‘No, of course it’s not sensible,’ Chico said with a whispered laugh. ‘But when have we ever done anythin’ that is sensible? It was you that walked away from me and straight into that wooden buildin’ in the first place, remember? Was that sensible?’

Probably not, and I wouldn’t have done it if I’d known that Asquith had a loaded gun in his pocket.

‘Okay,’ I whispered, ‘what’s the plan?’

‘’arry, over ’ere, quick—’e’s ere, and ’e’s been shot.’

Had I sounded enough like Anton Valance with his Yorkshire dropped aitches? I very much ’oped so—my continued existence might depend on it.

‘Yes!’ Asquith exclaimed triumphantly. ‘I thought I’d hit him. There’s blood here on the ground in the keep.’

Too right, there was. My blood.

I was standing over in the north-western corner of the castle, a remaining arch partially hiding me from the place where I thought Asquith would emerge from the keep, and I was also pointing the flashlight that way so that he wouldn’t be able to see me beyond its glare.

He came out as I had expected, even with a swagger in his step and the gun down by his side, coming directly towards me across the grass.

‘Is he still alive?’ he asked as he walked. ‘And turn that bloody flashlight off, Anton. I can’t see a damn thing.’

I didn’t switch the flashlight off. I didn’t even move it one inch.

Only when he was getting quite close did he realise that something wasn’t right. His right arm, and the gun, started to come up but, by then I could see a shadowy figure moving quickly behind him.

Chico hit him with his rock, but in the final moment, just before impact, Asquith obviously sensed or heard something and half turned, so that the rock caught him on the shoulder rather than on his head as we had planned.

For a man in his mid-seventies, Asquith was surprisingly strong and nimble.

Chico jumped on his back and grabbed him round his neck while I ran over to help.

I hit Asquith in the face with the flashlight, but my strike didn’t have enough power to stop the gun coming up towards me.

I had to grab it but, by now, my injured right hand was in complete spasm and totally useless.

I had no other choice.

I dropped the flashlight, still switched on, and closed the fingers of my transplanted left hand round the stubby barrel of the Webley and used all the strength I could muster to force the gun’s aim away from me.

Asquith pulled the trigger.

The bullet missed me by no more than a couple of inches, struck the castle ruins, and ricocheted off into the night with an impressive zinging sound.