Redfyre grinned. “It’s because there are people like you about the place, sir, that we need people like the Bat Brigade. But I do know the group you mean. If I have it right, they are in some way involved with my Aunt Henrietta’s feminist group. Secretive, amorphous and deadly. But I’d advise you not to underestimate them. In fact, I think you’ve got them quite wrong! Lady Laetitia and her handmaidens are a competent outfit. Had they stumbled upon the scene before Snapper, they would have proceeded from discovery of the body to solution of the case by teatime. They’d have had our man logged as an endangered species and the vicar arrested for keeping a disorderly graveyard.”

“Don’t! I’ve locked antlers with that lot before! Believe me—they’ve got antlers. Sharpened ones. Whenever they’re out and about, accusations of bodily assault, trespass and foul language flow in and pile up on my desk. Accusations that are usually lodged against Lady L. herself. The ones that aren’t are by the lady against me. Can’t say I much mind being called ‘an oafish police lout with violent proclivities,’ but it’s the paperwork! Weeks of paperwork follow on every sodding outing! The ‘Fur, Fin and Feather Folk,’ they call themselves officially.” He allowed himself a moment to scorn the ear-catching alliteration, then, “Newly in association with the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds, I’m told. And now they’re taking bloody bats under their wing—”

“Fur, Fin, Feather and Leather?” Redfyre could not resist.

A crafty expression flitted across MacFarlane’s craggy features, and his eyes shifted again to his in-tray. “The vicar’s notified me of the invasion, and he requires that we provide him with a protection squad. Ha! Some hopes! I was going to ask you, as a neighbour, to stroll across and smile a bit, keep an eye out and see that they do no damage to the fabric of the church. Or the fabric of the vicar.” He sighed. “No green space or wild creature in Cambridge is safe from their ministrations. I blame Eleanor Roosevelt!”

Better not to press enquiries, Redfyre thought, and eager to cut off a diatribe about the “wimmin” of Cambridge and now apparently the “wimmin” of the USA, he remarked brightly, “But at least the body’s not going anywhere, sir. He’s in safe hands.”

“Ah! They sent you Doc Beaufort?”

“They did. And lucky old us, that the good doctor is conscientious enough to put down his prelunch sherry glass, pop his chop back onto the pantry shelf and pick up his scalpel, don’t you agree, sir? He should have some results for us by tomorrow morning.”