“Oh.” Two countries, I thought, divided by a single language. “I’m certain he’s working some sort of racket. Oh.” I nodded slowly. For the past few days I had operated on the vague assumption that Phaedra had gone on a tour or taken some form of legitimate employment, after which something went awry. Thus I had shown her photograph to travel agents and employment agencies and had inquired after her by both of her names, in the full expectation of getting an honest answer to an honest question. That line wouldn’t work with Mr. Smythe-Carson.

“You might call the police,” Nigel suggested.

I thought it over. But if S-C was working a racket, or playing some version of foreign intrigue, it was more than possible that Phaedra was involved to a point where official attention might be a bad idea. Besides, I wasn’t entirely certain how I stood with the police – they might turn out to be displeased with my presence in their country.

“I could go round if you’d like,” Nigel went on. “Pass myself off as an inspector from the Yard. I’ve played the bloody part often enough, and the moustache would go well with the role. Or do you think that would just put the wind up him?”

“It might.”

“Or I could disguise myself as female, under forty, unmarried. Somehow I don’t think that would wash. You might do some sort of exploratory research, Evan. Inquiring about the position on behalf of a female relative, that sort of thing. Give you the feel of the man-”

Julia said, “Of course you’ve both overlooked the obvious.”

We looked at her.

“You ought to send an unmarried female under forty to find out exactly what’s going on. Fortunately I know just the girl. She’s had a bit of acting experience, she’s considered moderately attractive and intelligent, and she’s bloody adventurous.” She stood up, a thin smile on her freshly scrubbed face, a light dancing in her eyes. “I hereby volunteer my services,” she said.