‘That’s not all, Carol, William. Please help me. I’ve lost Chloe again. This time she and Neil took his father’s boat and they’re out there, somewhere floating around in this rough sea. They’ve nothing to eat but those chocolate brownies—’

‘They’ve what?’ William stopped and dramatically put his face in his hands. ‘The brownies? You are joking?’

‘No. The ones you left me. They took them.’

William’s mouth wiggled into about seven contrasting positions before he finally said: ‘The brownies are hash.’

‘What?’

‘They’re dope brownies. Marijuana. Cyril’s wife left them for you. You got really high, remember, when you ate them? That night when Odile de la Warr deigned to grace us with her imperious presence.’

‘I was drugged?’

‘Well . . . sort of . . .’ William shook his head in exasperation. ‘Yes. But in a good way.’

‘God in heaven! Call the emergency services, NOW. I have to save those bloody children. They’re adrift, lost at sea, and, thanks to me, stoned out of their minds.’ Theresa staggered up the step on to the brasserie terrace. ‘Oh God. If only we had a boat, we could go after them ourselves.’

‘Theresa? Is something wrong?’ Marcel stepped forward to welcome them. ‘You should have come to me. I do have a boat, you know.’

‘Really?’ Theresa looked at him. ‘There’s too much going on to explain. Cyril has gone mad. And when she gets back from the ballet, my daughter will kill me. And . . . poor Chloe. Oh God.’ She teetered, feeling as though she might faint from sheer anxiety.

‘Come along,’ said Marcel forcefully. ‘You should take a brandy.’

‘No,’ Theresa replied firmly. She really wanted her wits about her until she had Chloe and Neil back on dry land.

‘Come this way, Theresa.’ Breaking into a run, Marcel led her across to the quay. He turned back and shouted to Carol and William. ‘We’ll find them. Have no fear.’

Marcel’s vessel was a little fisher boat, not much more than a canopy over the helm and an open rear deck. He leaped into the well of the boat and held his hand up to help Theresa down.

Once she was settled on the back seat, a simple white board across the transom, he threw her a life jacket and sprang up on to the jetty to untie the guy-ropes. Keeping hold of the last rope wrapped around the iron capstan, he stepped inside and moved under the canopy to get the engine going. Then he pulled in the rope and stowed it beside him at the helm.

Just as the little boat started edging away from the stone quayside, there was a loud shout from the shore, and Roger Muffett leaped aboard.

With the sudden weight balance the boat rocked violently.

‘Wait for me.’ Cynthia ran towards the edge of the quay, but, without turning around, Marcel opened the throttle and they sped away.