He’d cooked? Before I could ask what he’d made, there was a loud groan from a room nearby. Winter stiffened and shot me a warning glance as if I needed telling to keep quiet. I tutted softly.

We edged further in. Someone was definitely in the house; there was the sound of soft snoring. It was a wonder that they’d not woken up when Winter bellowed at the entrance. I nodded in satisfaction; that sort of dedication to sleep always impresses me.

Treading lightly, Winter walked in front of me and paused at the end of the gloomy corridor. He knocked on the door. The snoring continued. Nudging the door with his foot, he pushed it open. Inside there was a dimly lit room with large sash windows, draped with heavy velvet curtains. They would have looked rather grand but they were hanging off the rail in several places and looked as if they’d been flung up rather than carefully dressed. There was a flickering television screen in one corner and my gaze took in an extraordinary pornographic video involving several naked people and orifices I had no desire to think about. Winter hastily grabbed the remote control from the floor and switched it off.

The only other thing in the room, apart from empty bottles and squashed cans, was a sofa with a large lump on it. When the lump let out another snore, I decided that this had to be Oscar Marsh. For all that Adeptus Diall had seemed to be an unpleasant fellow prior to his untimely death, he appeared to have hit the nail on the head as far as Marsh was concerned. I doubted this was an Order witch of whom the Ipsissimus was particularly proud.

I wondered if it troubled Winter that he spent his time around less than noble witches when the Order did so much good for the world. I suppose it was the nature of his job – of our job.

Winter cleared his throat. If he thought that was going to wake Sleeping Beauty, he was deluded. Marsh was face down with his arse sticking up in the air and one arm dangling over the sofa’s edge. Considering what Winter had done to force me out of bed, I was surprised that he was being so delicate. ‘Throw a bucket of water over him,’ I said sourly. ‘It worked with me.’

Winter grimaced. ‘That was because I knew you weren’t likely to spring up and start attacking me. This guy is another matter.’

I frowned. ‘First of all, this guy is virtually comatose. Even when he wakes up, he’s hardly going to be in a position to attack. Alcohol is seeping out of his pores, Winter. He’s more likely to throw up and clutch his head than throw something at your head. And how did you know I wouldn’t attack you? I might have.’

‘You’re not the type,’ Winter dismissed, without explaining properly. ‘If this Marsh killed Adeptus Diall, not to mention stole the Cypher Manuscript, then he’s far more dangerous than he looks.’