"That's a shame, he's dead," said Friar Dominic. This observation made only after he'd rocked the prone figure back and forth, poked his ghost-white cadaver with an outstretched index finger, and finally pulled him up to his full-height and dropped him down onto the floor of St. Paul's Cathedral; the revered stillness of the nave broken by a schism of echoes.

"What do you think he died of?" I said. My voice hushed in tones of respect more appropriate to the recently deceased. My approach towards the now crumpled figure cautious – from the fear he might have died of some gruesome disease or other.

"Don't worry, he's quite safe," the Friar said, his voice easily filling the cathedral's cavernous space.

I came to a halt as close as I dared to the Bishop's body which lay at the very centre of the Cathedral; at the crossing underneath the tower, over which rose the tallest spire in all England. A structure completed only two years previous to our visit.

"Ah, yes, I see," I said, now closer and able to see the Bishop's throat noticeably slashed from ear to ear, "that may well have done it."

"Nasty," said Sister Celeste, joining us around the body. "I think we can rule out a shaving accident."

"It's murder then," I whispered. An unbecoming shiver of intrigue caused as the 'M' word passed my tongue.

"But why. And by whom?" asked Sister Celeste.

"By someone who wasn't keen on him. No, not keen at all," suggested the Friar. His wagged index finger conclusively in the air and paced to and fro in front of the body.

"Excellent, good work," replied Sister Celeste, "the mystery is solved and the stolen manuscript of the apocalypse as good as ours."