Cicely’s thanks were interrupted by a much louder groan from Tom, a sort of quavering bellow, fading to a descending scale of ‘Oh, oh, oh!’

Sir Randolph knelt beside him and put his hand on his shoulder.

‘Come on Tom, it can’t be long before the doctor comes. I’m sorry you’ve had this wait. We’re getting some ice to stop the bleeding. Here, where’s that flask again?’

The flask was handed down to him, a worn leather one which had seen much service in the pocket and at the lips of Walter Weir, a faithful follower of the alcoholic faith; but it was held in a hand too white and well manicured to be Walter’s. Sir Randolph did not look up. Why did Gilbert Hartlip not go home? There was nothing he could do except embarrass everybody. He would be told soon enough whether or not his victim died; there was no need to hang about to see for himself.

Tom swallowed a mouthful of spirit, then turned his head away.

‘Alcohol never interested me,’ he said. ‘I seen too much of what it can do to a man.’ His speech was increasingly slurred; the left side of his jaw was shattered and was beginning to stiffen. ‘A smoke I like. A smoke and a chat is a sociable thing. I seen too many men brought low by drink or gambling.’

Glass, to whom this theme of Tom’s was familiar, said from his position near Tom’s feet, ‘Stay quiet, Tom, I would. Relax, that’s what you want to do. Don’t try to talk.’

‘Not talk?’ Tom’s voice rose. ‘Not talk, he says. I’ve all eternity not to talk, haven’t I?’

Sir Randolph had taken a cigarette case from his waistcoat pocket, and now lit a cigarette and held it to Tom’s lips, at the same time raising Tom’s right hand so that he could hold it himself. Tom inhaled deeply.

‘Ah, that’s tobacco, that is. Turkish, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘Yes, it’s Turkish.’

‘That’s fine tobacco, that is. If I’m to go that’s a fine last smoke. It gives me some strength to replace what I feel draining out of me. Draining out of me it is, sir. Give me a prayer, sir. Don’t deny me that. It’s your way to pray – ’tis you that orders up the prayers in Church, the Vicar only prays what prayers you tell him to, even I know that, that hardly crosses the doorstep of the Church from year to year. Say a prayer, sir; I’ll say Amen.’

‘If that’s what you want, Tom.’ Sir Randolph put his hand on Tom’s shoulder, cleared his throat and repeated last Sunday’s Collect at high speed – in fact, such was his embarrassment, he more or less gabbled it.

‘Oh almighty and most merciful God of thy bountiful goodness keep us we beseech thee from all things that may hurt us, that we being ready both in body and soul may cheerfully accomplish those things that thou wouldest have done through Jesus Christ Our Lord, Amen.’