‘The next bit was rather awful,’ he went on steadily. ‘We went up to where Violet had been put – nice enough room – and Dr Wankel squirted some sodium amytal into her. It stopped her staring at one in that awful way but it didn’t make her utter at all. La Wankel lifted her arm up (Violet’s, I mean) and it just stayed there. Then she bent it and it stayed there, too. She said that’s called “flexibilitas cereas”, which is typical of something or other, it seems. Then she shoved her arms down again and tapped it gently and every time it was tapped it rose a little – like an Anglepoise lamp. That’s called “mitgehen” apparently. Rather beastly to watch. Then I was chucked out so that Wankel could give her a thorough physical examination and I had to wait outside for about a hundred years. Afterwards I was too knocked-out to pay much attention but I gathered that it was a toss-up whether Violet’s trance was depressive or catatonic and that the difference was important. Either way there seems to be a good chance that Violet might suddenly rouse and dive out of the window – the catatonics seem to get the idea that they’re angels – and that turns out to mean an agency nurse all round the clock at another huge sum per diem. Then the kindly Wankel gave me a bed – free! – and a pill, and I slept until ‘plane-time this morning and that’s all.’

I made him another drink, it was easier than saying anything.

Jock, his timing as perfect as ever, announced luncheon and we sat down to gulls’ eggs, terrine of rabbit and cold curry puffs. I defy anyone to dwell on private miseries with one of Jock’s cold curry puffs melting on his tongue, they stand alone, they really do. We drank bottled beer, for I disapprove of wine at luncheon: it either promotes drowsiness or inflames the animal spirits – either way it wastes the afternoon. Sam was a trifle less jumpy when victualled; George seemed somnolent, unwilling to join in.

‘Now,’ Sam said, ‘tell us about the Oxford venture, Charlie. What did your emeritus Magus suggest?’

I told them, trying to keep the apologetic tone from my voice, doing my best to offer blasphemous folly as the only kind of reason which could prevail. What had seemed to make sense in Oxford sounded merely crack-pot over a Jersey luncheon-table and their blank stares, their shared sidelong glances, did not much help me toward persuasiveness. I ended lamely.

‘And if you fellows can offer anything better,’ I ended lamely, ‘I’d be delighted to hear it.’

There was a long, treacly silence. George ran an exploratory index finger over each hair in his eyebrows, then checked the lobes of his ears and the cleft in his chin before starting to remind himself of the contours of his thumb-shaped nose.