‘There! The London train must be in,’ Miss Rickerby-Carrick observed with an air of triumph.

The first to alight was an undistinguished man of about forty. Under a belted raincoat he wore a pinstriped suit which, revealed, would surely prove abominable. His shirt was mauve and his tie a brightish pink. His hair was cut short back-and-sides. He had a knobbly face and pale eyes. As he approached, carrying his fibre suitcase and wearing a jaunty air, Troy noticed that he limped, swinging a built-up boot. ‘Morning all,’ he said. ‘Lovely day, innit?’

Troy and Mr Bard agreed and Miss Rickerby-Carrick repeated: ‘Lovely! Lovely!’ on an ecstatic note.

‘Pollock’s the name,’ said the new arrival, easily. ‘Stan.’ They murmured.

Mr Bard introduced himself and the ladies. Mr Pollock responded with sideway wags of his head.

‘That’s the ticket,’ he said. ‘No deception practised.’

Miss Rickerby-Carrick said: ‘Isn’t this going to be fun,’ in a wildish tone that modulated into one of astonishment. Her gaze had shifted to the passenger from the second taxi who, with his back to the group, was settling his fare. He was exceedingly tall and very welldressed at High Establishment level. Indeed his hat, houndstooth checked overcoat and impeccable brogues were in such a grand conservative style that it surprised—it almost shocked—Troy to observe that he seemed to be wearing black gloves like a Dickensian undertaker. Some yards distant, his bell-like voice rang out enormously. ‘Thank you. Good morning to you. Good morning.’

He lifted his suitcase and turned. His hat tilted a little forward: the brim shadowed his face but could not be seen to do so as the face itself was darker than a shadow: the latest arrival was a coloured man.

Miss Rickerby-Carrick gave out an ejaculation. Mr Bard after the briefest glance continued talking to Troy. Mr Pollock stared, faintly whistled and then turned aside with a shuttered face. The motorcyclists for some private reason broke into ungentle laughter.

The newcomer advanced, lifted his hat generally and moved through the group to the wharf’s edge where he stood looking upstream towards the bend in the river: an incongruous but impressive and elegant figure against a broken background of rivercraft, sliding water and buildings advertising themselves in a confusion of signs.

Troy said quickly: ‘That makes five of us, doesn’t it? Three more to come.’

‘One of whom occupies that very affluent-looking car, no doubt,’ said Mr Bard. ‘I tried to peer in as I came past but an open newspaper defeated me.’

‘Male or female, did you gather?’

‘Oh the former, the former. A large manicured hand. The chauffeur is one of the stony kind. Now what is your guess? We have a choice of two from our passenger list, haven’t we? Which do you think?’ He just indicated the figure down by the river. ‘Dr Natouche? Mr J. de B. Lazenby? Which is which?’