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with consternation and horror.
    ‘How could you, Francis!’ cried my sister.
    ‘Trust you to foul up the works. That’s all we need!’ echoed Ingaza.
    They seemed to think I was somehow responsible and had engineered the whole thing. It took me some time to convince them otherwise. Then once the fulminating had subsided I suggested I try to ring the Watkins to find out what had happened.
    ‘You had better let me come with you,’ said Primrose. ‘You’ll never cope with the French telephone system on your own.’ I was grateful for that and we set off in search of a public phone box, leaving Nicholas to grumble at the dog.
    With Primrose’s help the mechanics of connection went surprisingly smoothly and I was relieved to hear Diana Watkins’ voice at the other end. I was just clearing my throat to make diffident enquiry, when she broke in: ‘Oh Canon, I can’t tell you how sorry I am, the most dreadful thing has happened. I feel so ashamed. It’s, uhm … well, I’m afraid it’s Bouncer: he’s escaped – in a lorry!’ And she launched into a long and tearful explanation.
    It was a curious tale, but knowing Bouncer’s habits I felt a measure of sympathy and could hardly blame his distraught custodian. Apparently she had been exercising the two dogs in the park, and because Bouncer was being so good had let him off the lead to frolic with Florence. All had gone well until she was approached by a fellow dog owner eager to chat. They had been talking for barely a minute, when glancing up she saw a very large pantechnicon parked in a lane adjacent to the park, and into which Bouncer’s stern was rapidly disappearing. Before she had a chance to do anything, the driver had walked round to the rear, slammed the doors and driven off. As the thing disappeared down the road all she saw was a foreign number plate, and its doors bearing the slogan: ‘Grinders’ Dog Biscuits – Only the Best’.
    Between tears and gulps Diana made further apologies and said how much Florence was missing her playmate. I calmed her down, said that miraculously the fugitive was safe with me, and assured her there were no hard feelings. I think she went off to have a triple gin. I wished I could do the same, but that would have to come later …
       
    Eventually, back in the car with the dog settled next to me and my companions grimly resigned to his presence, we once more traversed the town. This time we managed to find the right route and were soon out on the open road. We had not gone far when a lay-by came up on our right where there were a couple of British cars parked, a battered Humber and, apart from a patched tear in its hood, a pristine silver Austin-Healey. As we drove by I saw one of its occupants hunched over a map spread out on the bonnet. It was the taller of the two Primrose had introduced me to on the boat. The sighting prompted her to resume telling Nicholas of her encounter with them.
    When she had finished there was a long silence. And then he said musingly, ‘Crowthorne … that’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?’ At the time the remark’s significance entirely escaped me, but later it became only too clear.

The Vicar’s Version
     
     
    Despite the still heavy skies and tiredness from the recent rigours, now that we were actually in France, and unmolested by its Customs inspectors, I began to relax and enjoy the journey. I had not visited the country since a couple of times to Brittany well before the war. Then I was a boy, encumbered by shrimping nets and parents. I recalled that it had been my task to carry the lilo – a gigantic yellow creation which, to my father’s fury, I invariably managed to puncture. Pa spoke an ersatz French – loud, ill-pronounced and drawling – a source of cringing embarrassment from which Primrose and I had fled whenever possible. Apart from that and the disputes over the lilo, my principal memory was of the hotelier’s two pug dogs, sparky little fellows who answered