Having money and being preoccupied by a higher purpose did not mean I was immune to the pressures of the English class system, though. Merely being able to afford a first-class ticket does not entitle you to be in a first-class seat, or at least does not mean you will feel comfortable there. I endured it for half an hour, until we passed Woking, then I stood up and marched down to the scruffier, but altogether more comfortable, depths of second. The English Ruling Classes on holiday are terrifying, not least because they are not on holiday; they go to Cowes (and, I imagine, to Henley and Ascot) with the same steely determination that Grenadiers march into enemy fire. They are on display; they are working; the only work they do, in fact. Looking elegant, saying the right things, being with the right people, is as vital for them as getting my punctuation correct is for me, or connecting up a pipe correctly is for a plumber; except that plumbers and journalists are more forgiving. One slip, and the Ruling Classes are doomed, it seems.

No wonder they talked with such a nervous twitter; no wonder they spent much of their time nervously glancing at their reflection in the window as the drab suburbs of south London drifted past. A family of five; a mother, three daughters (two of marriageable age) and a son, who would have benefited from being put into old clothes and running around the streets throwing stones through windows. Poor child; he was so well behaved it was almost unendurable to be in the same compartment as him.

Now second class was a very different thing, and I spotted two hacks from The Times, feet on the seats, in a compartment filled with smoke. I felt at home and safe and secure the moment I sat down beside them, even though (in the normal course of things) they were not my sort of journalist. Gumble was a war man, so I couldn't really see what he was doing there. Jackson had been crime, but had vanished about six months ago. He seemed almost embarrassed to see me, and it took some time to discover why.

Eventually, after much questioning, he sighed, took out his notebook and handed it over for me to read.

'Whatever be her opinions as to its intrinsic joys, the woman who accepts a yachting invitation must see that she has dresses suitable for the occasion,' I read. I looked up at him, and he grimaced apologetically. 'One of the new designs for Cowes is carried out in nattier blue marquisette over satin. Closely pleated in accordion fashion to give the narrow straight effect in a pleasing manner. An upturned collar of lace and tiny round-cut chemisette . . .'

'You poor fellow!' I exclaimed and he nodded gloomily. 'What on earth did you do?'

'Missed the verdict in the Osborne murder,' he said. 'Six months in fashion to teach me the error of my ways.'

I read on. 'There was a day when serges were the only materials utilised for yachting dresses, but the weather during this week should make it possible to wear linens, tussores, shantungs and foulards . . .'

'I don't even know what it means.'

'Nor do I,' he replied, taking back the notebook and stuffing it into his pocket once more. 'It's all in the dressmakers' handouts. No idea what they're on about at all.'

I turned to Gumble. 'You're not in the doghouse as well, are you?'

'Afraid so. I was in Afghanistan, doing really well, I thought.'

'But there isn't a war in Afghanistan, is there?'

'There's always a war in Afghanistan. Anyway, it's a long story. If you think Jackson's got troubles, what do you think of this?'

He also got out his notebook, and I again read. 'Their Majesties' dinner party included the Crown Prince and Crown Princess of Sweden, the Princess Victoria and Princess Victoria Patricia of Connaught, the Commander-in-Chief at Portsmouth, the Duchess of Teck and Elizabeth, Lady Ravenscliff. This morning they joined their yacht for Divine Service. The Service was conducted by Rear-Admiral Sir Colin Keppel A.D.C. In attendance were . . .'

'Bloody hell,' I said.

'I know. Two years dodging bullets in the Khyber Pass . . .'

'No. I mean Lady Ravenscliff.'

'Why are you interested in her? You're right, of course. Her in mourning. She's such a fixture, I suppose they couldn't do without her. Don't know what is happening to standards. But do I care? I do not.'

'You don't happen to know where she will be in Cowes?'

'Is she going? Very inappropriate. She might well be a guest on the Victoria and Albert, of course.'

My heart sank. I thought that finding her would be simply a matter of going to her hotel and knocking on the door. But if she was half a mile out to sea, on the royal yacht, it was going to be more difficult than I had anticipated.

'Do you know,' he went on, 'I think you're the first person ever to be interested in this rubbish?'

I gave him back his notebook. I hadn't realised she moved in such grand circles. Who would have thought it? 'So you're just going to the Isle of Wight to do this?'

'Ah! No. I hope to write something interesting about the Tsar. If I can only get something, then I win fame and favour. What about you? Didn't I hear that you'd been fired?'

'I resigned. And I am going . . . In fact, that's a bit complicated.'

'Where are you staying?'

I shrugged. 'No idea. I thought I'd book into a hotel . . .'

They looked at each other, then laughed. 'I hope you like sleeping on park benches then,' Jackson said, 'if you can find one unoccupied.'

'I'd not thought of that.'

'You can bunk with us. We're at the George. As long as you have no revolting personal habits . . .'

'None. And thanks.'

'You're welcome. You sleep on the floor and pay half the costs. We get the receipt.'

Fair enough. The Times was more generous than other papers over expenses. The rest of the journey was almost pleasant. I was given a swift grounding in Cowes Week by my two new companions – the only thing left out was anything to do with boats, as The Times that year had decided not to bother sending anyone who knew about racing. Too expensive. They even offered me work as a stringer to take care of some of them – the 65 foot handicap or (better still) the King's Cup. They didn't suppose I wanted to try my hand at Mrs Godfrey Baring's bal masqué, did I? I declined the boats, never having been on one and not having the slightest idea how you would even tell who had won, but astonished them by accepting the ball. If Elizabeth was there, if she was still alive, it was the sort of thing she'd attend.

Cowes was crammed, and the Solent was like Piccadilly Circus on a busy Friday evening. The little ferry which took us and our luggage over from the mainland had to weave its way through hundreds of yachts – big and small, one-masted and three-masted, long and sleek and modern, old and rather run down – as well as what seemed like most of the Royal Navy lying a mile offshore for review. On shore it was even worse; the ferry was so full it looked as though it might sink at any moment, and we were hurled out onto dry land into a crowd of people – women with parasols, arm in arm, men in white ducks and blazers, holidaymakers in boaters, small children, nannies and servants. Jackson led the way to the George, a small hotel next to a printing shop, very expensive and less than luxurious. A small room with three people in it was, apparently, quite luxurious for the time of year and, even though we could scarcely all fit inside, we hoisted our bags onto the beds, then retired to the bar. Three pints of Osborne pale later, we felt quite recovered and ready for battle. I had almost forgotten why I was there. I was no longer afraid. Not for the moment, anyway.

Jackson and Gumble at least knew what they were meant to be doing; Jackson positioned himself to take notes on what the likes of Mrs Algernon Dunwether considered appropriate for her mid-afternoon wear – it seems that the wealthier women were obliged to change clothes up to six times a day, which was why houses close to the centre fetched such a premium – while Gumble wandered off to the offices of the Cowes Gazette to get the daily line-up of what those with titles would be up to all evening.