The sensation of so deliberately using the video player, the television and their remote control devices - not just sitting in the same room to be sociable while they were used - made my teeth ache.  Our rules concerning such matters take the form of disciplines rather than outright prohibitions, and I did experience a kind of excitement in taking command of this seductive, blackly buttoned technology, however my principal emotion was one of tense, fractious unease, and I grew extremely frustrated when the machines did not seem to obey the remote controls.  I muttered at the machinery and felt like throwing the remote controls across the room.

Suddenly it occurred to me that this must be how Blands feel all the time.  I calmed myself and persevered and before too long everything behaved.  The videotape began to play.

The woman was definitely Morag.  Her voice sounded Euro-American somehow, but I could hear the Scottish accent coming through every now and again.  From what I saw, the video itself had a semblance of a plot but it was patently used merely to provide punctuation for the various unlikely sexual exploits the heroine -Morag, Fusillada - indulged in with both sexes.  As for the video's effect, well, I had a chance as never before to admire my cousin's bounteously sleek physique, and cannot say I was left unmoved by the theatrical but obviously unfaked copulatory shenanigans displayed, though quite why the video's makers thought that it was always necessary to show the men ejaculating each time was a mystery to me; the sight, which I had not witnessed before, hardly seemed to warrant the amount of time devoted to it and made me feel slightly queasy.

Nevertheless, all in all, I admit I felt quite hot and bothered as I sat there, and viewed rather more of the production than strictly required to establish Morag's identity.  I handed back the tape to Boz over breakfast.  He asked did I really know Fusillada DeBauch?  I replied that I did and asked him what he was doing that day.

Soho again.  Suddenly the location we had been sent to the previous day seemed less like a complete red herring.  The revelation that my cousin had - at the very least - a sideline as a worker in the sex industry suddenly made looking for her agent in this area seem quite reasonable, and so we had returned to try again to find Mr Francis Leopold.

Brother Zeb had put his hair into a bushily disorderly ponytail as a disguise; he and Boz - who seemed unduly impressed that Fusillada was my cousin, and, I suspect, hoped we might bump into her - together distracted the large man with the much-be-ringed hands in the foyer of the erotic cinema while I slipped up the stairs between the picture house and the entrance to the Adult Book Shop.  The stairs were narrow and steep.  Three doors led off the landing at the top, which was lit by one grubby, dirt-streaked window whose outlook was anyway largely obscured by the facade advertising the cinema next door.  Round a turn in the landing, another flight of stairs led to the next storey.  I peered at the doors.  Each had a little sign on it:  Kelly Silk, Madame Charlotte, and Eva (S&M).

I ascended to the next floor, where the landing was marginally better lit.  Vixen, Cimmeria, FL Enterprises.  Ah ha!

I knocked on the door.  There was no reply.  After half a minute I tried the handle but the door was locked.  A siren - ever the chorus to the city's songs - sounded somewhere nearby.  I knocked again and rattled the door.

The door to the left, marked Cimmeria, cracked open and a sliver of dark face looked out.  I smiled and tipped my hat.

'Good morning,' I said.

'Yeah?'

'Oh, indeed, it is!' I said, gesturing to the window.  I glanced back at the door to FL Enterprises. 'I'm, ah, looking for Mr Leopold; is this his office?'

'Yeah.'

I could still only see about two inches of the black face looking at me through the gap between door and jamb.  I cleared my throat. 'Ah.  Good.  Only he doesn't seem to be in.'

'Yeah?'

'Do you know when he might be expected to return?'

'No.'

'Oh dear,' I said, and took off my hat, looking dejected.

The one eye of the Negress I could see moved, her gaze taking in my hair, my face and then torso. 'What you want anyway?' she asked, opening the door a fraction wider.

'I'm trying to trace my cousin, Morag Whit… I think she might be better known as, ah, Fusillada DeBauch.'

The single eye widened.  The door closed and it occurred to me that perhaps I had said something wrong.  Well, this wasn't proving too fruitful, I thought, gripping my hat to replace it on my head.  A chain rattled behind Cimmeria's door, and it swung open.  The woman came out onto the landing, glancing around, then stood with her back to her door, her arms crossed.  She was small and very black, with tied-back hair.  She wore a black kimono which looked like silk.  Her head tossed up once, like a horse's.

'What you looking for her for?  You really her cousin?'

'Oh, I'm her cousin, certainly; her mother was my father's sister.  We're from Scotland.'

'Never have guessed.'

'Really?  I thought perhaps my accent would rather give-'

'That was irony, child,' the woman said, looking away for a moment with widened eyes.

'Oh.  I beg your pardon,' I said, blushing.  I felt awkward, but for some reason I trusted this woman.  I decided to trust my instincts. 'Anyway, to answer your first question, I'm looking for Morag because… well, it's complicated, but we - I mean, her family - are concerned about her.'

'Are you now?'

'Yes.  Also,' I hesitated, then sighed. 'May I be frank with you, Miss… Cimmeria?' (She nodded.)

'Well,' I said, fingering the rim of my hat. 'The plain fact is Morag is, or was, a member of our church, back home, and we are concerned that she has lost her faith.  Of most immediate concern is the matter of a festival that we are to hold at the end of the month - a very important festival, one that only takes place every four years.  Cousin Morag was to be our Guest of Honour at that, and now, well, we don't know what to do.  The festival is important, as I say, but her soul is more important, and personally I am worried that my cousin has fallen under the spell of some religious charlatan, and judge that ultimately to be the more important business, but I'm afraid it is the question of her attendance at the festival which presents us with the most immediate predicament.'

Cimmeria looked through narrowed eyes, face turned slightly. 'What church is this?'

'Oh,' I said, 'it's the True Church of Luskentyre; the Luskentyrians, as we're usually known.  I don't expect you've heard of us.  We're a small but active Faith based in Scotland; we have a… oh, I suppose you could call it sort of an ashram, a commune, near Stirling.  We believe in-'

Cimmeria held up one hand. 'Okay, okay,' she said, smiling. 'You people Christians?'

'Strictly speaking, no; we regard Christ as one prophet amongst many and the Bible as one holy book amongst many; we believe there is merit and wisdom to be found in all holy teachings.  We do believe in love and forgiveness and the renunciation of excess materiality and-'

'Fine.  Spare me,' Cimmeria said, holding up her hand again.  She nodded at the door. 'So you're looking for Frank?'

I explained about visiting Morag's old apartment block in Finchley the day before, 'Is Mr Leopold her agent?' I asked.

Cimmeria shrugged. 'Agent, manager; whatever.'

'Phew!' I said, grinning. 'On the right track at last!' I hit my thigh with my hat.  I can be quite shameless.

Cimmeria laughed and pushed her door open. 'Come on in.  You'll have to excuse the mess; this is early for me.'

'I doubt it can match the mess created last night in the squat where I am staying while in London…' I said, accepting her invitation.