The Chief Superintendent met us with a stony look. Like all good policemen who have received hints to lay off from people in high places, he was in an ugly mood. He studied us carefully, one by one – the time-honoured technique of policemen who wish you to understand that they will be Keeping an Eye on you in the future and that you’d better not be caught parking on a yellow line.

‘For some reason not confided in me,’ he began heavily, ‘it has been decided that this is to be treated as a silly prank which ended tragically. Most of the gravamen of the many charges will be laid to the account of the deceased Tichborne. I hope that will please you. You are only to be charged with Unlawfully Entering Private Premises, Unlawfully Causing Scandal and Distress, Failing to Prevent a Breach of the Law Against Ill-treatment of Animals and you, Mr Breakspear, with Driving an Uninsured Vehicle and Failing to Sign a Driving Licence.’

I broke out in a sweat of relief. George grated his teeth audibly. Sam’s eyes seemed to be fixed on some distant and loathsome object.

‘I have been in touch informally,’ the policeman went on, ‘with the Société Jersaise. They are, quite rightly, shocked and furious, but you may find that a written apology and an offer to pay for a new padlock-chain and for the removal of the smoke-stains on the walls of the chapel will satisfy them. Say, three hundred pounds.’

Three cheque-books flashed in the dusty sunshine; three fountain pens scratched and squirted in unison.

‘The Police Court magistrate has sent up your case directly to the Royal Court. You are to appear before a special session at precisely two-thirty this afternoon, which gives you plenty of time to enjoy a large and expensive lunch. No, please do not ask me to join you. I am feeling a little sick. Good day to you.’

That man was wasted as a policeman: he should have been the headmaster of a High Anglican public school. We slunk out.

The desk sergeant offered no cups of tea this time; he viewed us coldly. He probably knew little of the matter but the scent of opprobrium must have clung to us: we were no longer gents as such but faces to memorize.

He asked me to identify, and sign for, my tape-recorder complete with one cassette. I did so.

‘There’s nothing on the cassette,’ he explained.

‘D’you want to bet?’ I asked.

My car was triumphantly displaying a parking-ticket, which the others gazed at with moody satisfaction.

‘Well, where are we lunching?’ asked George.

‘At the nearest rookery for me,’ I said, ‘it is my day for eating crow.’

In the event we were lucky enough to secure a table at the Borsalino, but we could do scant justice to the excellent fare.

‘Don’t you like the Poulet Borsalino?’ asked a puzzled proprietor.