Meanwhile Mr Campion continued to wander round the room. He peered into the clothes cupboard, opened the desk, and finally came to a full stop before the dressing-table. An exclamation escaped him, and he picked up a photograph of a clerical personage, a white-haired and benevolent figure. It was inscribed: ‘To my old friend Andrew Seeley, in memory of our holiday in Prague. Wilfred.’
Joyce looked over Campion’s shoulder. ‘He’s a bishop,’ she said. ‘Andrew was secretly very proud of knowing him so well, I think. He used to hint that they had the wildest holiday together. Why are you staring at it? Do you know him?’
‘I did,’ said Mr Campion. ‘He’s dead, poor old boy. That’s my sainted uncle, the Bishop of Devizes. He wasn’t the sort of old bird to go gay on a holiday in Prague, although h
