‘You know,’ he said, ‘if you weren’t a passenger in the good ship Zodiac I think I’d rat.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘It’s not. Where did you get to last night?’

‘I had a telephone call to make.’

‘It couldn’t have taken you all evening.’

Remembering Fox’s suggestion Troy, who was a poor liar, lied. ‘It was about a fur I left at the gallery. I had to go to the police station.’

‘And then?’

‘I went to the church.’

‘You’d much better have come on a one-pub-crawl with me,’ he grumbled. ‘Will you dine tomorrow night in Longminster?’

Before Troy could reply, Miss Rickerby-Carrick, looking scared, came up from below, attired in her magenta wrapper. Her legs were bare and her arthritic toes emerged like roots from her sandals. She wore dark glasses and a panama hat and she carried her Li-lo and her diary. She paused by the wheelhouse for her usual chat with the Skipper, continued on her way and to Troy’s extreme mortification avoided her and Bard with the kind of tact that breaks the soundbarrier, bestowing on them as she passed an understanding smile. She disappeared behind a stack of chairs covered by a tarpaulin, at the far end of the deck.

Troy said: ‘Not true, is she? Just a myth?’

‘What’s she writing?’

‘A journal. She calls it her self-propelling confessional.’

‘Would you like to read it?’

‘Isn’t it awful—but, yes, I can’t say I wouldn’t fancy a little peep.’

‘How about tomorrow night? Dinner ashore, boys, and hey for the rollicking bun.’

‘Could we decide a bit later?’

‘In case something more interesting turns up, you cautious beast.’

‘Not altogether that.’

‘Well—what?’

‘We don’t know what everybody will be doing,’ Troy said feebly and then: ‘I know. Why don’t we ask Dr Natouche to come?’

‘We shall do nothing of the sort and I must say I think that’s a pretty cool suggestion. I invite you to dine, tête-à-tête and—’

Miss Rickerby-Carrick screamed.

It was a positive, abrupt and piercing scream and it brought everybody on deck.

She was leaning over the after-taffrail, her wrapper in wild disarray. She gesticulated and exclaimed and made strange grimaces.

‘My diary! Oh stop! Oh please! My diary!’ cried Miss Rickerby-Carrick.

Somehow or another she had dropped it overboard. She made confused statements to the effect that she had been observing the depths, had leant over too far, had lost her grip. She lamented with catarrhal extravagance, she pointed aft where indeed the diary was to be seen, open and fairly rapidly submerging. Her nose and eyes ran copiously.

The Tretheways behaved with the greatest address. The Skipper put the Zodiac into slow-astern, Tom produced a kind of long-handled curved hook used for clearing river-weed and Mrs Tretheway, placidity itself, emerged from below and attempted to calm Miss Rickerby-Carrick.