“He was in Korea, led a regiment, got in between a machine gun and his men. That’s what he got the Conspicuous Gallantry Medal for. Ended up wounded in a hospital in Paris. I can get more by searching the War Office Registers, I expect.”

“Get me George Martin over at MOD.”

Wiggins looked surprised. “You can’t stand him, guv. He talks and talks and talks but rarely says anything you want.”

“I know. But he’s got the information, if he can get round to it. So get him.”

The phone rang and Wiggins picked it up, listened. “It’s Mr. Plant. Wants to talk to you.”

Jury picked up. “Hey, what’s going on?”

“I’m on my way to Watermeadows. Flora Flood’s really in a bad way—”

“I’d be too, in the circumstances.”

“I wish you’d come to Ardry End.”

“If you want me to, sure. But not until day after tomorrow. Maybe for breakfast.”

“Breakfast’s good. Thanks.”

Jury rang off, nodded to Wiggins, said, “George Martin?”

Wiggins picked up the phone with a shrug that said “suit yourself” and made the call.

When he was finally routed to Martin, Wiggins nodded to Jury.

“George, my God! It’s been a long time—”

This standard comment received a rattling reply through a receiver that Jury held away from his ear. When the rattle stopped, or at least abated, Jury said, “Listen, George, I wonder if you can give me something about an army second lieutenant named Gerald Summerston. Korean War. He got a medal for valor or something equally wonderful—No. No … Oh, come on, George, I’m not asking you to break open a sealed file …” Again, Jury held the phone away, while Wiggins looked at him with a smirk.

“What?” he said, bringing it back to his ear. “Idle curiosity? Now why would I be sitting here, idling with curiosity? No, I haven’t read the Telegraph in weeks. Suing who for what? Who’s Ernie—?” Here Jury signaled for Wiggins to pick up and mimed note-taking.

Reluctantly Wiggins dragged over his notebook.

“How can he sue him? Gerald Summerston’s dead.” Another rattling answer revved up like a car engine desperately trying to get from zero to ninety in thirty seconds.

Wiggins’s hand raced across his notepad as George Martin’s race with intelligibility continued. Jury put the receiver down again, raised it every so often and made a sound to let George know he was there before the receiver went down again. And again. Martin was like a man shoveling earth into a grave with lunatic speed as if afraid that corpse or coffin or information would suddenly rise up and announce itself. After two or three minutes of this outpouring, silence fell as did Wiggins’s head on his pad.