Water’s falling. Icicles melting at Luckenwalde. Spring, warm sunshine, the friendly iron grip of Russians. A dog, barking and barking. Somebody stop that dog barking.

“Acton. Acton. Can you hear me? Open your eyes if you can.”

Voice is familiar, I can’t place it.

“Make Bailey shut up,” I croak. “Or the guard will kill him.”

“Bailey is safe in my car. No guards. Open your eyes.”

I drag my eyelids apart and see a large, rather sweaty but imperturbable face above me.

In croaking incredulity: “Archdeacon Frobisher?”

The very same,” he announces. “I’ve telephoned the emergency services.” He’s speaking with great calm. “Can you move?”

“Been trying. Didn’t get far. Broke ribs, I think. Broke my head. Ah, no, I beg you, don’t do that.” My skull is being searched by sturdy fingers.

“Found it.” Great satisfaction. “A crepitating fracture. If I’m not mistaken. I shall take extreme care—”

He is silenced by a series of distant echoing reports. Gunfire, maybe, or the beginning of a thunderstorm on the coast. We know it’s neither of those things. Immediately he seizes me under the arms and heaves. The grating of my skull makes me retch, my ribs poke nastily at my lungs. “Frobisher, let go,” I gasp. “Get out of here.” I shut my eyes, the snowfield envelops me.

“Imbecile.” He starts to drag me. “Nearly there—”

“Push off, I tell you—”

A terrible crash batters my eardrums. We both cry out as bricks start smashing down outside the room. “Don’t move!” shouts Frobisher.

As if I could.

The bricks fall by the hundreds in mortared chunks, exactly as if they’re being unloaded from a giant shovel somewhere up in the chimney tops. I shut my eyes against the noise and dust. When I open them again it’s much darker. A click, and Frobisher’s face appears unflatteringly lit from below by torchlight.

“Now we’re entirely trapped, I’m afraid.” His voice seems much louder now in the enclosed space. “I believe the front of the house has fallen in. At any rate, that large piece of wall has stopped up the door to this room.”

I peer in the gloom. He’s right. Our exit is blocked as efficiently as if it had been bricked up.

“Thank heavens for your torch.”