‘Shall we rather put it,’ Caley Bard remarked sourly, ‘that she hadn’t said anything of interest. Full stop. Which God knows, by and large, is only too true of all her conversation.’

‘Now, Mr Bard, isn’t that just a little hard on the poor girl?’ Miss Hewson objected.

‘I don’t know why we must call her “poor”,’ he rejoined.

‘Of course you do,’ Troy said. ‘One can’t help thinking of her as “poor Miss Rickerby-Carrick” and that makes her all the more pitiful.’

‘What a darling you are,’ he said judicially.

Troy paid no attention to this. Dr Natouche who had not taken part in the conversation, looked directly at her and gave her a smile of such clear understanding that she wondered if she had blushed or turned pale.

Mr Lazenby offered one or two professional aphorisms to the effect that Miss Rickerby-Carrick was a dear soul and kindness itself. Mr Hewson looked dry and said she was just a mite excitable. Mr Pollock agreed with this. ‘Talk!’ he said. ‘Oh dear!’

‘They are all delighted,’ Troy thought.

On that note she left them and went up on deck. The Zodiac was still at Crossdyke, moored below the lock, but Tom and his father were making their customary preparations for departure.

They had cast off and the engine had started when Troy heard the telephone ringing in the lock-keeper’s office. A moment later his wife came out and ran along the tow-path towards them.

‘Skipper! Hold on! Message for you.’

‘OK. Thanks.’

The engine fussed and stopped and the Zodiac moved back a little towards the wharf. The lock-keeper came out and arched his hands round his mouth.

‘Car Hire and Taxi Service, Longminster.’ He called. ‘Message for you, Skipper. Miss something-or-another Carrick asked them to ring. She’s been called away to a sick friend. Hopes you’ll understand. OK?’

‘OK.’

‘Ta-ta, then.’

‘So long, then, Jim. Thanks.’

The Skipper returned to his wheelhouse doing ‘thumbs up’ to Troy on the way. The Zodiac moved out into mid-stream, bound for Longminster.

Dr Natouche had come on deck during this exchange. He said: ‘Mrs Alleyn, may I have one word with you?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Troy said. ‘Where? Is it private?’

‘It is, rather. Perhaps if we moved aft.’

They moved aft round the tarpaulin-covered heap of extra chairs. There, lying on the deck, was an inflated, orange-coloured Li-lo mattress.

Dr Natouche, stooped, looked down at it and up at Troy. ‘Miss Rickerby-Carrick slept here last night, I think,’ he said.

‘She did?’

‘Yes. That, at least, was her intention.’

Troy waited.

‘Mrs Alleyn, you will excuse me, I hope, for asking this question. You will, of course, not answer it if you do not wish. Did Miss Rickerby-Carrick speak to you after she returned to the ship last evening?’

‘No. I went very early to my cabin. I’d had a go of migraine.’

‘I thought you seemed to be not very well.’