‘To tell you the truth,’ Alleyn said, ‘I’m damned if I know. Shall we move on?’

On the way across, Jenny said she supposed Alleyn must be worried on Miss Pride’s account and he rejoined cheerfully that he was worried to hell. After all, he said, one didn’t exactly relish one’s favourite old girl being used as a cockshy. Patrick, involuntarily, it seemed, said that she really had rather turned herself into one, hadn’t she? ‘Sitting on her ledge under that umbrella, you know, and admonishing the pilgrims. It made everyone feel so shy.’

‘Did she admonish them?’

‘Well, I understand she said she hoped they’d enjoy a recovery but they oughtn’t to build on it. They found it very off-putting.’

Jenny said: ‘Will an effort be made to discover who’s behind all these tricks?’

‘That’s entirely over to Superintendent Coombe.’

‘Matter of protocol?’ Patrick suggested.

‘Exactly.’

The dinghy slid into deep shadow and bumped softly against the jetty. ‘Well,’ Alleyn said. ‘I’m very much obliged to you both. Good night.’

‘I can’t imagine why it should be so,’ Jenny said, ‘but Miss Pride’s rather turned into my favourite old girl, too.’

‘Isn’t it extraordinary? She doesn’t present any of the classic features. She is not faded or pretty nor as far as I’ve noticed does she smell of lavender. She’s by no means gentle or sweet, and doesn’t exude salty common-sense. She is, without a shadow of doubt, a pig-headed, arrogant old thing.’ He rose and steadied himself by the jetty steps. ‘Do you subscribe to the Wally-gingered-up-by-Miss Cost theory?’ he asked.

‘It’s as good as any other,’ Patrick said. ‘I suppose.’

‘There’s only one thing against it,’ Jenny said. ‘I don’t believe Wally would ever deliberately hurt anyone. And he’s a very bad shot.’

Alleyn stepped ashore.

‘I expect,’ said Patrick’s voice quietly from the shadowed boat, ‘you’ll be relieved to get her away.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I shall. Good night.’

As he walked down the jetty he heard the dip of Patrick’s oars and the diminishing murmur of their voices.

He found Superintendent Coombe’s cottage and his host waiting for him. They had a glass of beer and a talk and turned in. Alleyn thought he would telephone his wife in the morning and went fast to sleep.

IV

He was wakened at seven by a downpour of rain. He got up, bathed and found breakfast in preparation. Mr Coombe, a widower, did for himself.

‘Bit of a storm again,’ he said, ‘but it’s clearing fast. You’ll have a pleasant run.’

He went into his kitchen from whence, presently, the splendid smell of panfrying bacon arose. Alleyn stood at the parlour window and looked down on a deserted front, gleaming mud-flats and the exposed spine of the causeway.

‘Nobody about,’ he said.