“One only. Fingernails. All intact, by the way, so he wasn’t involved in a fight. I tweezered out a couple of tiny threads of fabric. He could have picked them up brushing against someone in a corridor, slapping someone on the back, it’s that insubstantial. Very dark blue. Navy, really. Gents’ suiting, not evening dress. Over to you. I think you know where to look. But I’d advise you to hurry—they’re having an end-of-term clear-out in the morgue, too.”

“Had he been drinking?”

“No. A half glass of sherry. Nothing to turn the head, though his body was soaked in the stuff and the empty bottle broken by the side of the body. Sorry I can’t be of more help. But Redfyre, experience tells me that barring a surprise confession, you’ll never get this past the Prosecution Service—rightly so, in my opinion—as anything chargeable. They’ll see it as nothing more sinister than suicide at the worst, accidental overbalancing at best. So there you have it: unexplained accidental death, because no one wants to hear of a suicide. Especially not the colleges.”

Report in hand, Redfyre made his way to the offices at the rear of the morgue and engaged the attention of a young man on portering duty. He asked what the situation was regarding the effects of one of the corpses: Vagrant Unknown/Richard Dunne. On learning that the “combustibles” were about to be sent down to the hospital furnace, he ordered a halt and requested the bag of possessions to be brought back up to him for a last-minute examination. A two-bob piece changed hands, and in surprisingly short time, Redfyre found himself handling a familiar greatcoat now smelling eye-wateringly of Lysol.

He took it out and placed it, folded, on the bench, then ran an enquiring hand over the fabric of the suit below. And snagged one of his own fingernails. It was as he remembered. Loose-weave, summer-weight tweed. Dark blue.