On Monday morning, at about ten o’clock, they reached the lock that led from the canal to the river on whose banks stood the convent Henri had told them about, where the good sisters had nursed soldiers during the war. It was a relief to leave that canal, with its somber memories. The river was lined with trees, and if there were horrors beyond them, at least they were hidden from view. And there was something different about being on a river instead of a canal. Rivers felt alive, thought Lotti, waiting at the tiller for Ben to return to the Sparrowhawk from the lock. This particular river was slow and lazy. It didn’t have the force of the Thames, or its sense of grandeur, but the feeling was there, an implicit invitation to come and play.

One day, Lotti promised the river, we will. But not yet.

They both had so much still to do.

“Ready?” she asked, as Ben stepped back on board.

“Ready.”

Ben squared his shoulders and gazed straight ahead.

The Sparrowhawk rattled on toward the convent.

Sally had denied all knowledge of Lotti’s whereabouts when Albert interviewed her. She hadn’t seen Lotti since the night before the poor kid left for school, when she begged not to be waved off the next morning, because she didn’t want Sally to see her cry.

After the interview, Albert had missed the last train back to Great Barton, and spent Saturday night in a room above a pub. As he waited for his train on Sunday morning, he picked up a copy of the weekend edition of the East Kent Herald. His heart skipped a beat. On the third page, under the headline PLUCKY CHILDREN HEAD FOR THE HIGH SEAS, was the photograph the journalist had taken of the Sparrowhawk in Ramsgate harbor, with Ben at the helm and Frank and Lotti beside him.

In detective work as in life, luck will play its part.

Back at Great Barton, Albert Skinner went straight to Barton Lacey to inform Hubert Netherbury of his discovery.

“I don’t understand.” Lotti’s uncle stood in Théophile’s study with the newspaper in his hand, staring at the photograph. He did not invite Albert to sit. “What is this boat? And who are these people?”

“I don’t know who the man is,” Albert admitted. “The boy, of course, is Ben Langton.”

“Who?”

“The lad who has been sharing lessons with Charlotte …” Albert faltered under Hubert’s glare. “It’s his boat. I’m sorry, sir, I assumed you knew …”

“Well,” said Hubert through gritted teeth. “I didn’t.”

Glowering, he stared at the wall behind the desk, then frowned. The painting which hung there was ever so slightly lopsided …