‘A couple more brands to be snatched from the burning,’ the cook continued, catching sight of Alleyn and Fabian, and gesturing wildly towards them. ‘A couple more sheep to be cut out from the mob and baled up in the pens of salvation. A couple more dirty two-tooths for the Lord to shear. Shall we gather at the river?’ He and the rouseabout broke into a hymn, the melody of which was taken up by an accordion player inside the bunkhouse. Fabian indicated to the men that he and Alleyn would like to be left alone with the cook and Albie Black. Ben Wilson, who was quietly smoking his pipe and looking at the cook with an air of detached disapproval, jerked his head at him and said, ‘He’s fixed all right.’ He led the way into the bunkhouse, the accordion stopped abruptly, and Alleyn was left face to face with the cook, who was still singing, but half-heartedly and in a melancholy key.

‘Pretty hopeless, isn’t it?’ Alleyn muttered, eyeing him dubiously.

‘It’s now or never,’ Fabian rejoined. ‘He’ll be dead to the world tomorrow and we’re supposed to ship him down-country the next day. Unless, of course, you exercise your authority and keep him here. Perce!’ he said loudly, placing himself in front of the cook. ‘Come down off that. Here’s somebody wants to speak to you.’

The cook stepped incontinently off his box into mid-air and was caught like an unwieldy ballerina by Alleyn.

‘Open up your bowels of compassion,’ he said mildly and allowed them to seat him on the box.

‘Shall I leave you?’ asked Fabian.

‘You stay where you are,’ said Alleyn. ‘I want a witness.’

The cook was a large man with pale eyes; an unctuous mouth and bad teeth. ‘Bare your bosom,’ he invited Alleyn. ‘Though it’s as black as pitch it shall be as white as snow. What’s your trouble?’

‘Whisky,’ said Alleyn.

The cook laid hold of his coat lapels and peered very earnestly into his face. ‘You’re a pal,’ he said. ‘I don’t mind if I do.’

‘But I haven’t got any,’ Alleyn said. ‘Have you?’

The cook shook his head mournfully and, having begun to shake it, seemed unable to leave off. His eyes filled with tears. His breath smelt of beer and of something that at the moment Alleyn was unable to place.

‘It’s not so easily come by these days, is it?’ Alleyn said.

‘I ain’t seen a drop,’ the cook whispered, ‘not since…’ he wiped his mouth and gave Alleyn a look of extraordinary cunning, ‘not since you know when.’

‘When was that?’