“No, thank you. I don’t know where you’re going but it’s not in my direction.” Dougal pulled a long face, nodded, and moved out into the traffic. Simon Morten stood looking after them, six feet two of handsome disgruntlement, his black curls still uncovered. He said: “Well, shit off and be damned to you,” crammed his beret on, turned into the lane, and entered the little restaurant known as the Junior Dolphin.

“What’s upset the Thane of Fife?” asked Dougal casually.

“Nothing. He’s being silly.”

“Not, by any chance, a teeny-weeny bit jealous?”

“Maybe. He’ll recover.”

“Hope so. Before we get round to bashing away at each other with Gaston’s claymores.”

“Indeed, yes. Gaston really is more than a bit dotty, don’t you think? All that talk about armory. And he wouldn’t stop.”

“I’m told he did spend a short holiday in a sort of halfway house. A long time ago, though, and he was quite harmless. Just wore a sword and spoke middle English. He’s a sweet man, really. He’s been asked by Perry to teach us the fight. He wants us to practice duels in slow motion every day for five weeks building up muscle and getting a bit faster very slowly. To the Anvil Chorus from Trovatore.”

“Not really?”

“Of course not, when it comes to performance. Just at rehearsals to get the rhythm. They are frightfully heavy, claymores are.”

“Rather you than me,” said Maggie and burst out laughing.

Dougal began to sing very slowly. “Bang. Wait for it. Bang. Wait again. And bangle-bangle bang. Wait. Bang.”

“With two hands, of course.”

“Of course, I can’t lift the thing off the floor without puffing and blowing. Gaston brought one down for us to try.”

“He’s actually making the ones you’re going to use, isn’t he? Couldn’t he cheat and use lighter material or papier-mâché for the hilt or something?”