“It takes some of them that way,” the verger said, looking over toward where Mr. Spivens and the new recruit were. “Weak nerves.”

The new recruit had finally figured out how the pocket torch worked. He’d switched it on and was playing the beam on the blackened walls of the chancel and on Mr. Spivens, who was apparently digging a tunnel into the rubble next to the steps.

“Blackout?” I mentioned to Carruthers.

“Oh, Lord,” Carruthers said. “Put that out!” he shouted, and clambered over toward him.

“Week before last I go up on the roofs, and what do I find?” the verger said, looking over at the chancel, where Carruthers had grabbed the torch away from the new recruit and was switching it off. “My brother-in-law, careless as you please, striking a match. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ I say. ‘Lighting my cigarette,’ he says. ‘Why don’t you light some flares while you’re at it,’ I say, ‘and set them out so the Luftwaffe will be certain to know where to find us?’ ‘It was only one match,’ he says. ‘What harm could it do?’ ”

He looked around bleakly at what the Luftwaffe had so obviously found, and I wondered if he considered his brother-in-law accountable, but he said instead, “Poor Provost Howard.” He shook his head. “It was a blow to him, losing the cathedral. Wouldn’t go home. Stayed here all night.”

“All night?” I said.

He nodded. “Watching for looters, I suppose.” He looked sadly at the rubble. “Not that there was much left to pinch. Still, if anything did survive, you don’t want people making off with it.”

“No,” I agreed.

He shook his head sadly. “You should have seen him, walking up and down across the rubble, back and forth. ‘Go home and have a lie down,’ I told him. ‘Let me and Mr. Spivens take a turn.’ ”

“So someone’s been here the whole time since the fire,” I persisted.