Time was getting on. The meeting could break up at any moment. It occurred to me that maybe I ought to find a place where I could hide in case someone came upstairs. If I couldn’t find him right away, if he wasn’t in this part of the house, I would have to wait till after they had gone to bed before I resumed the search. Maybe I would be lucky enough to overhear a snatch of conversation: ‘Let us go to the cellar, which is reached by a flight of stairs next to the kitchen, and see how our guest (sneering laughter) is getting on.’

Fat chance. I had been associating with Schmidt too long even to imagine such a thing.

It was likely that he was in the cellar (if there was a cellar) or in one of the other buildings. Checking the bedrooms was probably a waste of time, but it had to be done and now was the best time, before the occupants of the house retired for the night. First, though, I needed to find a place. where I could hide temporarily. The narrow unadorned door at the back of a shallow recess looked as if it led to another broom closet or a linen closet, so I tried it first. No one would be there.

Someone was, though.

It was a small room, only eight or ten feet square, with a single window. Shelves along two of the walls indicated that its original function had been that of storage, of linens or other household objects. The furniture consisted of a cot, a table, and a few chairs.

They hadn’t even bothered to lock the door.

His head had fallen forward and his body sagged against the ropes that bound him to the chair. I hadn’t dared hope I would find him in pristine condition. I had even braced myself for a little blood. But only the dark hours of nightmare could have prepared me for this. The stains covered his shirt like a macabre crazy-quilt pattern of rust and scarlet, some patches still wet and bright, some dried to ugly brown.

The sound I made was wordless, more like a bird’s squawk than anything human, but John must have recognized my voice. His head lifted alertly and his face was set in a scowl.

‘You again,’ he said, without enthusiasm.

‘What . . .’ His face was unmarked except for a swollen lip. I cleared my throat and tried again. ‘What did they . . .’