewn firmly into the inner right-hand side of the garment. It had been specially tailored in Jermyn Street, London, by “Somerton & Snape,” who had thoughtfully added a serial number. 204. Customer number? Garment number? Small business, probably—all the top tailors he knew were located in Savile Row—and the number was a low one. Worth trying, he thought. Show your bosses you’ve covered all bases.

He was allowed to use the telephone to contact the tailoring firm in London. An assistant told him he was very happy to oblige and was quite confident that he could retrieve the information requested if the officer would care to ring back in ten minutes.

Thoday gave it twelve and rang back. “Ah yes, Sergeant. We have identified the coat. It was tailored for an officer involved in the recent unpleasantness in France. In fact, it was the second such garment he commissioned from us—in 1916—the first one having been unfortunately—er, rendered beyond repair by enemy action. It was made for a Major Richard Dunne of the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry. We do not hold a current private address for the gentleman as, like most military men, he is—was—stationed abroad for much of his time. We have always communicated with him at the HQ of his regiment in Pontefract, Yorkshire.”

Thoday broke off with effusive thanks, unable quite to hide his excitement even on the telephone. Could it really be this smooth, this easy?

He brought his notebook up to date and went back to stare again at the worldly goods of Major Richard (Dickie?) Dunne.

He turned his attention before leaving with his prize information to the region of the feet, which had raised a question in Dr. Beaufort’s mind. He thought back to his own appearance at the strange scene in the graveyard. He hadn’t managed to get a very close look at the corpse, what with Redfyre and the pathologist hogging the space, but he had noted, and been rather taken aback by, the state of the feet. He remembered the pathetic V shape they’d made, with one white big toe exposed for all to see. And below, neatly lined up, the stout walking shoes.