“He must be both a stargazer and a ship spotter,” said Gwen.

“Or a connoisseur of bathing beauties,” said Iris, glancing towards the Thames.

Indeed, a number of people were crowded onto a narrow strip of open shore, mostly mothers with small children, but with a scattering of young women taking in the sun. Gwen watched wistfully as a pack of small boys, younger even than her own, splashed about the edges of the water with their trousers rolled up as high as they could get them. Off to the right, a training ship from the Royal Naval College, covered with young cadets swarming about under the barked orders of their instructors, was carefully leaving its dock.

“I can see why he picked this spot to retire,” said Gwen.

“Retire?” boomed a voice from behind them. “Not a bit of it!”

They turned to see a man in full dress naval regalia standing at the top of the steps leading to the porch. His beard was brown with streaks of gray, and so precisely trimmed that a sounding taken at any given point would have revealed a uniform depth to a thousandth of an inch. His bearing was straight as a mainmast, and as they approached, he removed his cap with a practiced flourish that had an old-fashioned gallantry to it.

“How do you do, Admiral Buchanan-Wollaston,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “I am Mrs. Gwendolyn Bainbridge. This is Miss Sparks, my secretary. Request permission to come aboard, sir.”

“Permission granted,” said Buchanan-Wollaston.

“One moment, if you please, sir,” said Sparks, removing her Leica from her camera bag. “Could you put your cap back on for a moment? Perfect! Thank you, sir.”

“My pleasure.” Buchanan-Wollaston beamed. “May I invite you into my humble abode, ladies?”

He held the door as they entered, then followed them inside.

The two women glanced around the parlour, where a decorative civil war had taken place. Model sailing vessels fought for surface space with some amateurish attempts at pottery. The walls were covered with framed photographs of ships from the Royal Navy bumping up against needlepoint samplers with religious and nautical texts for their subjects. “HOME IS THE SAILOR, HOME FROM THE SEA,” proclaimed one, while from across the room “THEY THAT GO DOWN TO THE SEA IN SHIPS, THAT DO BUSINESS IN GREAT WATERS; THESE SEE THE WORKS OF THE LORD, AND HIS WONDERS IN THE DEEP” met their eye.

“‘For he commandeth, and raiseth the stormy wind, which lifteth up the waves thereof,’” said Mrs. Bainbridge, finishing the quote. “That’s from Psalms, isn’t it?”

“It is indeed, Mrs. Bainbridge,” said Buchanan-Wollaston. “Sounds like you could give my wife a run for her money.”

“Alas, my needlepoint is inadequate for the task,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “Else I would be doing nothing more than creating such nautical inspirations. Ah, what lovely model ships! Am I correct in guessing that they are your work?”

“They are,” said Buchanan-Wollaston, puffing up with pride as Mrs. Bainbridge examined a group of miniature brigs and schooners, some defended with arrays of tiny cannon. “Each was a vessel with the British navy two centuries ago. I copied the designs from paintings at the museum. Have you been there yet?”