“Why, yes.” Frobisher is flushing with happiness. “That is certainly true. How very kind, very kind indeed, Acton. I accept with the greatest pleasure.”

An oxygen mask is clamped on my face. I wanted to say how glad I was to be able to give Frobisher something in return for saving my life. I make a few gestures as I am loaded into the ambulance, trying to convey these sentiments. But Frobisher is no longer looking at me. He’s still kneeling on the grass, filthy and shirtsleeved, murmuring endearments to the dog in his arms.

TWENTY

It’s a farmhouse out beyond Barrow End. Belongs to Harvey Corey but Harvey’s selling, he’s got too old to cope with it now. He’s in a nice comfy bungalow in Upton, and when the land sale goes through, he’s going to turn the house into a B&B, which his daughter will run. But that won’t be for yonks. So you can have it in the meantime. The farmhouse. For a bit of rent. James, are you listening?”

Althea Brock peers down at me. I’m lying on a hospital bed with a pipe coming out of my chest. One of my three broken ribs has poked through the membrane surrounding my left lung, and the interstice between membrane and lung is vengefully leaking fluid. This is the fifth, or possibly the sixth day I’ve spent in this condition, and each one has dawned without any noticeable improvement.

I make an encouraging motion with my hand.

“No heating, of course,” she continues, “gas lamps in the bedrooms, and no running water either. Harvey says the pump’s in the kitchen and the bath is a tin tub. Cooking’s on a propane stove and the cylinder’s full.” She spreads her hands. “What else? Oh, yes. Miles from anywhere and no telephone. Just what you wanted, you silly fool.”

I give her a thumbs-up. “Perfect,” I whisper. “Thank you.”

She shrugs her bony shoulders. “Oh, I’m only following instructions from Clive Perry. He told me to obey your every wish and whim. I asked him why on earth you wanted to be in the back of beyond when there are a number of willing hosts in Upton, every one of them with extensive private quarters for guests. But he said he was only the curate, and my guess was as good as his. A likely story.” She sips from a plastic cup and eyes it with wonderment. “Heavens, this coffee is filthy. Now”—leaning forward—“what about Tom? Still adamant, are you, that he should be kept in the dark?”