Cambridge, Friday, the 23rd of May, 1924

“Great Heavens, sir! You’re back early.” Redfyre jumped back in surprise as he entered MacFarlane’s office with a pile of papers for his records.

“No, just earlier than you were expecting, it seems. I came back yesterday more dead than alive—the trains are a bugger! Then I snatched a few hours’ sleep and came in at six to dig through this pile of awfulness you’ve left for me. I can hardly begin to digest what I have, and I see you’re about to add to it. Sit down man, and, give me my bearings. Start with this cove, Fanshawe, now gracing the marble slab in the Trumpington morgue. Did he fall, or was he pushed? I see you won’t commit yourself.”

“Not until I have Doc Beaufort’s report, which is expected this afternoon.”

“You’re kidding. You know as well as I do that the doc talks as he works, unlike some, and he’ll have given you chapter and verse. But anyway, before we plunge in . . . Yes, thanks for asking, Inspector, I had a very successful time gathering poisoned fruit in the north.”

He passed two pages of notes over the desk. “For entry in the file. Stick them where you think fit. Both interviewees came up, one consciously, one unconsciously, with the same name. Now Fanshawe. Pity he’ll never be able to spell out that name for us. I wonder if he was looking at the same murdering features when he experienced his defenestration.”

“I was just bringing the police photographs of the body and locating shots of the scene, sir.” Redfyre passed them over.

“And you say it was you who discovered the body? Looking down from this here window?” MacFarlane pointed with his pencil to the distance shot. “Mm, as I recall, my last words to you were, ‘No way you’ll get a warrant to enter St. Jude’s.’ And there you were, hours later, up in the highest interior recesses of the college.”

Redfyre decided on jovial insouciance for his response. “No storming necessary, sir! I was invited to tea with the master and his daughter, Miss Wells, in their drawing room. A room that interestingly overlooks the graveyard, where our tramp who has proven to be not a tramp met his end.”

“The master, eh?”

“Good man! He was most helpful. He’d make a good investigator. And thanks to his position, he had the means to organise the scene of crime swiftly and to everyone’s satisfaction.”

“I bet! Principally his. Everything hushed up and shovelled out through the back gate, I expect. In earlier days, Fanshawe would have ended up in the Cam. He’d be halfway to King’s Lynn by now and no bother to us.