There was much to substantiate Beddoes’ observation on Russians’ love of confession. They seemed to free themselves of the burdens of conscience with greater ease and frequency than many, perhaps because the vast spaces of their country bred in them a sort of uninhibited expansiveness. Letters from Russian officials to The Times were usually long and diffuse; as if all Times were theirs, thought Nightingale. But while it might be possible to prove Russians statistically the greatest confessors, the urge was not peculiar to them. It was common. And Nightingale, oppressed by the matter of the cameo, which from the accretion of his knowledge and suspicions had grown to a boulder’s weight, was overwhelmingly aware of it.

“Never mind,” he said to the speechless Beddoes. “Majendie, now. Last night I heard, by chance, that he lives in Kent, and that there he keeps his collection. It may be coincidence, and at best it’s a very tenuous link.”

Beddoes looked dubious. “He’s admitted an awful lot for someone in the soup. To clear his name in Olga’s prayer book he need only have mentioned the brooch in the twenties, which was probably true enough.”

“You surely don’t imagine I told him we’d seen that address? For all he knows we may have found letters or drafts of letters—hers to him, I mean—and heaven knows what else. He had to cover his visit. Oh, he went, that’s almost a certainty. He knew the jewels were kept in a trunk. I suppose someone could have passed that on from Ivan, but I didn’t tell him. Anyway, he’s going down to Kent today. Takes the Man of Kent to Folkestone, then drives himself.”

“Folkestone’s quite a way from the Stour.”

“The Man of Kent arrives at Folkestone at quarter to three. The helicopter arrives at Richborough at six-thirty. Plenty of time, for all sorts of possibility.”

“Such as Majendie driving a heli out of its hangar in his back garden and wafting over to Richborough. That sounds nice. Have they checked what’s registered in that part?”

“He hasn’t one, needless to say.”

“Well, I don’t get this marsh melodrama,” grumbled Beddoes. “If they must be so perishing exotic as to use a heli, why not take the stuff to its base and load it there?”