Dogger unfastened the top half of McNulty’s heavy jacket, then worked his hand slowly into the sleeve. His long arm slid along McNulty’s arm, feeling its way, inch by inch along the space between the upended case and the lorry.

“You told me you were master of many trades, Mr. McNulty,” Dogger said. “Which ones, in particular?”

It seemed rather an odd question to ask, but McNulty’s eyes shifted slowly from mine to Dogger’s.

“Carpentry,” he said through gritted teeth. It was easy to see that the man was in terrible pain. “Electrical … plumbing … drafting …”

Cold sweat stood out in globules on his brow.

“Yes?” Dogger asked, his arm steadily at work between the heavy box and the lorry. “Any more?”

“Bit of tool making,” McNulty went on, then added, almost apologetically, “I have a metal lathe at home …”

“Indeed!” Dogger said, looking surprised.

“… to make model steam engines.”

“Ah!” Dogger said. “Steam engines. Railway, agricultural, or stationary?”

“Stationary,” McNulty said through gritted teeth. “I fit them up with … little brass whistles … and regulators.”

Dogger removed the handkerchief from McNulty’s neck, twisting it quickly and tightly about the upper part of the trapped arm.

“Now!” he said briskly, and a hundred willing hands, it seemed, were suddenly gripping the packing case.

“Easy, now! Easy! Steady on!” the men told one another—not because the words were needed, but as if they were simply part of the ritual of shifting a heavy object.

And then quite suddenly they had lifted the crate away with no more effort than if it had been a child’s building block.

“Stretcher,” Dogger called, and one was brought forward instantly. They must carry these things with them wherever they go, I thought.

“Bring him into the kitchen,” Dogger said, and in less time than it takes to tell, McNulty, wrapped in a heavy blanket, was raising himself on his good elbow from the kitchen floor, sipping at the cup of hot tea that was in Mrs. Mullet’s hand.