Alleyn was bent over the diary. His long forefinger touched the rag of paper that was the remnant of the last entry. He slipped his nail under it and disclosed another and then another torn marginal strip still caught in the binding. ‘Three pages gone,’ he said, ‘and it’s not unreasonable to suppose they would have told us what she overheard from her dark entry in Tollardwark. Wrenched out in a hurry, and, I suppose, either burnt or thrown overboard. The latter almost certainly. They were wet and pulpy. Torn out whether purposely or accidentally, and into The River with them.’

‘That’ll be the story,’ Fox agreed heavily. ‘And the inference is—by Lazenby.’

‘If Troy’s right. She’s not certain.’

Mr Tillottson who had been in a hard, abstracted stare since his last utterance now said: ‘So it’s a field of five—six if you count the Skipper and that’d be plain ridiculous. I’ve known Jim Tretheway these five years, decent wee man.’

‘He’s not all that wee,’ Fox said mildly.

‘The Doctor, Mr Bard, Mr Hewson, the Reverend and Pollock. And if you’re right one of them’s the toughest proposition in what they call the international crime world. You wouldn’t credit it, though, would you? Here!’ Mr Tillottson said, struck by a new thought. ‘You wouldn’t entertain the idea of the whole boiling being in cahoots, would you? If so: why? Why go river-cruising if they’re a pack of villains in a great big international racket. Not for kicks you’d think, now, would you?’

‘Of the lot that remains on board, excluding the Tretheways,’ Alleyn said, ‘I incline to think there’s only one non-villain. I’ll give you my reasons, such as they are, and I fully admit they wouldn’t take first prize in the inescapable logic stakes. But still. Here they are.’

His colleagues listened in massive silence. Fox sighed heavily when he had finished. ‘And that,’ he said, ‘followed out, leaves us with only one guess for the identity of the Jampot. Or does it?’

‘I think it does. If, if, if and it’s a hell of a big if.’

‘I’ll back it,’ Fox said. ‘What’s our next bit of toil.’

‘We don’t wait for the report on the PM. I think, Br’er Fox, we cut in and use our search-warrant. What’s the time? Five past nine. If they’ve gone to bed it’s just too bad. Back to Ramsdyke Lock with us. Did you pick up a bit of nosh, by the way?’

‘Pickle and beef sandwiches and a couple of half-pints.’

‘We’ll sink them on the trip. Hark bloody forrard away.’

III