Chalgrove is rattled now. His itinerary is ruined, and in place of his regular schedule turns the first reel of a surrealistic nightmare. Thank goodness for Broadstairs, who remains unbuffeted. Grave admittedly, but calm.

Broadstairs

Let him go forward. There'll be game.

Chalgrove

We can't leave him to run off all the time like that. He needs to come to heel.

Broadstairs

Not yet. When he points up, then it's flush and fire.

Appleby courses left, trailing his fingers against the stone and brick. Then suddenly right, into a pretty cobbled street. Old barns walled up into cottages. No yards before the short painted doors, just a neat running gutter.

He cocks his head up to listen. A glissando of crimson minims on identical white staves chain the undulating frontages in linking measured intervals. Each one declared under management of Reciprocus.

Broadstairs

All right, I've seen enough. We need to lay up somewhere and figure out what's going on.