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Ordinarily Poe would have declined but he wanted to keep it informal. ‘I’ll have a coffee please, if that’s OK? Tilly?’

‘Do you have any fruit tea, Nicholas?’

‘I believe Mrs Oldwater enjoys a cup of liquorice tea every now and then. Will that do?’

Bradshaw shook her head, ‘No thank you, Nicholas, liquorice gives me diarrhoea.’

Holy hell . . .

The bishop smiled. ‘Quite right, young lady. Of course, at my age, I don’t really have that sort of problem.’

‘That’s right, Nicholas. Constipation is a common problem among the elderly,’

Poe stared at her aghast.

‘What?’ she said, when she saw his expression. ‘It is. Thirty per cent of senior citizens have fewer than three bowel movements a week.’

Poe put his head in his hands. He turned to the bishop and said, ‘It’s sometimes hard to get Tilly to say what she’s thinking, Nicholas.’

Luckily Oldwater found it hilarious and he roared with laughter. He said, ‘Excellent. Can I get you a hot water instead?’

Tilly said, ‘Yes please, Nicholas.’

He left to get their drinks. Poe could hear him laughing to himself down the corridor. He turned to Bradshaw and gave her a thumbs-up and a way-to-go nod. ‘Nice,’ he said.

‘What is, Poe?’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

The bishop returned five minutes later. He had a full tray: coffee, hot water and a plate of biscuits. Poe reached for one. Ah . . . rich tea, for when you fancy a biscuit but can’t decide between sweet or savoury. He put it on the side of his saucer and concentrated on the excellent coffee.

Poe looked around. There were rare-looking books and manuscripts everywhere. Spilling a cup of coffee in this room could cause irreparable damage; a horrifying thought to Poe, who was in fact holding a cup of coffee. Oldwater saw where he was looking.

‘I’m speaking at the House of Lords shortly on what role the Church should play in the refugee crisis. Been boning up on some precedents. See if I can shame the government into doing what’s unpopular but right, instead of what’s popular but wrong.’

‘I’ll keep it as short as I can then, Nicholas,’ Poe said. ‘We’re here about Quentin Carmichael.’

‘What have you found?’

He didn’t say it defensively and Poe knew that putting him on the back foot wouldn’t be the best tactic. If he handled it right, the bishop could be an ally. Poe had intended to restrict the outflow of information, but sometimes it was best to go with gut feelings . . .

‘I’m going to tell you a story about a missing watch, Nicholas. If possible, I’d like you to hear me out until the end.’

Oldwater smiled. ‘Sounds like my evening’s not going to be as stuffy as I thought.’

When Poe had finished – with Bradshaw chipping in when there was something technical – Oldwater leaned forwards and steepled his fingers. He asked a few insightful questions and Poe got the impression he’d fully understood everything, and some of what he’d been told had cleared up some long unanswered questions.

‘You know it was my predecessor’s predecessor who gave Carmichael that watch? A few of the charities he’d worked with had chipped in together for it. The Church wouldn’t spend money like that on a trinket.’

Poe nodded.

‘And you know both the police and Church investigations found no evidence that he’d embezzled money.’

Poe’s working theory was that the Church had covered it up so well that the police hadn’t been able to find anything. If the Catholics could cover up child abuse, the Church of England could certainly cover up a bit of theft.

‘Ah,’ Oldwater said. ‘You think we were protecting our reputation?’

‘The thought had crossed my mind.’