I don’t know whether the makers of proprietary medicines ever put them through a dry-cleaning machine but the effects on the human digestive system forty minutes after ingestion are, I can vouch, spectacular. Rushing for the door and reaching a lavatory in the nick of time, I disgorge into the gracious majesty of a blue-veined porcelain Victorian crapper sundry chunks of cheese and biscuit, followed by what appears to be a number of vital organs. Kneeling over the pedigree pan, my sweat-beaded brow grateful for a white-tiled wall to lean on, I wait for the heaving to subside and start to formulate a plan of action. Get the contest out of the way, is the immediate priority, then get to see the boy, Peter Stemp, in private. After that, follow the trail where it may lead. I’ve got the rest of the week to play with. By Friday, I can expect to have resolved the Mystery of the Vanished Virtuoso. Under pressure, Jews revert to irony. In the washroom mirror, as I rinse my face, the eyes flash back a mocking gleam: Hercule Poirot on the prowl.

Rebuttoning my dinner jacket, I leave the men’s room and run smack into Sandra Adams, who is loitering outside. ‘I was getting worried about you, Mr S,’ she scolds. ‘You left the table looking a bit under the weather. Can I get you anything for it?’

‘A touch of indigestion, Mrs Adams,’ I explain. ‘Much better now, thank you. Must have been a funny reaction to the cheese.’

‘I know,’ she soothes, as we head back. ‘I get that way sometimes. Olly likes to have me in charge at his department’s public functions, but the stress gets me right here’ – she dents a plump midriff with a pink fingernail – ‘and I have to make a quick getaway. Embarrassing, really. I never know what to say.’

‘But you seem,’ I reply, ‘so . . . self-assured.’

‘I suppose we learn to hide our little vulnerabilities, don’t we, Mr S?’ she says conspiratorially, her hand nuzzling the small of my back as we re-enter the jury room. ‘Are you sure I can’t get you an aspirin?’ I shake my head, done with all that. A brandy and coffee will do the trick.

There are by now more empty bottles on the sideboard than judges at the table and the atmosphere is rudely elated. I tap my fork on a resonant Donegal glass and set in motion the first part of my washroom strategy.

‘Colleagues,’ I begin, ‘the rules of this contest give me, your chairman, a degree of latitude in conducting our deliberations. We have a good half-hour before we need to declare and I am keen that no one should feel constrained by time or’ – glancing at Burrows – ‘authority, as we reach our joint and, I hope, unanimous decision.’

‘Hear, hear,’ cheers Olly.