He shook his head. “The bag, please.” Johnny handed it over. Then your brother reached into his coat and took out a handwritten envelope. Even in that troubled light, I recognized the writing.

I’ve always had nice handwriting. Small, and round, and childlike. I always used a Waterman pen, with a nib that was made of real gold. And I’d taken a great deal of trouble that day, starting the letter again twice because my hand was shaking.

I took the letter. Then I said: “Hey, wait a minute. What’s that? I thought I saw something over there.”

Your brother turned instinctively. I looked at Johnny. Now was the time. From under his coat he took out an object—something I’d told him to bring along. It was an old St. Oswald’s rounders bat; not too large, but enough for the job.

“Look! There’s someone in the trees!”

Now was the time to do it, I knew. Your brother was looking down the path. But Johnny had frozen. His face was white. Of course, I’d known that when it came to action, rather than words, he’d fold. And he had. Of course he had. Typical Goldie. All talk, and no guts.

Your brother was still looking into the trees.

I can’t, mouthed Johnny, and gave me the bat.

And so I raised it, and swung it hard—

9:10

I understood what was happening just seconds too late to intervene. Winter was looking over the bridge. He seemed to be looking straight at me. Behind him were Spikely and Harrington. Then it all happened so fast that, even if my knee had not cramped agonizingly as I moved, the whole thing would have been over before I could reach the footbridge.

I couldn’t quite see the object Spikely was holding in his hands. It looked like some kind of club, I thought: short; round-ended; easy to use. And Winter was right there in his sights—

There was no time to warn him. My brain had barely any time to process what I was seeing. Later, I saw it, in my mind’s eye, slowed down to a comprehensible speed, but by then it was over, at least everything bar the shouting.

Spikely raised the rounders bat. Harrington stood watching. Winter, on the parapet, was totally unprepared for the blow. As the bat swung, he half turned; saw the sudden movement and flinched away; but if Spikely had hit him then, he would have died, or been badly hurt—ready for Spikely to finish the job.

I saw it all in my mind’s eye before my voice unloosed its cry. I heard the sickening sound of the blow, saw the man fall to his knees—

But Winter was not Spikely’s target. Instead, as Winter turned, so did he, and smashed the polished piece of wood straight into Harrington’s temple—

9:11