Sweating with shame I moved off in quest of the true Fr Tichborne, who proved, when I found him, to be a well-washed, shiny little chap with a face just like that of a Volkswagen. He was sitting on a bench leafing through the latest copy of Playgirl with an air of studious detachment and wearing a snappy, dark-green mohair suit which he shouldn’t have been able to afford on a prep-school master’s salary. Exchanging humdrum civilities, we entered my Mini, where I noticed that he exuded a faint but agreeable smell of seed-cake, which I supposed was really the Pastis escaping from his well-opened pores. As we moved off, he let out a shrill cry of dismay. I clapped the brakes on.

‘My corporal!’ he squeaked, ‘I’ve forgotten my corporal!’ I was alarmed: Johanna is broad-minded about that sort of thing but Jock is not: he would make remarks.

‘Do you mean,’ I asked, ‘that you have brought a, er, Non-Commissioned friend with you?’

‘No no no,’ he said testily,’ it’s the special altar corporal for the Mass we’re going to celebrate.’

Mystified, I helped him to search and we found, in the Customs shed, a string shopping-bag containing a lot of folded cloth.

‘Do show,’ I said.

‘Well, not here, I think. The embroidery on it might seem a little, well, surprising, to the casual bystander. And that Customs officer is observing us narrowly.’

On the way home we paused at the ‘Carrefour Selous’ for refreshment, early though it was.

‘This is a very characteristic local inn,’ I explained. ‘They drink something here called Pastis, I think, and speak highly of it. Would you care to try?’

‘I have heard of it,’ he said gravely, ‘and I long to try it.’

‘What do you think?’ I asked diffidently a little later.

‘Mmm. Quite delicious. Stronger than sherry, I fancy. I say, it won’t make me tight, will it?’

‘I shouldn’t think so.’

‘But what is that that you are drinking, Mr Mortdecai?’

‘It is called whisky. It is a malt liquor distilled in the highlands of Scotland. I believe they sell quite a lot of it in Jersey.’

We gazed at each other with straight faces. He was the first to laugh – after that there was no embarrassment. It takes one to know one, they say; whatever that means.

Johanna took to him on sight, which was reassuring for she is never wrong about people, whilst I almost always am. She was fussing over him and telling him how tired he must be and what could she offer him to drink (ha ha) when Jock loomed in the doorway and announced luncheon in the doom-laden voice of a servant who is in the mood to give in his notice at the drop of a hat.

‘This is Fr Tichborne, Jock,’ I said brightly.

‘Reelly,’ he said.

‘Yes. His bags are in the car – perhaps you would bring them in presently.’