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know you were involved. But if they’ve found the body, they wouldn’t do this. Neither would Kenneth. And apart from the police and Kenneth, the only person who could connect either of us with Chigwell’s body is—”
    “The murderer,” said Johnson. He was silent, his hands quiet on the wood. “Not the nicest of thoughts, is it? We had him saving his skin, or else intent on pursuing your friend Dr Holmes. It seems he’s not doing either. He’s following you.”
    “Could he be on board?” I asked. It was a sensible question. I tried to sound sensible asking it.
    “No,” said Johnson. “There’s no doubt about that. But it would have been easy to put the hanger aboard while we were sitting in the thick of the traffic at Rhu. It’s been there all day, I expect, but you haven’t noticed it. Probably Lenny picked it up and shoved it onto your bunk, thinking it yours . . . That’s how it was done. Why it was done is another matter. I think—” he hesitated.
    “What?” Now we had facts, or near possibilities, I felt suddenly better. Dead men cannot swim.
    “I think you should go back and get police protection. Hang the scandal. A two-day tabloid headline is better than losing your life.”
    “No.”
    “Look,” said Johnson patiently. “I’m sure your friend Holmes would be the first to agree. After all, he’s none too safe either, is he? I should think the chief of security would do his nut if he thought Holmes’ life was in danger.”
    “No,” I repeated. “You say the man who planted the hanger isn’t on Dolly. Right. That’s more than you can say of any piece of ground in this kingdom. I’m staying on Dolly.”
    It looked pig-headed, no doubt. Almost I confessed about my plan to meet Kenneth on Rum. But not quite. Not yet. Not until I knew from Kenneth what had been happening. For Johnson or no Johnson, the kind of work Kenneth was doing was no topic for loose conversation. There were research laboratories on Rum: Nature Conservancy laboratories, pursuing all kinds of eclectic problems to do with ecology and red deer.
    There were other laboratories, too. And in South Rona, not far to the north, was the base of the atomic submarine Lysander, just now undergoing some of her instrument trials. If Kenneth was on Rum, he was not there for tagging red deer.
    There was a long silence. Then, unexpectedly, Johnson said: “Right. What you need is a stiff whisky. Give me five minutes to check course and you shall have it. Next, tonight we’re due in at Ardrishaig, and just north of Ardrishaig is Lochgair where friends of mine have a bloody great liner called Evergreen, with the most powerful radio receiver on the west coast of Scotland. After we check in, I’ll motor Dolly up to Lochgair and we’ll telephone everyone we can think of for news of any scandals in Rose Street. For all we know, by this time, the police might have found the body and murderer both. In any case, you won’t set foot ashore, and you ought to be safe. Done?”
    “Done,” I agreed. A surprising man, Johnson. It took a bit of believing that he could paint too, as well as all this.
    I am a stubborn woman: Have been all my life. Someone was trying to frighten me. Someone, too, was doing his level best to prevent me from connecting with Kenneth. The someone didn’t know Tina Rossi; that was all.

 
     
FIVE
    We arrived at Ardrishaig at night, after a brisk sail during which we had no contact with the outside world whatever. There, Rupert checked in; discovered to his alarm that both Symphonetta and Binkie had arrived ahead of us on corrected as well as actual time, and came aboard having sunk, I should judge, about four double whiskies. Then Lenny started the engine and we swung away from the yellow street lamps, the flashing light and dark strip of the breakwater, and the red and green lights of other yachts like ourselves, moving slowly about waiting to enter the sea lock and find a berth in the basin of the Crinan Canal for