The doctor grinned. “You’ve never held me to what I say in the first flush of enthusiasm, so—yes. And my first indiscretion will be to say—are you sure, Inspector, that this is indeed a corpse we’re about to check over? Do I need to remind you where we are? In the middle of university territory. You know what the young folk are like for practical jokes. When pissed out of their wits seeking a distraction from the stressful demands of examinations or just because it’s a Saturday night, they often burst out into undergrad humour. The medics are the worst, with their access to body parts, real or faked. And they have a fertile imagination. Combined with a strong stomach and a head for heights, apparently. I’ve been called out to attend skeletons in indelicate poses on rooftops, severed heads—papier mâché, of course, and dripping gouts of tomato sauce—dangling from the chubby fingers of Henry VIII. This one looks particularly waxen to me from this distance. Someone made a clandestine visit to Madame Tussauds gallery and made off with one of her rogues? Ah! Your photographer’s done with the camera. Shall we cease blethering and move into the presence?”

“Why do I feel as though we ought to be doffing our hats?” Redfyre murmured as they approached. “No idea who he is, but I can tell you this—he’s no waxwork! He’s real, all right, just lacking a pulse. Not exactly hiding, is he? I say—do you think that’s part of it? Either he was some kind of a joker who thought he’d lay himself out with a last dashing gesture or—”

“Someone did it for him. Laid him out all neat and tidy, eyes closed, hands crossed over the breastbone. Regretful? ‘Sorry about this, old chap. Least I can do . . .’”

“It did occur to me, though I can’t see any sign of violence on the few bits of him that are visible. I haven’t yet looked below the greatcoat. It covers him capaciously, from chin to calf. Could be anything under there from a pair of nail scissors to a harpoon.”

They stared together in pity and curiosity at the body, automatically making a respectful sign of the cross.

“They say Death’s a leveller,” the doctor murmured, “but I don’t know. It’s hardly a scientific view, but it always seems to my jaundiced eye to accentuate differences. And sometimes it distorts. Subjects take on a deceptively saintly aspect—and the reverse. Looking at our bloke, I’d say ‘saintly,’ wouldn’t you? He may have been an utter blackguard in life, of course. That’s up to you to discover, my friend.”

“Should we really go on calling him ‘subject’ and ‘bloke’?” Redfyre said. “Seems a bit discourteous to me.”