‘Oh really!’ Caley exclaimed, ‘this is too much! Of course we all know who you mean. They’ve turned up from time to time like prologues to the omens coming on in an early Cocteau film.’ He addressed his fellow-passengers. ‘We’ve seen them, we’ve remarked upon them, why the hell shouldn’t we say so?’

They stirred uneasily. Lazenby said: ‘You’re right, of course, Mr Bard. No reason at all. A couple of young mods—we used to call them bodgies in Aussie—with I dare say no harm in them. They seem to be cobbers of young Tom’s.’

‘Have any of you ever spoken to them?’

Nobody answered.

‘You better ask the coloured gentleman,’ Hewson said and Alleyn thought he heard a note of fear in his voice.

‘Dr Natouche has spoken to them, you think?’

‘I don’t think. I know. The first day when we went through the lock here. They were on the bridge and he came down the road from this helluva whatsit in the hillside. These two hobos shouted something and he walked up to them and said something and they kinda laughed and kicked up their machine and roared off.’

‘Where were you?’

‘Me? Walking up the hill with the mob.’

Hewson shifted his position slightly and continued, with considerable finesse, to emphasize the already richly offensive tone of his behaviour. ‘Mrs Alleyn,’ he said, ‘was in the whatsit with the deceased. She’d been there for quite some time before the deceased got there. So’d he. Natouche. Yes, sir. Quite some time.’

This was said so objectionably that Alleyn felt the short hair rise on the back of his scalp. Fox, who had performed his usual trick of making his bulk inconspicuous while he took notes, let out a slight exclamation and at once stifled it.

Hewson, after a look at Alleyn’s face said in a great hurry: ‘Don’t get me wrong. Take it easy. Hell, Superintendent, I didn’t mean a thing.’

Alleyn raised his eyebrows at Fox who soundlessly formed the word ‘Tom?’ and went below. Alleyn climbed the companion-way leading to the upper deck and looked over the half-door. Dr Natouche leant on the port taffrail. He was wreathed in mist. His hands were clasped and his head bent as if he stared at them.

‘Dr Natouche, can I trouble you again for a moment?’

‘Certainly. Shall I come down?’

‘If you please.’

When he had come down, blinking a little in the light, Alleyn, watching Pollock and the Hewsons and Lazenby, was reminded of Troy’s first letter. These passengers, she had written, eyed Natouche with something that seemed very like fear.