“I wish I were. Or no,” amended Miss Rickerby-Carrick. “Wrong again. Correction. I wish I were a thousand miles away from me. From myself. No kidding,” she added. “To try out another colloquialism.”

She wrote again in her book.

Her companion looked attentively at her and might have been said, after her own fashion, also to make notes. She saw a figure, not exactly of fun, but of confusion. There was no co-ordination. The claret-coloured suit, the disheartened jumper, above all the knitted jockey-cap, all looked to have been thrown at their wearer and fortuitously to have stuck. She had a strange trick with her mouth, letting it fly apart over her teeth and turn up at the corners so that she seemed to grin when in fact she did nothing of the sort. The hand that clutched her propelling pencil was arthritic.

Overhead, clouds bowled slowly across a midsummer sky. A light wind fiddled with the river and one or two small boats bumped at their moorings. The pleasure-craft Zodiac had not appeared but was due at noon.

“My name,” said Miss Rickerby-Carrick, “is Rickerby-Carrick. Hazel. ‘Spinster of this parish’. What’s yours?”

“Alleyn.”

“Mrs?”

“Yes.” After a moment’s hesitation Troy, since it was obviously expected of her, uncomfortably added her first name. “Agatha,” she mumbled.

“Agatharallen,” said Miss Rickerby-Carrick sharply. “That’s funny. I thought you must be K. G. Z. Andropulos, Cabin 7.”

“The cabin was taken by somebody called Andropulos. I believe, but the booking was cancelled at the last moment. This morning, in fact. I happened to be here on—on business and I saw it advertised in the Company’s window, so I took it,” said Troy, “on impulse.”

“Just like that. Fancy.” A longish pause followed. “So we’re ship-mates? ‘Water wanderers?’ ” Miss Rickerby-Carrick concluded, quoting the brochure.

“In the Zodiac? Yes,” Troy agreed and hoped she sounded friendly enough.