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Rupert, predictably, was carmine again. “She did the season, and I saw her now and then after. It’s a bit of too much, actually, Cecil commandeering her. There’s a limit to what you should ask anyone to do; and Victoria never thinks of herself.”
    He stopped. I said, “Is she the only hand on
Seawolf
?” It seemed very Bohemian for these Calvinist parts.
    “Oh, they’ll manage.” Rupert was confident. “She’s Bermudan, and pretty easy to run.”
    “Well, good luck to them,” Hennessy remarked. “I don’t expect her miseries will endure very long. On past form, the boat’ll begin coming to bits when the starting gun fires.”
    “Yes. But you heard what he said.” It was Johnson who chided. “They have plenty of string.”
     
    Dinner at the Royal Highland Cruising Club is a civilised meal, and Johnson and Rupert provided agreeable company. I found I was recognised after all; and at intervals between the soup and the coffee I signed a great many menus.
    The last menu was Johnson’s. I received it, surprised, and opened it ready for autograph. Above the smoked salmon was a quick ballpoint portrait of myself in the Galitzine suit, with the nose shortened just that fraction I have always promised myself. It was ravishing. A perfect likeness. I remarked on it.
    “Yours if you like that sort of thing,“ said Johnson. I thanked him warmly, and we both gazed after the drawing which, lifted by a passing acquaintance, had begun to travel from table to table. It reached Hennessy who, rising, called, “Nice bit of work, Johnson. Care to auction it for my committee on Oxfam?”
    There was a stir of interest, and I concealed my annoyance. It was my drawing. On the other hand, I must think of my public.
    It was auctioned for two hundred guineas, the closing bid being Hennessy’s. His hand, while I signed it for him, rested adhesively on my silk-covered shoulder and he smelled discreetly like the Nice branch of Hermès. He invited me to visit the
Symphonetta
at our first shore-going checkpoint to see the drawing framed in his cabin. The thought of being framed in Mr. Hennessy’s cabin lingered with me through the rest of my dinner.
    Johnson himself seemed quite unaffected by the incident, although he remarked, with some innocent pleasure, that it was the first time he had delineated a lady with her head in the smoked haddock and her bosoms in the cheese. I remembered that he could command two hundred guineas at a time for one thumbnail sketch, and that a finished painting, if as good as that, could be used for publicity for years instead of having my nose shortened. Over the liqueurs, when Rupert had excused himself to complete his work for next day, I said to Johnson, “Now, let’s talk about Johnson.”
    “Let’s,” he said immediately. I have never met anyone with such a nondescript face: except for the hair and the eyebrows it seemed positively manufactured of glass. I tidied my hair, fleetingly, in his bifocals. “I like Bach, whisky, striped underpants, Montego Bay, shooting and Peruvian brandy,” said Johnson. “Also beautiful ladies of character. Hasn’t it occurred to you that they will try to kill you as well, now? Assuming your friend Holmes isn’t the murderer?”
    My
Rigoletto
of last year had brought me a ruby along with the silk from Bangkok, and I had had it made up in the Burlington Arcade: it made an unusual ring. I twisted it. “No, I hadn’t thought of that,” I said slowly; and it was the truth.
    “You’re the only one who could identify him,” said Johnson. “
If
he was the murderer.”
    I let go the ring. “He must have been.” It was too ridiculous. “Look, some tatty little sneak-thief caught raiding a flat and letting fire with a gun isn’t going to have the nerve or the money to hunt down and kill someone who may or may not have seen him. He’s going to be far too damned busy getting out of the country.”
    “Granted. But are we dealing with some tatty little