‘Surely it also follows that if as a consequence of Mary Rolfe’s survival men and women are born and live – and other men and women are never born because their potential fathers and mothers never met, having married Mary Rolfe’s descendants instead – surely it also follows that all other threads in the fabric of history are unpicked and rewoven, such as the newspaper records and our memories of having read these records?’ Meredith shook his head slowly. ‘No, Bourne, you can’t dismiss the possibility that way.’

‘I wish I’d never thought of it,’ said Pollard ruefully. ‘I’m getting a giddy vision of history shuffling and reshuffling itself endlessly like a restless sea.’

‘All right,’ said Bourne. ‘I take the point. It could be but if so it’s unverifiable. But that still leaves the poison bottle. Suppose we find it upstairs?’

‘If we do,’ Paul said, ‘I don’t see how it’s possible to avoid the conclusion that in some way Ann Parish was Mary Rolfe in a former life.’

‘The reincarnation hypothesis?’ Hunt asked.

He broke off, dabbing at his trousers-leg. On the thigh a black spot had appeared. As he did so a second damp spot stained the cloth. He looked up in time to see several drops of a clear fluid fall from the ceiling.

Paul looked upwards. Startled he saw a steady sequence of drips form and fall from the ceiling. Even as he watched, more points of the ceiling began to leak. Gasps and exclamations came from Meredith and Bourne as they felt drops fall on them. In a state of bemusement they watched the liquid rain down.

‘It must be a burst pipe!’ said Pollard. Meredith drew out a handkerchief, rubbed his thigh.

‘Pollard, will you and Smith go upstairs to the bedroom above us and see what you can see.’

‘Right. Come on, Ted.’

When they’d left, the others continued to watch. A faint familiar odour came to their nostrils. Paul knelt and gingerly rubbed a finger in a small puddle near the fireplace. He sniffed the tip of his finger, very tentatively tasted it.

‘It’s whisky!’

Hunt followed his example.

‘For God’s sake! This is gin.’

The strange rain had stopped. The plaster of the ceiling was dry and quite unbroken. Only the damp patches and glistening pools on the floor remained to testify that it had ever happened. In an almost abstracted, totally uncertain way, Hunt ran his hands through his hair.

‘This is – we must, ah, certainly we’ve got to get this on film. Harry!’

‘No, wait a minute.’ Meredith held up a hand. ‘Mr Wilson, will you and Dr Bourne go to the dining-room and bring back the bottles of whisky and gin we brought.’