‘Yes, I suppose so. Is there anything else I can do for you? Do you need any of my staff to help with things?’

‘Not at the moment. I’m going back up to the tower now with Fielding to get the scene photographed, then I’ll speak to the guests, followed by the staff. We just have to hope that the tides will be kind to us, so you could offer up a few prayers in that direction if you like. I desperately need some assistance from the mainland, even if it’s only by telephone.’

‘I’ll see what I can do, and I’ll be with Angela if you need me.’

Fielding was waiting outside the vestry, pacing up and down to keep himself warm. He looked pale and anxious, and Penrose regretted not having been more specific about why he was needed. ‘Thank you for waiting,’ he said.

Fielding smiled. ‘I didn’t think I had a choice. What’s happened?’

‘The Reverend Hartley has been killed, and I need a record of the crime scene. Until the weather improves, you’re the only expert I’ve got. Come with me.’

The photographer stared at him. ‘I’m not going up there,’ he said, his voice full of trepidation.

‘Yes, you are. And you don’t have a choice about that. Come on.’

He headed for the tower, but still Fielding hung back. ‘Listen, Mr Penrose, I do society balls, film stars and famous 178pets. I don’t do crime scenes. I’ll lend you the camera if you like, but you’ll have to take your own pictures.’

Penrose held the door open and stared at his reluctant expert. ‘A man has died, and there’s precious little that any of us can do except make sure that he has some justice,’ he said. ‘Please do as I ask.’ He led the way, and this time Fielding followed. The ascent wasn’t any more comfortable with company, and he wished that he didn’t have to put the young man through such an ordeal, but professional photographs would be much more reliable than his own, even if the subject matter was alien to the photographer. Out in the open, Fielding looked everywhere but at the body, and Penrose patiently gave him his instructions, watching as he set his camera, the intense cold and shocking strangeness of the situation conspiring to make him clumsy. Eventually, he was confident that the outline of the scene had been captured on film, and he moved in to take a closer look at the body.

The wound was every bit as vicious as he had anticipated, a cut so deep that it had partially severed the windpipe. Penrose would have taken comfort from the fact that Richard Hartley had died instantly were it not for the torment and fear that must have preceded the injury. Standing where he was now, he could see that a garland of holly lay in the vicar’s lap, its prickles snagged in the wool of his clothes, and a series of barely perceptible cuts on his scalp showed that it had fallen from his head. A crown of thorns, Penrose thought, wondering what it signified; sacrifice, perhaps, or simply a mockery of the vicar’s faith. Hartley’s hands were clasped together in front of him, and Penrose could just make out something clenched in them. ‘Take some close-ups,’ he said to Fielding, pointing each time to the area he wanted 179photographed. When he was satisfied that every angle had been covered, he leaned forward to get a better look, gently prising the vicar’s hands apart and removing the item.