‘I have,’ Alleyn said, ‘been enjoying this very charming portrait.’

‘My wife.’

‘Am I imagining – perhaps I am – a likeness to Dr Mark Lacklander?’

‘There was,’ Mr Phinn said shortly, ‘a distant connection. Here are my toys.’

He was evidently one of those anglers who cannot resist the call of the illustrated catalogue and the lure of the gadget. His creel, his gaff, his net, his case of flies and his superb rod were supplemented by every conceivable toy, all of them, Alleyn expected, extremely expensive. His canvas bag was slotted and pocketed to receive these mysteries, and Alleyn drew them out one after another to discover that they were all freshly cleaned and in wonderful order.

‘With what fly,’ he asked Mr Phinn, ‘did you hook the Old ’Un? It must have been a Homeric struggle, surely?’

‘Grant me the bridge,’ Mr Phinn shouted excitedly, ‘grant me that, and I’ll tell you.’

‘Very well,’ Alleyn conceded with a grin, ‘we’ll take the bridge in our stride. I concede it. Let’s have the story.’

Mr Phinn went strongly into action. It appeared that, at the mention of his prowess, the emotions that had so lately seemed to grip him were completely forgotten. Fear, if he had known fear, paternal anguish, if he had in fact experienced it, and anger, if it was indeed anger that had occasionally moved him, were all abandoned for the absolute passion of the angler. He led them out of doors, exhibited his retrospective prowess in casting, led them in again and re-enacted in the strangest pantomime his battle with the Old ’Un: how he was played, with breathtaking reverses, up through the waters under the bridge and into Mr Phinn’s indisputable preserves. How he was nearly lost and what cunning he displayed and how Mr Phinn countered with even greater cunning of his own. Finally, there was the great capitulation, the landing and the coup de grace, this last being administered, as Mr Phinn made clear in spirited pantomime, with a sort of angler’s cosh: a short heavily-leaded rod.

Alleyn took this instrument in his hand and balanced it. ‘What do you call this thing?’ he asked.

‘A priest,’ Mr Phinn said. ‘It is called a priest. I don’t know why.’

‘Perhaps because of its valedictory function.’ He laid it on the desk and placed Commander Syce’s arrow beside it. Mr Phinn stared but said nothing.

‘I really must return his arrow to Commander Syce,’ Alleyn said absently. ‘I found it in the spinney, embedded in a tree trunk.’