I, by contrast, was at a loss; I had vaguely imagined I would simply run into Lady Ravenscliff walking along the promenade, but clearly this was not going to be the case. So while I thought it over I strolled up the Esplanade to Egypt House, a large, modern pile of imitation Tudor brickwork that the Barings had taken for the week. This I stared at for a while, then looked out over the Solent to where the Victoria and Albert was anchored, then walked back into the town centre. I asked one of the boatmen from the royal yacht, but he hadn't got a clue who was staying on the bloody ship and who was I to ask anyway.

Frustrating, although I found that a laziness slowly crept upon me even though there was enough on my mind to make me alert and nervous. I had only ever been to the seaside properly a couple of times, Sunday trips to Southend to waste time and money. Even there – not the most elegant of places – I discovered that the motion of the sea had a decided tendency to make me sleepy and stupid; it has always had that effect on me, and still does. Perhaps I had more in common with Ravenscliff than I realised. And so did the beer, of course, and by the time I got back to the George – not really very far – I was as dull as it was possible to be. I forced myself to keep on walking, as I knew that if I lay down I'd fall asleep for hours, and kept on going until I hit water again, an inlet which divides Cowes in two. There is no bridge, just a strange contraption which looks like a floating wooden shed that is pulled this way and that across the water by chains, ferrying passengers from one bank to the other.

I perched myself on a bollard, watching the people – girls and boys in sailor suits, men who worked in the boatyards, women coming over, some from grand houses, others more modest, after their shopping, going home to cook dinner, or have it cooked for them. And then I woke up with a start, and pulled my hat down over my head, hunched my shoulders to avoid being noticed by the man who had walked up the ramp and turned to stare back as the wooden gates – which looked as though they had been borrowed from a farmyard – swung shut.

It was him. There was no mistake, could be none; he was dressed differently, looking now like a bank clerk on holiday, in a dark suit and starched white collar. He had shaved, oiled his hair to look the part. But he still looked like a labourer, could never really pass as English. Still had the immobile features, the lack of expression in his eyes, which glanced around cautiously every moment, rather than staring ahead stupidly as I am sure mine had been until that moment. Jan the Builder took out a cigarette and lit it as the ferry floated off into midstream, but didn't seem to notice anything strange about me.

I did my best not to look too attentive as the ferry stopped on the other side and all the passengers got off, to be replaced once more by new ones. Tried to keep my eyes on him as it came back over and at last I could get on board myself. But it was a waste of time. Ten minutes (and twopence) later, I reached the far bank and he had vanished. I walked quickly up the main road out of town, doubled back down side streets dotted with seaside villas of greater or lesser grandeur, turned left and right for more than an hour, but nothing. If the jolt in my chest when I saw him hadn't been so extreme and painful, I would have concluded it had been a mistake. But it was not. I was sure it was not.

I have read many adventure stories in my time, and many of the problems in them seem to arise from the fact that the main protagonists never think of going straight off to confide in the police when they come upon some dastardly deed. Instead, they keep their information to themselves, and all sorts of trouble results. Of course they always manfully sort everything out in the end; but often I wonder how much easier it would all have been had the authorities been kept properly informed in advance.

Besides, I had no desire to sort it all out myself, manfully or not. So I went back to town and straight to the police station. And there I realised why the strapping heroes of fiction do not spend their precious time on such activities. The authorities, on the whole, are not interested. Had I been reporting a stray dog, or the theft of an umbrella, or the loss of a pocket book, then I have no doubt that Constable Armstrong would have snapped into action as quickly as you like. Instead, he looked at me as though I was the problem, sucked his teeth thoughtfully, and frowned in a manner which suggested very strongly that he considered me to be someone who needed humouring.

'I suppose even anarchists must have holidays,' he said in a jocular fashion. 'Must be hard work, all that overthrowing, and all.'

'This is not a joke.'

'Very well. Tell me what's bothering you.'

And so, I did, but by the time the policeman had realised that I had only heard at secondhand that Jan the Builder was an anarchist revolutionary; didn't know his real name; only heard at secondhand that he had a gun; didn't know for certain he had one on him; only saw him at a considerable distance; had only seen him once before; and couldn't swear that he wasn't on holiday, he began to lose patience.

'We're not going to get martial law declared on the basis of that, are we, sir?' he commented.

I scowled, and stumped out.

CHAPTER 28

'What on earth do you think you're doing dressed up like that?' Jackson asked.

I looked aggrieved. It was past eight o'clock, I hadn't eaten, and I was almost ready to go.

'You asked me to do this ball, didn't you?'

He stared at me, then burst out laughing. 'You're meant to report on it. Not go to it, you idiot. You don't seriously think they'll let you in, do you? You're supposed to stand by the gate and get a list of the guests as they arrive. Not trip the light fantastic with the Duchess of Devonshire.'

'Oh.'

I looked at myself in the mirror. I had been rather proud of my appearance. I was dressed as a fisherman, having rapidly bribed an old man in the port to let me have his oilskins and hat. To this, I had attached lots of flies and bits and bobs of the sort that fishermen use, so I thought. And I had a large wicker basket with a plaster lobster in it which I'd bought from a shop which sold tourist trinkets.

'Besides,' Jackson said scornfully, 'it's a bal masqué, not a fancy-dress party.'

I stared at him; I think he heard me deflating. 'There's a difference?'

'This sort of ball, the men dress as usual. The women wear masks. That's why it's called a masked ball.'

'I have to go,' I said. 'Even if I have to break in. I have to find Lady Ravenscliff.'

'Why?'

'She's . . . It doesn't matter. I need to find her.'

'I doubt you'll find her at a ball. She's meant to be in mourning.'

'She dined with the King.'

'That's different. That is allowed, just. But a ball? It would be a scandal. It's bad enough that she came here at all. If she did.'

'I mean, if everyone's masked . . . She's the sort who would slip in. Someone there will know where she is. I've got to go. Just in case.'

'Not as the representative of The Times, you're not. It's more than my job's worth.'

I must have been looking properly desperate, because he dropped the scornful jocular tone and looked at me shrewdly. 'You're about the same size as Gumble. Take his clothes, then.'

'Won't he need them?'

'Yes.'

He opened the wardrobe door and started pulling out clothes. 'You'd better hurry. He'll be very annoyed when he finds out.'

So an hour later, as the evening was just tipping over into darkness, I was walking up Egypt Hill, a road that led away from the promenade and skirted the gardens of the Baring house. I had thought of trying to talk my way in, but gave up the idea; journalists can do much – get into courtrooms, police stations, people's houses – by sheer brass neck, but gatecrashing a society party, I thought, might need practice. So, drawing on the wisdom of George Short once more – never be direct if you can be devious – I kept an eye on the wall until I came across a place with a suitable tree that had branches hanging down across the stonework. Half a minute later I was in the garden, adjusting my bow tie, dusting down Gumble's suit and walking, more boldly than I felt, up to the house itself.