‘No! Is it really? Jolly good,’ said the young man. ‘I’ll be able to bluff you past the gate. Here we go. Are you putting your coat on? Give me that thing: what is it, a typewriter? Sorry about my unsuitable bowler, but I’m going to a cocktail party this evening. Where’s me brolly? Come on.’

They were the only passengers to leave the train at Little Codling. The sun was shining and the smell of a country lane mingled with the disinfectant, cardboard and paste atmosphere of the station. Nicola was only mildly surprised to see her companion produce a second-class ticket.

‘Joy-riding as usual, I suppose, Mr Bantling,’ said the man at the gates.

Nicola gave up her ticket and they passed into the lane. Birds were fussing in the hedgerows and the air ran freshly. A dilapidated car waited outside with a mild-looking driver standing beside it.

‘Hallo,’ the young man said. ‘There’s the Bloodbath. It must be for you.’

‘Do you think so? And why “Bloodbath”?’

‘Well, they won’t have sent it for me. Good morning, Mr Copper.’

‘Good morning, sir. Would it be Miss Maitland-Mayne?’ asked the car driver, touching his cap.

Nicola said it would and he opened the door. ‘You’ll take a lift, too, sir, I dare say. Mr Cartell asked me to look out for you.’

‘What!’ the young man exclaimed, staring at Nicola. ‘Are you, too, bound for Ye Olde Bachelor’s Lay-by?’

‘I’m going to Mr Pyke Period’s house. Could there be some mistake?’

‘Not a bit of it. In we get.’

‘Well, if you say so,’ Nicola said and they got into the back of the car. It was started up with a good deal of commotion and they set off down the lane. ‘What did you mean by “Bloodbath”?’ Nicola repeated.

‘You’ll see. I’m going,’ the young man shouted, ‘to visit my step-father who is called Mr Harold Cartell. He shares Mr Pyke Period’s house.’

‘I’m going to type for Mr Pyke Period.’

‘You cast a ray of hope over an otherwise unpropitious venture. Hold very nice and tight, please,’ said the young man, imitating a bus conductor. They swung out of the lane, brought up short under the bonnet of a gigantic truck loaded with a crane and drain-pipes, and lost their engine. The truck driver blasted his horn. His mate leaned out of the cab.

‘You got the death-wish, Jack?’ he asked the driver.

The driver looked straight ahead of him and restarted his engine. Nicola saw that they had turned into the main street of a village and were headed for the green.