Lockhart spoke in that vein for a further five minutes, during which time their collective opinion changed dramatically. Lockhart thought they reacted well, even the fascist element. He looked at his watch. It was already half past eight—Strasser would be expecting them back at nine, and he didn’t want to arouse his suspicions by having the men returning as though they had been for a gentle stroll around town. Now was the time for the crunch.

“All right,” he said. “Before we go, I want you to put your hand up if you do not wish to take part.”

A pause that set his heart crazy, crazier than it had been when carrying Marston up the hill, and then, to his relief, only the hands of Maclaren, Simpkin and Smith went up. The remaining ten kept theirs down, with a few, such as Hull and Andreae, resolutely folding their arms. The ten looked at the three, who appeared to become increasingly self-conscious.

Lockhart saw that Smith’s hand was wobbling, and after a few seconds it fell back down. Maclaren and Simpkin did their best to look confident, with Maclaren even stretching his hand up further, but after a few moments, Simpkin’s hand came down as well.

“Put your fucking hand down!” Hull shouted.

“That’s right,” said Stafford. “Do as he says, put it bloody down!”

“Quiet!” Lockhart ordered. “I want Maclaren to volunteer, not be press-ganged into it. Well then, Maclaren, are you quite sure?”

Maclaren was sneering, his top lip twitching furiously. Lockhart stared at him, and then looked around at the others, most of whom seemed ready to beat him up.

“Why’s your hand not up?” Maclaren said to Pugh. “It should be up, dammit!”

“I’m sorry,” said Pugh. “I know which side my bread’s now buttered.”

Maclaren glared at Pugh, and then let his hand fall violently to the ground.

“Goddammit!” he shouted. “This is madness!”

“Well done, Maclaren,” said Lockhart. “I’m glad you’ve agreed to help. I’m glad all of you have agreed to help. It goes without saying, of course, that not one word of this goes any further. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

Lockhart noticed that Maclaren stayed silent.

“I said, Maclaren, is that understood?”

“Yesss, sir,” Maclaren hissed sarcastically.

“Good. Right. Halfway ’round the fields, back through the woods, and then at a sprint all the way back. And Catchpole, I think it’s your turn to carry Marston.”

The men got up. All were quiet, stunned by what Lockhart had told them. But perhaps the person most stunned was Lockhart himself, who was doing his best not to look as exhilarated as he felt. He knew that the cement that held the men together was weak, but it was a bond all the same, and it might set stronger. He would have to keep his eye on Maclaren, and if necessary be as ruthless as possible.