‘Extremely tiresome,’ Fabian murmured, looking at Ursula. He was still covered by grey blankets and Ursula had slid her hand beneath them. ‘Give the stretcher-bearers a drink, Douglas. They must need it.’

‘You mustn’t,’ said Ursula.

‘See section four. Alcohol after cerebral injuries, abstain from.’

Markins moved away with decorum. ‘You must have a drink, Markins,’ said Fabian weakly. Douglas looked scandalized.

‘Thank you very much, sir,’ said Markins primly.

‘You’ll have whisky, won’t you, Tommy? Cliff?’

‘I don’t mind,’ said Tommy Johns. ‘The boy won’t take it, thank you.’

‘He looks as if he wants it,’ said Fabian, and indeed Cliff was very white.

‘He doesn’t take whisky, thank you,’ said his father, with uncomfortable emphasis.

‘I think you ought to get to bed, Fab,’ fussed Douglas. ‘Don’t you agree, Mr Alleyn?’

‘We’ll drink to your recovery when we’ve finished the job,’ Alleyn said.

‘I’m not going to be carried upstairs and don’t you think it.’

‘Well, then, you shall walk, and Grace and I will see you up.’

‘OK,’ said Douglas amiably.

‘One’s enough,’ Fabian said peevishly. ‘I tell you, I’m all right. You give these poor swine a drink, Douglas. Mr Alleyn started the rescue squad, didn’t he? He may like to finish the job.’

He sat up and grimaced. He was very white and his hands trembled.

‘Please, Fab, go slow,’ said Ursula. ‘I’ll come and see you.’

‘Come on,’ Fabian said to Alleyn. He grinned at Ursula. ‘Thank you, darling,’ he said. ‘I’d like you to come, but not just yet, please.’

When they were outside in the hall, Fabian took Alleyn’s arm. ‘Sorry to appear churlish,’ he said. ‘I wanted to talk to you. God, I do feel sick.’

Alleyn got him to bed. He was very docile. Remembering Markins’ story of the medicine cupboard in the bathroom, Alleyn raided it and found dressings. He clipped away the thick hair. The wound, a depression, swollen at the margin and broken only at the top, was seen to be clearly defined. He cleaned it and was about to put on a dressing when Fabian, who was lying face downwards on his pillow, said, ‘I didn’t get that by falling, did I? Some expert’s had a crack at me, hasn’t he?’

‘What makes you think so?’ said Alleyn, pausing with the lint in his fingers.

‘After a fashion, I can remember. I was on my feet when I got it. Where the main track branches off to the wool-shed. It felt just like the bump I got at Dunkirk, only, thank the Lord, it’s not on the same spot. I think I called out. You needn’t bother to deny it. Somebody cracked me.’

‘Any more ideas?’