“—is in the details,” Carruthers quoted. “I despise that speech.”

“The one I hate the most is the ‘leave no stone unturned’ speech. Give me a hand.” I pointed to the end of a large stone.

He stooped down and got hold of the other side of it.

“One, two, three,” I said, “lift,” and we heaved it across the aisle, where it rolled into what was left of a pillar and knocked it down.

The bishop’s bird stump wasn’t under the stone, but the wrought-iron stand it had stood on was, and one of the crosspieces of the parclose screen, and, under a chunk of red sandstone, a half-charred stem of a flower. There was no telling what sort of flower, there weren’t even any leaves left, and it might have been a stick or an iron rod except for the inch or so of green at one end.

“It stood in front of a screen?” Carruthers said, crunching through the glass.

“This screen. On this stand,” I said, pointing at the wrought-iron stand. “As of November the ninth, the Prayers for the RAF Service and Baked Goods Sale. Two crocheted antimacassars, a pansy penwiper, and half a dozen rock cakes. Extremely aptly named.”

Carruthers was looking round at the glass. “Could the blast have knocked it to some other part of the nave?” he asked.

“It wasn’t high explosives that destroyed the cathedral, it was incendiaries.”

“Oh,” he said. He looked over at the verger, who was coming toward us. “Queen Victoria’s Bible, did you say?”

“Yes. Complete with the births, deaths, and nervous breakdowns of all those Georges,” I said. “Find out if anything was taken away for safekeeping to anywhere besides Lucy Hampton before the fire.”

He nodded and went back over to the verger, and I stood there looking at the wrought-iron stand and wondering what to do next.