‘Wayne and Stephen decided to get their revenge by playing another trick on the major, this one the oldest in the book. It was Wayne’s idea, of course. They sneaked into his study and balanced the bust of Cicero on top of the door, leaving it ajar. God knows how they got it up there because it weighed a ton, but there were a lot of books in the room, some of them on high shelves, and Alden used a small stepladder to climb up and down, so I presume they were able to use that. Later, they both claimed that it was just a joke and they didn’t want to hurt anyone, but the long and the short of it was that Alden came into the room, the bust fell on him, fracturing his skull, and the next day he died.

‘The two boys were sent to youth court and tried for manslaughter. By law, they’d both reached the age of criminal responsibility and they’d killed a war hero, for heaven’s sake, so it was no surprise when they were found guilty and sentenced to five and ten years in different secure units. Stephen’s lawyers were able to prove that he had been influenced by the older boy, so his sentence was shorter, but that made little difference as far as my family was concerned. Their names were released after the trial and the press, who had been fairly restrained up to that time, fell on us in a feeding frenzy. The effect on my parents was catastrophic. You can forget America! Red Button went bust almost immediately. You can’t sell children’s products when your own child is in jail. All their political friends turned their backs on them, of course. The pressure on them was enormous and a year later they separated. My father lives in the British Virgin Islands now. My mother went back to Vancouver. She was actually born in Canada. Stephen served four years at Warren Hill, a secure unit in Suffolk, and when he was released he was given special licence to live with her. They’re still together in Vancouver now.’

There was a long silence. Hawthorne was looking more subdued than I had ever seen him, but then he had a thirteen-year-old son himself and the story must have resonated. ‘Do you ever see them?’ he asked.

Longhurst shook his head. ‘Not as often as I would like. I took my family there a few Christmases ago, but it was quite difficult explaining to my daughters that this was their uncle who had killed someone. My mother has rebuilt her life and she made the decision that she had to do it without my father or me. That makes me sad, but I understand it, I suppose.’

‘Do you know why Harriet Throsby decided to write the book?’

‘Yes, I do, as a matter of fact. She was a crime reporter at the time, working for a newspaper in Bristol, but she knew someone who lived in the village.’