Johanna and I do not share a bedroom, still less a bed. To sleep in the same bed with a member of the opposite sex is barbarous, unhygienic, unaesthetic and, in these blessed days of the electric blanket, quite unnecessary. It means, too, that wakefulness in one is visited upon the other partner and, worst of all, it is conducive to carnality in the mornings – terribly bad for the heart and makes you eat too large a breakfast. When I find a woman that I want to spend the whole night with – I mean, including sleep – in the same bed, then I shall know that I’m in love – or senile. Probably, by then, both.

It was in my dressing-room, then, that Jock aroused me on Easter Tuesday. His ‘good morning’ was no gruffer than usual; there was perhaps hope that he had declared a truce. Nevertheless, I tasted my tea guardedly, for the keenest weapon in Jock’s arsenal is to make tea with water which has not quite boiled: a fearful revenge, but then Jock is a man of violence, this is why I employ him.

The tea was good. Jock had selected the Assam Flowery BOP from Jackson’s atelier and had made it with his deftest touch. I beamed upon the honest fellow.

‘Jock, today I am to be a member of a posse. Pray lay out for me a suit of Levi’s, a ten-gallon hat, high-heeled boots, a Winchester ’73 rifle and a strong, durable horse.’

‘We ain’t got none of that, Mr Charlie.’

‘Then plus-fours, stout boots and a great cudgel.’

‘Right. Am I coming?’

‘Not at this stage, but please stay near the telephone until I call.’

‘Right. ’Course you know you won’t catch him, don’t you?’

I gaped.

‘Catch whom?’

‘The bloke who rogered Mrs Breakspear, of course. Silly bugger, he only had to say please, didn’t he?’

‘Watch your tongue. Mr Breakspear’s a friend of mine.’

‘Sorry, Mr Charlie. But everybody …’

‘Shut up. Anyway, how do you come to have heard of the, er, incident?’

‘Girl who delivers the newspapers.’

‘But the papers come from Grouville and they’re here before eight. How can it have got so far overnight?’

‘Jersey,’ he said enigmatically.

‘Yes. Of course. But what’s this about never catching him?’

‘Use your common-sense, Mr Charlie. Where are you going to look, for one thing?’

‘I had been asking myself that, I admit. What was the other thing?’

‘They say you won’t. The Jerseys. They know.’

‘Hm, yes, that is another thing.’

‘Yeah.’

At noon, clad in thick Irish thornproof tweeds and brandishing an ashplant, I clumped in my great boots into the drawing-room at Les Cherche-fuites. George was wearing flannels and a white shirt, Sam was wearing Bermuda shorts and a silk Palm Beach shirt. They gazed at me wonderingly.

‘This is only a conference,’ George explained gently.

‘Oh. I see.’

‘Have you brought many beaters?’ Sam asked.

‘No.’