From the crest of this small slope he could see for quite a way. The road dipped once more and about a hundred yards ahead it was flooded for a distance of thirty or forty feet. But presumably thereafter it rose steadily away from flood level, for just on the other side of the water stood a hearse and two funeral cars. The oarsman was in the water, pushing the coffin ashore where the top-hatted undertaker and his assistants were trying to grapple with it without getting their feet wet.

Dalziel halted and once more settled down to watch. Finally all was finished, the punt party reached shore safely, dividing themselves among the two cars, in the first of which the woman and the old man had presumably been seated all along, and the sad procession drove slowly away leaving only the oarsman seated on the bows of his boat rolling a well-earned cigarette.

When the cortege was out of sight, Dalziel started his car once more and rolled gently down to the trough below, humming 'One More River To Cross'. There was nothing like the sight of someone else's funeral for making life look a little brighter.

Half-way through the trough, he suddenly realized this was much deeper than he had anticipated. At the same moment the engine coughed once and died. Dalziel tried one turn of the starter, then switched off.

Opening the window he addressed the uninterested oarsman with all the charm and diplomacy he could muster.

'Hey, you!' he shouted. 'Come and give us a push.'

The old boatman looked at him impassively for a moment before he slowly rose and approached. He was wearing gum-boots which came up to his knees but even so the water lapped perilously close to their tops.

When he reached the open window he stopped and looked at Dalziel enquiringly.

'Yes?' he said.

'Don't just stand there,' said Dalziel. 'Give us a push.'