‘You should ask him that,’ said Jack. ‘Though I don’t think he’ll want to remember. He seemed to turn against her. Poor thing ran screaming through to me, saying he pushed her. And I find him like that.’ He pointed at their stricken friend.

‘Did he hurt her?’ he asked, dreading the answer.

‘She was going on as if he did. I got out of her that he shoved her and she tripped and fell against the bed post but I have no idea why he did it.’

Let’s leave it like that, Arthur thought. ‘Probably just too tight,’ he said, lighting up a cigarette.

‘He sure was,’ said Jack, with an air of someone who has more to tell. Something else had happened. He thought of Peter making moon-eyes at Jack on the train, laughing at everything he said, and he wished he could protect his friend.

‘What errand did you have to run, then?’ He wanted to see how Jack would react, but there was nothing in his friendly, relaxed demeanour that gave anything away.

‘A gift for a girl I’m seeing.’

‘What did you get her? Is this girl here or in America?’

‘Why do you want to know so much?’

‘Why’d you lie about being from Arizona?’

Jack stared at him, his neck twitching, and for a second, Arthur thought he was going to punch him in the face. Then he opened his mouth wide, bared his teeth and laughed.

‘Are you saying I’m not a hillbilly redneck now?’ Jack took out his packet of Camels and offered one to Arthur.

*

He and Peter sat in the Shipwright’s two weeks later.

Arthur wondered if Jack knew he’d followed him. If he did, what would he do about it? Peter maintained he had a blackout about the brothel. Arthur was afraid to ask his friend about it, afraid of things about him that were unsaid. He suspected it was something to do with Jack. They hadn’t seen him recently and it was a relief to be rid of him. He had a wild thought that he should tell someone (who? The police?) about Jack handing over the metal case in the café, but as soon as he thought it, he dismissed it. He had no proof of anything.

‘Ver didn’t get in, you know. To Oxford. I heard her crying behind her bedroom door. There’ve been scenes at home,’ Peter said, sipping his pint. ‘Father’s threatening her with the dreaded De Vere fellow again. To be honest, I can’t see what choice she’s got. We need their money.’

‘What happened about that misunderstanding with your father about the farm finances?’