Cleaver gave a chuckle.

Miss Vale frowned. ‘These things aren’t to be taken lightly, boys.’

‘You’re right, Augusta,’ Cleaver said. ‘Because then it gets pretty dark. The powers of the Antichrist will take control of the world. No pretending any more, right? They’ll just step in and take over. Anyone who protests will be slain. That’s the start of the great Tribulation. John tells us all about it in the Book of Revelation. Hail and fire and the destruction of the earth’s vegetation. The sea will turn to blood. Poisonous locusts. Mass torture. Billions of people killed most horribly. The faithful will be hideously persecuted as the Antichrist strives to gain complete dominion. Seven years of the most terrible, terrible suffering. It’ll make the Nazi holocaust look like a walk in the park.’

‘“Then there will be a time of anguish greater than any since nations first came into existence,”’ Ben said.

Cleaver nodded gravely and glanced at Miss Vale, who was gazing down at her plate with a look of distress glazed in her eyes. ‘But not for everyone,’ he said gently. ‘We can console ourselves that at some point during this time of Tribulation, the Bible tells us the faithful will be delivered from pain and torture.’

‘The Rapture,’ Ben said. ‘“For the Lord himself will come down from heaven with a commanding shout with the call of the archangel and the trumpet call of God. Then we will be caught up in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air and remain with him forever.”’

‘Amen,’ Miss Vale whispered.

Cleaver smiled at Ben. ‘I’m glad you’ve taken our Lord Jesus Christ into your heart, Benedict. It would pain me to think of you being left behind. Nobody’s getting out of the Tribulation alive.’

‘Then after the seven years are over, Christ returns to confront his enemy at the battle of Armageddon,’ Ben said.

‘That’s exactly right,’ Cleaver replied. ‘And then begins the golden period for all the Christians who held onto their faith through the dark times. They shall be richly rewarded.’

After dinner, they retired back to the drawing room, where a decanter of brandy and crystal glasses were set out on a tray. Miss Vale excused herself for a moment, and left the room.

‘This has been a very interesting discussion, Clayton,’ Ben said, settling into an armchair with his glass of brandy. ‘But there’s something else I wanted to talk to you about.’

Cleaver spread his arms. ‘Fire away, son.’

‘In fact, there’s someone I wanted to talk to you about.’

‘Is that a fact? And who might that be?’

‘That might be one Zoë Bradbury.’ Ben watched Cleaver’s face and let the words sink in.

Cleaver tried hard not to let his composure slip too far. ‘Uh-huh?’ He gulped a little.

‘You know who I’m talking about,’ Ben said.

‘I know of her,’ Cleaver said coolly, glancing at his fingernails. ‘She’s a friend of Augusta’s, I believe.’

‘And no friend of yours, apparently.’

Cleaver looked hard at Ben. ‘What exactly do you mean by that?’

‘I mean the twenty-five grand she got from you, and the ten million she wanted.’

Cleaver was quiet for a beat. ‘You know about that?’

‘And about Skid McClusky. I thought you might like to fill me in on some details I’m missing.’

‘Just who exactly the hell are you, mister?’

‘Someone looking for answers. Someone who’s going to get them.’

Cleaver toyed with his drink. His face had paled noticeably. ‘I think, uh, Benedict, this strikes me as the kind of topic that we ought to discuss elsewhere. In private.’

‘That’s fine with me,’ Ben said. ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t want Miss Vale hearing too much. That’s a sizeable investment you have there.’

Cleaver said nothing.

‘But don’t think you can get away from me,’ Ben continued. ‘You’re going to talk to me.’

The old lady came back in, followed by a maid carrying a silver tray with a coffee jug and three delicate white porcelain cups on little saucers. She smiled. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ she announced as she sat down. ‘I wondered whether our new friend would like to attend the tournament tomorrow.’

Cleaver laughed nervously. ‘Augusta, that wouldn’t be Benedict’s cup of tea. Him being English and all.’

Miss Vale blinked. ‘They don’t shoot rifles in England?’ She frowned at Cleaver. ‘Clayton, are you all right? You look as if you’d seen a ghost.’

‘I’m just fine, thank you,’ Cleaver said. ‘Maybe I overate a little.’

‘What kind of tournament?’ Ben asked.

Cleaver was fighting hard to stay natural in front of Miss Vale. ‘It’s just a little event I hold out at my place once a year,’ he said in a strangled voice. ‘But -’

Miss Vale chuckled. ‘A little event? Clayton’s being modest. All the best rifle shooters from across Georgia, Alabama and Mississippi take part. Twenty bucks a ticket, and we’re expecting over two thousand people.’

‘All strictly for charity, of course,’ Cleaver interjected, trying to smile.

‘Of course,’ Ben said, staring at him.

‘And this year all proceeds will be going to the Vale Trust Charity Hospital. That’s one of the many projects that my charity supports,’ Miss Vale explained, seeing Ben’s quizzical look ‘We help the poor and underprivileged families in Georgia and Alabama who can’t afford health insurance.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Last summer we opened a new wing to provide free treatment for child cancer patients. They do such good work there that I really want to expand it. So for this year’s tournament I’ve organised a special sponsorship initiative that I’m hoping will raise a lot of dollars to allow us to help the needy.’

‘Sounds like wonderful work, Miss Vale,’ Ben said, not taking his eyes off Cleaver.

‘You must come along,’ she replied. ‘It’ll be a great day.’

Cleaver reddened and cleared his throat. ‘But, like I said, Augusta, maybe it’s not something Benedict would -’

‘I’d love to,’ Ben said.

The fifteenth day

The good Reverend Cleaver’s place lay ten miles to the west of Savannah. As the morning wore on, away from the Georgia coast the atmosphere was even more humid and stifling. The land was flat and beautiful, with oak woodlands stretching off the highway as far as the eye could see in every direction.

The signs for the shooting tournament led Ben off the main road and two miles down a private track. Other cars were heading the same way, and as he rounded a bend he came into a large field filled with hundreds of vehicles. He found a parking space and climbed out into the baking sun, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

Miss Vale had gone off early that morning in her chauffeur-driven limo, positively sparkling with excitement to get started with the organising for her special charity event. She’d been so caught up with phone calls and last-minute details that Ben hadn’t had the chance to ask her more about the sponsorship initiative she’d mentioned. He looked around the parking field and spotted the stately white Lincoln Continental in the far corner.

Cleaver’s land must stretch for miles, he thought. This field alone was at least four acres. The crowds of spectators were wandering into an adjoining field several times larger, where scores of stalls and tents had been set up and at least a couple of thousand people were milling around, eating and drinking, talking and laughing in the sun. Clearly this was a fun family event, judging by the number of women and children present.

It was a big media event too, with TV trucks parked up near the entrance to the main field, cameras and journalists everywhere. The centre of the field was dominated by a large marquee that bore a sign for the Augusta Vale Trust. Nearby, hot food vendors were dishing out paper plates stacked with fried chicken, buttery corn on the cob, burgers and fries. At a National Rifle Association stall, people were handing out leaflets on gun safety. Others were selling guns, ammunition, books and magazines, ear defenders, hunting gear and a wider range of shooting accessories than Ben had ever seen in one place before.