George’s handsome face was working, against his will. He grasped Abner’s hand in his. It seemed a natural gesture. ‘You’re a proper pal,’ he said, and then, in a debauch of self-pity, ‘By God, you’re the only pal I’ve got that I can trust!’
Morgan came running into the room ahead of Gladys, anxious to be the bearer of exciting news. He ran straight to his father.
‘Well, son?’ said George.
‘Dad . . . dad. . . . There’s a pleeceman comin’ up the drive with a bicycle,’ he cried.
‘A strange one we don’t know,’ Gladys added.
‘Go into the back to your mother,’ said George.
The constable from Lesswardine knocked at the door and handed two summonses to George and Abner. ‘Inquest at the Pound House at two o’clock. You understand it’s important.’
‘Have a drink of beer before you go?’ said George.
‘I don’t mind,’ said the constable, becoming less official.
George went down into the cellar with a jug.