‘Uncle Bashford? Yeah, he’s fine.’

Concern for the unfortunate Mr Bashford evaporated far more quickly than the puddles of water on the floor were likely to do.

‘Andrew, what is going on here?’ enquired the short, round man, staring around in horror.

The professor turned, eyes aglow with what a kindly person would describe as enthusiasm and definitely not mania. ‘Oh, you’ll like this, Occy – Pontius Cominus.’

Dr Dowson snapped to attention. ‘Really? How interesting. And does it work?’

They regarded the still gasping Bashford.

‘Not quite.’

‘Where did you put it?’

‘On the inside of his breastplate.’

‘Obviously not enough buoyancy to cancel out the weight of the armour.’

‘No.’

‘Shame.’

They stood in silent thought.

Jane nudged Matthew. ‘What’s Pontius Cominus? What is happening here? Is he in trouble?’

She was the recipient of the professor’s full R&D beam. ‘No, of course not, my dear. This is Practical History. This is where we make things happen.’

She blinked. ‘You mean you make things work?’

‘Not quite as often as I could wish, but yes. So glad you’re here, Matthew – you can lend a hand. On three.’

They heaved Mr Bashford to his feet.

‘What are you doing?’ Jane persevered.

‘Floating armour, my dear.’

They propped Bashford against the side of the pool, which sagged again, releasing still more water across the floor. Matthew dragged up a chair and helped him sit down.

Bashford nodded his thanks and croaked, ‘Angus?’

‘Of course.’

Standing on another chair he carefully lifted down the stuffed chicken which turned out not to be stuffed at all. Chicken and man crooned happily to each other.

It was at this moment that Jane realised that not only was everything she had ever heard about St Mary’s absolutely true, she hadn’t known the half of it. ‘What is that?’

Lingoss was busy with her clipboard again, ticking off boxes. ‘That’s Angus. She’s getting on a bit now so we put her up there to minimise the possibility of her being swept away in a tidal wave.’

Bashford was shrugging off his breastplate. Eager heads bent to examine it more closely.

‘Damn,’ said the professor. ‘I was really hoping that would do it this time.’

‘It nearly did,’ said Bashford. ‘I was drowning but only very slowly. It just wasn’t quite enough to achieve escape buoyancy.’

Jane craned her head to see.

‘Strips of cork,’ said Matthew to her. ‘Sewn underneath his breastplate. See.’

‘I think I speak for everyone not actually a member of St Mary’s: why?’

‘390BC,’ said the professor.

‘Or possibly 387BC,’ countered Dr Dowson.

They beamed at her, obviously under the impression that all was now crystal clear.

‘Um . . .’ said Jane.