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could see rows of bookshelves either side and desks at the far end, some of them occupied. Presumably working in the lib rary rather than your own study was allowed. It had been at St Dunstan’s . Just inside the door was a sloping newspaper table, with various newspapers laid out on it, each secured in place by brass clips. All of them were open at the sports pages and all of the crosswords had been done.
    He went back out to the main corridor, which was eerily quiet, and then down the steps leading to the cloisters. He stopped halfway along and looked out of the window at the school war memorial in the centre of a manicured and immaculate lawn. Gravel paths led from each corner to the memorial itself in the centre and it was completely enclosed by the school buildings. Several wreaths were still lying on the plinth at the base, no doubt placed there on Remembrance Sunday only a few weeks before. It had been the tradition at St Dunstan’s for the school to gather at the war memorial and for the headmaster to call the roll of those who had not come back. It looked as though Brunel held the same tradition.
    Dixon shook his head. He was looking back on a part of his life that he had shut out for years and the memories were flooding back. Not all of them good. He remembered the one thing he had done in his life of which he was truly ashamed. He had been presented with a petition calling for the abolition of the Remembrance Sunday service and he had signed it. It was the one and only time he had bowed to peer pressure, the first and last time, and he had been hau nted and embarrassed by the memory. It didn’t matter that the headmaster had ignored it. What mattered to Dixon was that he had signed it. He had been to see the headmaster to withdraw his name from the petition and he winced at his wor ds, wh ich hit home again .
    ‘ I was surprised and disappointed to see your name on it, Dixon. ’
    ‘ Yes, Sir. ’
    ‘ But at least you’ve had the courage to put it right now. Well done. ’
    ‘ Thank you, Sir. ’
    ‘ An important lesson learnt? ’
    ‘ Yes, Sir. ’
    Dixon heard a door bang at the end of the corridor and looked to his left to see a crowd of younger pupils streaming out of the chapel and along the cloisters towards him. He stepped back and allowed them to pass, which they did at speed and noisily, none of them appearing to notice that he was there.
    The door at the end of the cloisters had been left standing open, so Dixon walked into the chapel and stood at the back. Huge banners were hanging either side, each depicting a scene from the Bibl e. At the far end was the altar and behind that a large and ornate stained glass window. Dixon could see a smaller chapel off to the side, adjacent to the altar, presumably the Lady Chapel. He gave up trying to count the pews but there must have been enough to fit everyone in.
    He was about to leave when he realised he had been spotted by the chaplain, who was striding towards him along the aisle. He was dressed in black robes with a dog collar and had thinning white hair, a grey beard and thick horn rimmed glasses.
    ‘Can I help you?’
    ‘I was just looking around, Father. Getting to know the lie of the land.’
    ‘You’ll be Dickson, then?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘How did we manage before email?’ asked the chaplain, shaking Dixon’s hand. ‘Welcome. I’m Father Anthony. I’m afraid you’ve arrived at a very bad time for the school.’
    ‘So I gather.’
    ‘It’s been terrible. Knocked everyone for six.’
    ‘I can imagine.’
    ‘Dreadful. God bless her. She was a lovely girl.’ Father Anthony shook his head. ‘Makes you wonder why these things happen sometimes , doesn’t it?’
    ‘It does.’
    ‘I even found myself doubting my faith . . .’ Father Anthony’s voice tailed off. ‘Will you be joining us for worship?’
    ‘Er, yes,’ replied Dixon. ‘If I can.’
    ‘Jolly good. There’s evening prayers tomorrow at six and then Sunday morning at