Gwen drops her pitchfork and scrambles over the rick’s edge, lowering herself down to the ground below, brushing away the strands of straw sticking to her legs as she goes to meet them.

‘What is it?’

‘Is Tom with you?’

‘Tom? No of course not, he was with you.’

Muriel lets out a whimper, her hands knotting in her apron. ‘He’s been so eager to come out, but I said he’d have to wait until I’d got the lunch ready. Then I saw the back door was open and I thought he’d just gone into the garden, but I’ve checked and he’s not there. I can’t find him, Gwen – he’s not in the house and he’s not in the garden.’

‘Where can he be?’ Gwen spins round, dread crawling up her spine. She hollers Tom’s name at the top of her voice, over and over, moving away from the chuntering machinery to improve her chances of being heard.

‘He can’t have got far,’ Jack says. ‘I’ll go and look in the stables and milking parlour.’

‘I’ll check the barn,’ Ted offers.

‘Gwen, you take the implement shed,’ Jack suggests, his fingers closing around her arms to steady her. ‘Muriel, can you make sure he hasn’t slipped out to the paddock? And where’s Kip? There’s a good chance he’d stick with Tom.’

His voice drifts off as the dog comes running through the gateway from the lane. Jack starts towards it, walking at first, but quickly picking up his pace. The thresher falls silent, the steam engine easing with a hiss behind them, as the men detect the rising emergency and begin to gather.

Kip dances between Jack and the gate, agitated and anxious. Gwen follows Jack as he continues forward, with Ted and some of the threshing team falling in behind her. She wonders what instinct is driving Kip as he continues to whine, dashing back and forth, leading them ever closer to the lane. But as they reach the gate all becomes clear, and Kip’s instinct, Gwen realises, is sound.

Chapter Fifty-Two

Jack recognises Gordon Allingham at once. He is sitting astride a motorbike, cruising up the lane at walking pace. Sprawled in front of him, his stomach flattened against the petrol can so he can reach the handlebars, is Tom, his head covered in a leather aviator cap, its ear flaps hanging down the sides of his face. Allingham is laughing and Tom giggles in reply as the bike creeps along, purring seductively.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Jack shouts. He is certain Allingham has heard him over the restrained putter of the motorbike’s engine and yet he gives no sign of it.