“Ted!” he said, patting one of the electricians on the back. “How’s the missus? Still collecting matchbooks? I’ve got one she might like to have—straight from the Savoy.

“Only two matches missing,” he added with a broad pantomime wink.

I had seen Desmond Duncan in a film whose name I have forgotten: the one about the little girl who hires a failed barrister to force her estranged parents to reconcile. I had also seen pictures of him in some of the fan magazines Daffy kept hidden at the bottom of her undies drawer.

He had a sharp, beaked nose, and a projecting chin, which gave him the profile of a thunderbolt: a profile that was probably instantly recognizable from Greenland to New Guinea.

A sudden gasp from above and behind me caused me to crane my neck and look up. I should have known! Daffy and Feely were peering through the balusters. They must be flat on their bellies on the floor.

Feely made shooing motions with her hands, indicating that I wasn’t to give away their presence by staring at them.

I bounded up the stairs and lay down on the floor between them. Daffy tried to pinch me, but I rolled away.

“Do that again and I’ll scream your name and your brassiere size,” I hissed, and she shot me a villainous look. Daffy had only recently begun to develop and was still shy about trumpeting the details.

“Look at them!” Feely whispered. “Phyllis Wyvern and Desmond Duncan—actually together here—at Buckshaw!”

I peered down through the railings just in time to see them touch fingertips—like God and Adam on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, except that their respective clothing gave them the appearance, from above, of something more like a large bison coming face-to-face with a small pinwheel whirligig.

Desmond Duncan was now removing the bulky coat, which was taken instantly away by a little man who had been trailing him.