“Right. Look, it’s the eighteenth of May today. St. Dunstan’s Day, my diary told me when I opened it on receiving the phone call this morning. Let’s call him after the good old Saxon saint, shall we? Dunstan?”

“Seems appropriate,” Redfyre said, glancing wryly at the surroundings. “He rests surrounded by good old Saxon bones, after all.”

After an inspection of the head and hands, the doctor declared his intention of removing the greatcoat, and they both set about undoing the strong horn buttons. “This was a splendid coat, two or three owners previously,” Beaufort commented. “Great War: ‘Officers for the use of,’ I had one just like it. Not standard issue, sewn up in a hurry by the thousand, either. Specially tailored in London, I think we’ll find, when we dig a bit deeper. Ah yes, here we are. Label intact. Jermyn Street. Do you want to note down the details? . . . Not that a London tailor will be able to help. The secondhand stall on the market may have more useful particulars to offer. Whichever—it’s had careful owners, or lucky ones. No sign of damage—no bullet hole, no bayonet slash. Even the buttons are all intact and stoutly sewn on.”

“No helpful regimental badge in the lapel?”

“No,” Beaufort replied, smoothing down the front folds. “But look here. Two tiny holes. From a lapel tag? Right where you’d expect to find it. That could have come adrift when the body was moved—dragged along?”

“I’ll tell the chaps to watch out. No marks of grass or damp stains down the front from pulling the body along. Perhaps they’re on the back.” Redfyre made a note.

The doctor silently assessed the condition of the limbs, and noting that they were in a sufficiently loose state, he began with Redfyre’s help to peel the coat from the arms.

“You know, I think your guess at timing is a bit out, Inspector. Your Dunstan’s been dead rather longer than you think. I’ll let you know later when I’ve had him on my slab, but—first estimate—not last night. The night before? Friday night? I’ll be able to get the night temperatures and a meteorological report from the boffins and hear what they have to say. They’ve solved more murders than we have, those chaps. Now, then . . . take this, will you? You’ll be wanting to look through the pockets.”