The old men puffed on their pipes while he and Peter went back into the house. Verity disappeared. In the hall outside the boot room, they found her greeting Jack. She started when she saw them come in, and moved back a few inches.

‘Sorry I’m late! You’re lucky I’m here at all. I’ve been up all night.’ There wasn’t a trace of tiredness in Jack’s lean face and he looked as alert as ever.

‘Where exactly have you been, then?’ Arthur blurted out.

Jack raised his pale, ginger eyebrows and gazed coolly at Arthur. He sensed Verity flinch next to him but Jack shrugged and smirked at her. ‘Nowhere nearly as interesting as you’re imagining, Art, I can assure you.’

‘How do you know what I’m imagining, Mister Hillbilly Yankee?’ His tone of jollity was strained. He wanted to wipe the satisfied smile off Jack’s face. It stuck but the American’s eyes widened and stared.

‘I think it’s fairly obvious you’ve got a bee in your bonnet about the base.’

‘You don’t know anything about me, Jack.’

‘Nor you, me, Art.’

Arthur’s fists clenched and he felt the veins in his neck strain. No one moved.

‘Chaps, we need to get on with the shoot,’ said Peter, hopping from one foot to the next.

‘Well, I sure am ready to shoot some birds,’ said Jack in a hokey American accent.

The moment had passed but Arthur was left impotent, head reeling, his blood still pumping fast. What was Jack? A redneck rancher or a Yankee? He was determined to ask the boy from the local pub about Jack directly. Get some dirt on him.

Trudging through the courtyard behind the other two, Arthur noted that Jack was wearing his golfing clothes again. This would go down badly with the old man with any luck. But frustratingly, Peter’s father put it down to his foreignness and thought it amusing.

‘The birds’ll see you coming,’ he guffawed and the rest of them laughed heartily along with him. ‘Go on then, you youngsters, let’s see what you can do. Guns aloft, remember. And aim for the cocks, not the hens. And keep quiet.’