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guards, lesser clerics, and servants. As Keeper of the Privy Seal, it was an inappropriate residence. Thoresby assumed it artful humility.
    The building was at least of sturdy stone, and the windows were glazed. It was not one of the typical lower ward wattle and daub structures that periodically burned. A clerk led Thoresby up to the main chamber. The Archbishop bowed his head and stepped through the doorway; within, he brought his headup to gaze round in surprise. It was a far more comfortable room than he had expected, of generous size, with a curtained bed in the corner to the left of the doorway, a brazier and a table with chairs nearby, a writing-desk beneath a south-facing window.
    ‘The councillor is up in his workroom,’ the clerk said, leading Thoresby up yet another flight. Thoresby entered the room and paused, amazed. On makeshift counters along the wall and tables in the middle of the room stood models – towers, turrets, stairways, porches, window tracery, archways, gates, a small house, a mill – some tall, some quite small, some visible only by peering behind or over one of the others. Thoresby slowly wandered through the maze, marvelling at the care that had been taken with even the simplest model. He touched nothing for fear he might do damage. Few of the models seemed intended for display – most were unpainted, made from salvaged wood, stones, obviously whatever came to hand – but all had been assembled with careful measurement.
    Was this Wykeham’s purpose in inviting him here, to his rooms: to give Thoresby a glimpse of his heart? For surely this was evidence of the overriding passion of Wykeham’s life. But why would Wykeham care to impart this to him?
    Thoresby found his host at the far end, kneeling in front of a clever model of the Round Tower. The tower stood on a mound fashioned from layers of mud and pebbles. ‘Welcome to my workroom,’ Wykeham said as he noticed Thoresby standing behind him.
    ‘This is a remarkable collection.’
    Wykeham nodded. ‘Years of my life.’ As he rose, unfolding his tall, angular body, his knees made popping sounds. ‘I knelt too long. This tower isalways cold and damp. I should pull up a stool, but that requires planning, and I never know what will catch my attention.’
    Thoresby could understand. His eyes were drawn here and there, making new discoveries. ‘You are considering repairs to the tower?’
    Wykeham glanced back at the model he’d been studying and shook his head. ‘No. I was thinking of Daniel’s accident.’ He crouched down again, picked up a wooden peg approximating the page, Daniel, and placed it at the top of the mound. The moment he took his hand away, the peg tumbled down the slope. ‘You see, that is the problem. One does not easily stand there, certainly not in the snow. Not to mention the fact that if he had climbed the mound he would have left footprints, yet there were none that I could see, only the scar of his fall.’
    Thoresby considered that. ‘Daniel fell from somewhere on the tower itself?’
    Wykeham rubbed his chin. ‘Perhaps.’ He placed the figure atop the tower, let it tumble from above. It hit the slope halfway down and followed an erratic course.
    ‘You believe Ned Townley is guilty?’
    Still crouched before the model, studying it, Wykeham shook his head. ‘No. It is not that.’ He pointed to the top of the mound, where the tower rested. ‘The snow melts up there during the day, freezes once more come nightfall. By the time I asked to examine it, I could no longer distinguish the scar or any footprints.’
    Thoresby found Wykeham’s curiosity surprising. ‘You climbed round the tower looking for footprints?’
    Wykeham straightened up again. ‘I do not seek to point a finger at Ned Townley. What I do not like,cannot account for, is the lack of interest in finding the cause of the lad’s death.’
    ‘You do not believe it was an accident?’
    Wykeham shrugged. ‘I cannot discount an accident. But