The Skull Beneath The Skin

CHAPTER EIGHT

Victorian Speymouth, which to the surprise of its citizens had converted its street lamps to gas without explosion or other disaster, had seen no reason to reject the new railway or, while accepting its inevitability, to banish it as had Cambridge to an inconvenient distance from the town. The charming little stadon was.only a quarter of a mile from the statue of Queen Victoria which marks the centre of the promenade and when Cordelia stepped out into the sunlight, bag in one hand and portable typewriter in the other, she found herself gazing down over a jumble of brightly painted houses to a stone-enclosed harbour, tiny as a pool, and beyond it to the stunted pier and the shimmering sea. She was almost sorry to leave the station. With its gleaming white paint and its curved roof of wrought iron, delicate as lace, it reminded her of the summer issues of her weekly childhood comic where the sea had been always blue, the sand a bright yellow, the sun a golden ball and the railway a highly coloured toy-town welcome to these imagined joys. Mrs Wilkes, the poorest of all her foster mothers, had been the only one to buy her a comic, the only one whom Cordelia remembered with affection. Perhaps it was a happy augury that she should think of her now.

There was already a small queue waiting for the taxis but she saw no reason to join it. The road was downhill and the quay clearly in sight. She stepped out, almost oblivious of the weight of her luggage in the pleasure of the day. The little town was bathed in sunshine and the rows of Georgian terraced houses, simple, unpretentious and dignified with elegant facades and wrought-iron balconies looked as charmingly artificial and as brightly lit as a stage-set. In the bay the grey shape of a small warship rested stiffly immobile as a child's cut-out toy. She could almost imagine putting out her hand and plucking it from the water. As she made her way down a steep, cobbled street, terraces of fawn, pink and blue houses curved upwards towards a glimpse of distant hills, while below the brightly painted statue of Queen Victoria, majestically robed, pointed her sceptre imperiously towards the public lavatories.

And everywhere there were people, jostling on the pavements, spilling from the Esplanade on to the beach, laid in sunburned rows on the gritty sand, lumped in sagging deck-chairs, queuing at the ice-cream kiosk, peering from the windows of the cars in search of a parking place. She wondered where they had all come from on this mid-September weekday when the holiday season was surely over, the children back at school. Were they all truants from work or schoolroom, drawn out from autumn's hibernation by this resurgence of summer, with their mottled red faces above white necks, their glistening chests and arms, recently covered against September's chills, revealing again the unlovely evidence of harsher suns? The day itself smelt of high summer, of seaweed, hot bodies and blistering paint.

The busy little harbour was a confusion of rocking dinghies and furled sails but the launch with Shearwater painted on its bow was soon identified. It was about thirty feet long with a central, low-roofed cabin and a slatted seat in the stern. One wizened seaman seemed to be in charge. He was squatting on a bollard, his thin legs clamped, wearing seaboots and a blue jumper with Courcy Island emblazoned across the chest. He looked so like Popeye that Cordelia suspected that the pipe, which he slowly took from his apparently toothless gums on seeing her approach, was sucked for effect rather than solace. He touched his hat and grinned when she gave her name but didn't speak. Taking the typewriter and her bag he stowed them in the cabin, then turned to offer her his hand. But Cordelia had already jumped on board and had seated herself in the rear. He resumed his seat on the bollard and, together, they waited.

Three minutes later a taxi drew up at the mouth of the quay and a boy and a woman got out. The woman paid the fare – not, it seemed, without some argument – while the boy stood uneasily to one side, then loitered to the edge of the quay to stare down at the water. She joined him and they moved together to the launch, he a little behind her like a reluctant child. This, thought Cordelia, must be Roma Lisle with Simon Lessing in tow, neither apparently pleased with the chance that had forced them into sharing a taxi. Cordelia observed her as she allowed herself to be handed aboard. Superficially, she had nothing in common with her cousin except the shape of the lower lip. She too was fair, but it was an ordinary Anglo-Saxon blondness in which the strong sun already revealed the glint of grey. Her hair was short and expensively shaped to her head. She was taller than her cousin and moved with a certain assurance. But her face, with its lines scored across the forehead and from nose to mouth, had a look of brooding discontent and there was no peace in the eyes. She was dressed in an extremely well-tailored fawn trouser-suit with blue braid facing the collar and a high-necked sweater striped in fawn and pale blue, an outfit which seemed to Cordelia to combine superficial suitability for a holiday weekend with an inappropriate smartness, perhaps because she was wearing it with high-heeled shoes which made the descent into the launch less than graceful. The colour, too, was unflattering to her skin. It was impossible not to recognize that here was a woman who cared about clothes without having any clear idea what suited either her or the occasion. About the young man there was less chance to make a judgement, sartorial or otherwise. He glimpsed Cordelia in the stern, blushed and scuttled into the cabin with an alacrity which suggested that he was unlikely to add to the gaiety of the weekend. Miss Lisle seated herself in the bow while the boatman again took his seat on the bollard. They waited in silence while the launch gently rocked against the fender of old tyres slung against the stones of the quay and small boats gently edged past them on the way to the open sea. After a few minutes Miss Lisle called out:

'Oughtn't we to be moving off? We're expected for lunch.'

'One more acomin'. Mr Whittingham.'

'Well, he couldn't have been on the nine thirty-three. He'd have been here by now. And I didn't recognize him at the station. Perhaps he's driving down and has got delayed.'

'Mr Ambrose said he'd be acomin' by train. Said to wait for him.'

Miss Lisle frowned and gazed fixedly out to sea. Two more minutes passed. Then the boatman called out:

'Here he be. He's acomin' now. That'll be Mr Whittingham.' The triple assurance given he rose, and began making ready to move off. Cordelia looked up and saw through a distorting dazzle of sun what seemed at first like a death's head on stilts jerking across the quay towards her, its skeleton fingers grasping a canvas

holdall. She blinked and the picture composed itself, moved into focus, became human. The skull clothed itself in flesh, stretched and grey over the fineness of the bones, but still human flesh. The sockets moistened into eyes, keen and a little amused. The figure was still the thinnest and most desperately sick man she had ever seen moving on his own feet but the voice was firm, and the words were easy and comfortable.

'Sorry to hold you up. I'm Ivo Whittingham. The quay looked deceptively close. And having started walking I couldn't, of course, find a taxi.'

He brushed aside Oldfield's proffered arm, but without impatience, and lowered himself into a seat in the bow, wedging his bag between his legs. No one spoke. The final end of rope spilled free from the bollard and was wound aboard. The engine shuddered into life. Almost imperceptibly the launch crept away from the quay and made for the harbour mouth.

Ten minutes later they seemed no closer to the island towards which crabwise they were edging, although the shore was visibly receding. The fishermen on the end of the pier shrank into match-stalk men with fairy wands, the bustle of the town was swallowed up in the noise of the engine and finally shaken off, the royal statue became a coloured blur. The horizon was a pale purple curdling into low clouds from which there separated great islands of creamy whiteness which rose to float almost motionless against a clear azure blue. The small waves seemed to be leaping with light, absorbing it from the bright air and reflecting it back to the paler blue of the sky. Cordelia thought that the sea and the distant shore were like a Monet painting, bright colour laid in streaks against bright colour, light itself made visible. She leaned over the edge of the boat and plunged her arm into the leaping wake. The cold made her gasp, but she held her arm under the water, spreading her fingers so that three small wakes spouted into the sunlight, watching the hairs on her forearm catch and hold the shining drops. Suddenly her mood was broken by a woman's voice. Roma Lisle had made her way round the cabin and come up beside her. She said:

'It's typical of Ambrose Gorringe just to send Oldfield and leave his guests to introduce themselves. I'm Roma Lisle, Clarissa's cousin.' They shook hands. Her fingers were firm and pleasantly cool. Cordelia gave her name. She said:

'But I'm not a guest. I'm going to the island to work.'

Miss Lisle's glance went to the typewriter. She said:

'Good Lord, Ambrose isn't writing another blockbuster is he?'

'Not as far as I know. I'm employed by Lady Ralston.' It might, thought Cordelia, have been more accurate to say that she was employed by Sir George but she sensed that this might only lead to complications. But sooner or later some explanation of her presence would have to be given. It might as well be now. She prepared for the inevitable questions.

'By Clarissa! Doing what, for God's sake?'

'Dealing with her correspondence. Making telephone calls. Generally easing things along while she concentrates on the play.'

'She's got Tolly to ease things along. What does she think of this – Tolly I mean?'

'I haven't the least idea. I haven't met her yet.'

'I can't see her liking it.' She gave Cordelia a look in which suspicion mingled with puzzlement.

'I've read of those stage-struck oddballs, without talent themselves, who try to buy themselves into the club by attaching themselves to one of their idols, cooking, shopping, running errands, acting as a kind of poodle. They either die of overwork or end up with nervous breakdowns. You're not one of that pathetic breed are you? No, I can see that you aren't. But don't you find your job well… odd?'

'What do you do? And is your job any less odd?'

'I'm sorry. I was being offensive. Put it down to the fact that I'm a failed schoolteacher. At present I work in a bookshop. It may sound pretty orthodox but I assure you it has its moments. You'd better meet Clarissa's stepson. Simon Lessing. He's probably nearer your age than anyone else on this benighted weekend.'

Hearing his name, the boy came out of the cabin and blinked in the sun. Perhaps, thought Cordelia, he preferred a voluntary appearance to being dragged out by Miss Lisle. He held out his hand and she shook it, surprised that his clasp should be so firm. They murmured a conventional greeting. He was better looking

than a first glimpse had suggested, with a long, sensitive face and widely spaced grey eyes. But his skin was pitted with the scars of old acne with a fresh outcrop along the forehead, and his mouth was weak. Cordelia knew that with her wide brow, high cheekbones and cat-like face she looked younger than her age but she couldn't imagine any time when she wouldn't have felt older than this shy boy.

And then there was a fresh voice. The last passenger was making his way astern to join them. He said:

'When the Prince of Wales came to Courcy Island in the eighteen nineties, puffing across the bay in a steam launch, old Gorringe used to have his private band waiting on the quay to play him ashore. They were dressed, for some reason not recorded, in Tyrolese costume. Do you suppose that Ambrose's love affair with the past extends to laying on a similar welcome for us?'

But before anyone had a chance to respond, the launch had turned the eastern edge of the island and the castle itself came suddenly into sight.

CHAPTER NINE

Although Cordelia wasn't aware that she had consciously thought about the architecture of Courcy Castle, it had, nevertheless, formed itself in her mind as a grey-stoned, massive, crenellated sham, over-ornate in its Victorian solidity, an unsatisfactory compromise between domesticity and grandeur. The reality, suddenly presented to her in the clarity of the morning sunlight, made her catch her breath with wonder. It stood on the edge of the sea, almost as if it had risen from the waves, a castle of rose-red brick, its only stonework the pale, flush lines and the tall, curved windows which now coruscated in the sun. To the west soared a slender round tower topped with a cupola, solid yet ethereal. Every detail of the matt-surfaced walls, the patterned buttresses and the battlements was distinct, unfussy, confident. The whole was compact, even massive, yet the high sloping roofs and the slender tower gave an impression of lightness and repose which she hadn't associated with high Victorian architecture. The southern facade overlooked a wide terrace – surely wave-swept in winter – from which two flights of steps led down to a narrow beach of sand and shingle. The proportions of the castle seemed to her exactly right for its site. Larger and it could have looked pretentious; smaller and there would have been a suggestion of facile charm. But this building, compromise though it might be between castle and family house, seemed to her brilliantly successful. She almost laughed aloud at the pleasure of it.

She was unaware that Ivo Whittingham had come up beside her until he spoke.

'This is your first visit, isn't it? What do you think of it?'

'It's remarkable. And unexpected.'

'You're interested in Victorian architecture?'

'Interested, but not at all knowledgeable.'

'I shouldn't tell Ambrose that. He'll devote the whole weekend to educating you in his passions and prejudices. I've done my homework so I'll forestall him by telling you now that the architect was E. W. Godwin who worked for Whistler and Oscar Wilde and was associated with the aesthetes. What he aimed for – so he tells us – was the careful adjustment of solids and voids. Well, he's achieved that here. He did some perfectly awful town halls including one at Northampton – not that Ambrose would admit to its awfulness – but I think that he and I will agree about this achievement. Are you taking part in the play?'

'No, I'm here to work. I'm Miss Lisle's secretary, her temporary secretary.'

His quick glance was surprised. Then his lips curved in a smile. 'So I should imagine. Clarissa's relationships tend to be temporary.'

Cordelia said quickly:

'Do you know anything about the play? I mean, which company is acting in it?'

'Didn't Clarissa explain? They're the Cottringham Players, said to be the oldest amateur company in England. They were started in 1834 by the then Sir Charles Cottringham, and the family have more or less kept them going ever since. The Cottringhams have been mad about acting for over three generations, their enthusiasm invariably in inverse proportion to their talent. The present Charles Cottringham is playing Antonio. His great-grandfather used to take part in the revels here until he was imprudent enough to cast a lascivious eye on Lillie Langtry. The Prince of Wales made his displeasure known, and no Cottringham has spent the night under the castle roof ever since. It's a convenient tradition for Ambrose. He need only entertain the leading lady and a few private guests. Judith Cottringham has a house party for the producer and the rest of the cast. They'll all come over tomorrow by launch.'

'Where did they act before Mr Gorringe offered the castle?'

'It was offered, I imagine, by Clarissa rather than by Gorringe. They gave an annual performance in the old assembly rooms at Speymouth, an occasion more social than cultural. But tomorrow shouldn't be too discouraging. A Speymouth butcher, appropriately enough, is playing Bosola and he's reputed to be good. Ferdinand is taken by Cottringham's agent. Hardly Gielgud; but Clarissa tells me that he knows how to speak verse.'

The sound of the engine died to a gentle shudder and the launch slowly edged towards the jetty. The stone quay curved from the terrace in two arms to form a miniature harbour. At intervals, steep steps festooned with seaweed led down to the water. At the end of the eastern, longer arm was a charming folly, a circular bandstand of delicate wrought iron, painted white and pale blue with slender pillars supporting a curved canopy. Beneath this stood the welcoming party, a group of two men and two women, as immobile and carefully positioned as a tableau. Clarissa Lisle was a little to the front, her host attendant at her left shoulder. Behind them, waiting with the impassive, careful non-involvement of servants, stood a dark-clad man and woman, the man out-topping the group in height.

But the dominant figure was Clarissa Lisle. The immediate impression, whether by chance or design, was of a goddess of classical mythology with her attendants. As the launch drew alongside the quay Cordelia saw that she was wearing what looked like shorts and a sleeveless top in closely pleated cream muslin with, over it, a loose-fitting, almost transparent shift in the same material, wide-sleeved and corded at the waist. Beside this deceptively simple, cool flowing elegance Roma Lisle in her trouser-suit seemed to exude a sweaty and eye-dazzling discomfort.

The waiting group, as if under instruction, held their poses until the launch gently bumped the landing steps. Then Clarissa fluted a small cry of welcome, spread batwings of fluttering cotton and ran forward. The pattern was broken.

During the chatter which followed the formal introductions and while Ambrose Gorringe was supervising the unloading of luggage and the humping ashore of boxes of supplies from a locker in the stern, Cordelia studied her host. Ambrose Gorringe was of middle height with smooth black hair and delicate hands and feet. He gave an impression of spry plumpness, not because he carried excess fat but because of the feminine softness and roundness of his arms and face. His skin gleamed pink and white, the circular flush on each cheekbone looked almost artificial. His eyes were his most striking feature. They were large and sparkling bright as black, sea-washed pebbles, the surrounding whites clear and translucent. Above them the brows curved in a strong arch as tidily as if they had been plucked. The ends of the mouth curved upwards in a fixed smile so that the whole face held the shining humorous animation of a man enjoying a perpetual internal joke. He was wearing brown cotton trousers and a black short-sleeved singlet. Both were highly suitable for the weather and the occasion, yet to Cordelia they seemed incongruous. Something more formal was needed to. define and control the latent strength of what she guessed was a complex and, perhaps, a formidable personality.

In his way the manservant, now supervising the loading of the luggage and crates of supplies on to a small motorized truck, was equally remarkable. He must, thought Cordelia, be well over six feet in height and with his dark suit and heavy white lugubrious face had the spurious gloom of a Victorian undertaker's mute. His long, rather pointed head sloped to a high and shiny forehead topped with a wig of coarse black hair, which made absolutely no pretensions to realism. It was parted in the middle and had been inexpertly hacked rather than trimmed. Cordelia thought that such a bizarre appearance could hardly be inadvertent and she wondered what perversity or secret compulsion had led him to contrive and present to his world a persona so uncompromisingly eccentric. Could it be revulsion against the tedium, the conformity or the deference demanded of his job? It seemed unlikely. Servants who found their duties frustrating or uncongenial nowadays had a simple remedy. They could always leave.

Intrigued by the man's appearance she scarcely noticed his wife; a short, round-faced woman who stood always at her husband's side and didn't speak during the whole course of the disembarkation.

Clarissa Lisle had taken absolutely no notice of her since their arrival but Ambrose Gorringe came forward, smiled and said:

'You must be Miss Gray. Welcome to Courcy Island. Mrs Munter will look after you. We've put you next to Miss Lisle.' Cordelia waited until the Munters had finished unloading the launch. As the three of them walked together behind the main party, Munter handed his wife a small canvas bag with the words:

'Not much post this morning. The parcel from the London Library hasn't come. That means Mr Gorringe probably won't get his books until Monday.'

The woman spoke for the first time. 'He'll have plenty to do this weekend without new library books.'

At that moment Ambrose Gorringe turned and called to Munter. The man moved forward, changing his quick steps to a stately unhurried walk which was probably part of his act. As soon as he was out of earshot Cordelia said:

'If there's any post for Miss Lisle it comes first to me. I'm her new secretary. And I'll take any telephone calls for her. Perhaps I'd better take a look at the post. We're expecting a letter.'

Rather to her surprise, Mrs Munter handed over the bag without demur. There were only eight letters in all, held together in a rubber band. Two were for Clarissa Lisle. One, in a stout envelope, was obviously an invitation to a dress show. The name, but not the address, of the prestigious designer, was engraved on the flap. The second, an ordinary white envelope, was addressed in typing to:

The Duchess of Malfi, c/o Miss Clarissa Lisle, Courcy Island, Speymouth, Dorset

She walked a few steps ahead. She knew that it would be wise to wait until she reached the privacy of her room, but restraint was impossible. Controlling her excitement and curiosity she slipped her finger under the flap. It was loosely gummed and came apart easily. She guessed the communication would be short and it was. Inside, on a small sheet of the same paper was a neatly drawn skull and crossbones and typed underneath just two lines which she instinctively knew rather than recognized were from the play.

Call upon our dame aloud,

And bid her quickly don her shroud!

She put the message back into the envelope and slipped it quickly into her jacket pocket, then lingered until Mrs Munter had caught up with her.

Cordelia saw that the main rooms opened on to the terrace with a wide view of the Channel, but that the entrance to the castle was on the sheltered eastern side away from the sea. They passed through a stone archway which led to a formal walled garden, then turned down a wide path between lawns and finally through a high arched porch and into the great hall. Pausing at the doorway, Cordelia could picture those first nineteenth-century guests, the crinolined ladies with their furled parasols, followed by their maids, the leather, round-topped trunks, the hatboxes and gun-cases, the distant beat of the welcoming band as that heavy Germanic prince carried his imposing paunch before him under Mr Gorringe's privileged portals. But then the great hall would have been ostentatiously over-furnished, a lush repository of sofas, chairs and occasional tables, rich carpets and huge pots of palms. Here the house party would congregate at the end of the day before slowly processing in strict hierarchical order through the double doors to the dining-room. Now the hall was furnished only with a long refectory table and two chairs, one on each side of the stone fireplace. On the opposite wall was a six-foot tapestry which she thought was almost certainly by William Morris; Flora, rose-crowned with her maidens, her feet shining among the lilies and the hollyhocks. A wide staircase, branching to left and right, led to a gallery which ran round three sides of the hall. The eastern wall was almost entirely taken up by a stained-glass window showing the travels of Ulysses. Motes of coloured light danced in the air, giving the great hall something of the quiet solemnity of a church. She followed Mrs Munter up the staircase.

The main bedrooms opened out of the gallery. The room into which Cordelia was shown was charming with a lightness and delicacy which she hadn't expected. The two windows, high and curved, had curtains of a lily-patterned chintz which was used also for the bed-cover and the fitted cushion of the mahogany cane-backed bedside chair. The simple stone fireplace had a panelled frieze of six-inch tiles, their patterns of flowers and foliage echoed in the larger tiles, which surrounded the grate. Above the bed was a row of delicate watercolours, iris, wild strawberry, tulip and lily. This, she thought, must be the De Morgan room of which Miss Maudsley had spoken. She glanced round with pleasure and Mrs Munter, noting her interest, assumed the role of guide. But she recited the information without enthusiasm, as if she had learned the facts by rote.

'The furniture here is not as old as the castle, Miss. The bed and chair were designed by A. H. Mackmurdo in 1882. The tiles here and in the bathroom are by William De Morgan. Most of the tiles in the castle are by him. The original Mr Herbert Gorringe, who rebuilt the castle in the eighteen sixties, saw a house that he'd done in Kensington and had all the original tiles here ripped out and replaced by De Morgan. That mahogany and pine cabinet was painted by William Morris and the paintings are by John Ruskin. What time would you like your early tea, Miss?'

'At half-past seven, please.'

After she had left, Cordelia went through to the bathroom. Both rooms faced west and any broad view of the island was blocked by the tower which rose immediately to her right, a phallic symbol in patterned brick, soaring to pierce the blue of the sky. Gazing up at its smooth roundness she felt her head swim and the tower itself reeled dizzily in the sun. To her left she could just glimpse the end of the southern terrace and, beyond it, a wide sweep of sea. Beneath the bathroom window a wrought-iron fire escape led down to the rocks, from which, presumably, it was possible to reach the terrace. Even so, the escape route seemed to her precarious. In a high storm one would surely feel trapped between fire and sea.

Cordelia had started to unpack when the communicating door between her room and the adjoining one opened and Clarissa Lisle appeared.

'Oh, here you are. Come next door, will you? Tolly will see to your unpacking for you.'

'Thank you, but I'd rather do my own.'

Apart from the fact that the few clothes she had brought could be hung up in minutes and she preferred to do these things for herself, Cordelia had no intention of letting other eyes see the scene-of-crime kit. She had already noticed with relief that the bottom drawer of the cabinet had a key.

She followed Clarissa into her bedroom. It was twice as large as her own and very different in style; here opulence and extravagance replaced lightness and simplicity. The room was dominated by the bed, a mahogany half-tester with canopy, cover and side curtains of crimson damask. The head and footboard were elaborately carved with cherubs and swags of flowers, the whole surmounted by a countess's coronet. Cordelia wondered whether the original owner, thrusting his way upwards through the Victorian social hierarchy, had commissioned it to honour a particularly important guest. On either side of the bed was a small, bow-fronted chest and across its foot a carved and buttoned chaise longue. The dressing-table was set between the two tall windows from which, between the looped curtains, Cordelia saw only an expanse of blue, untroubled sea. Two ponderous wardrobes covered the opposite wall. There were low chairs and a screen of Berlin woolwork before the marble fireplace in which a small pile of sticks had already been laid. Ambrose Gorringe's chief guest was to have the luxury of a real fire. She wondered whether some housemaid would creep in in the early hours to light it, as had her Victorian counterpart when the long-dead countess stirred in her magnificent bed.

The room was very untidy. Clothes, wraps, tissue paper and plastic bags were flung across the chaise longue and the bed, and the top of the dressing-table was a jumble of bottles and jars. A woman was walking about, calmly and uncensoriously gathering up the clothes over her arm. Clarissa Lisle said:

'This is my dresser, Miss Tolgarth. Tolly, meet Miss Cordelia Gray. She's come to help with my correspondence. Just an experiment. She won't be in anyone's way. If she wants anything done, look after her, will you?'

It wasn't, thought Cordelia, an auspicious introduction. The woman neither smiled nor spoke, but Cordelia didn't feel that the steady gaze which met her own held any resentment. It didn't even hold curiosity. She was a heavily busted, rather sturdy woman with a face that looked older than her body, and with remarkably elegant legs. Their shape was enhanced by very fine stockings and high-heeled court shoes, an incongruous touch of vanity which emphasized the plainness of the high-necked black dress, its only ornament a gold cross on a chain. Her dark hair, parted in the middle and drawn back into a bun at the nape of the neck, was already streaked with grey and there were lines deep as clefts across the forehead and at the ends of the long mouth. It was a strong, secretive face not, Cordelia thought, the face of a woman willingly subservient. When she had disappeared into the bathroom, Clarissa said:

'I suppose we'll have to talk, but it can't be now. Munter has set lunch in the dining-room. It's ridiculous on a day like this. We ought to be in the sun. I've told him that we shall eat on the terrace, but that means he'll see that we don't get it until one thirty so we may as well make a quick tour of the castle. Is your room comfortable?'

'Very, thank you.'

'I suppose I'd better give you some letters to type just to allay suspicion. There are one or two that need answering. You may as well do some work while you're here. You can type, I suppose?'

'Yes, I can type. But that's not why I'm here.'

'I know why you're here. I was the one who wanted you. And I still want you. But we'll talk about that tonight. There won't be a chance until then. Charles Cottringham and the other principals are coming across after lunch for a run-through of one or two scenes and they won't be gone until after tea. You've met my stepson haven't you, Simon Lessing?' 'Yes, we were introduced on the boat.'

'Find him, will you, and tell him there's time for him to have a swim before lunch. There's no point in his trailing round the castle with us. You'll probably find him hiding in his room. It's two down from your own.'

Cordelia thought that the message could more suitably have come from Clarissa. But she reminded herself that she was supposed to be a secretary-companion, whatever that meant, and that the job probably included running errands. She knocked on Simon's door. He didn't call out but, after what seemed an inordinate delay, the door slowly opened and his apprehensive face appeared. He blushed when he saw who it was. She gave him Clarissa's message, suitably edited, and he managed a smile and a whispered, 'Thank you' before quickly closing the door. Cordelia felt rather sorry for him. It couldn't be altogether easy, having Clarissa as a stepmother. She wasn't sure that it would be any easier having her as a client. For the first time she felt some of her euphoria drain away. The castle and the island were even lovelier than she had pictured. The weather was glorious and no change threatened in this balmy resurgence of summer. It promised to be a weekend of comfort, even of luxury. And, above all, the envelope in her pocket confirmed that the job was real, that she would pit her brain and her wits against a human adversary at last. Why then should she have to struggle against a sudden and overwhelming conviction that her task was doomed to disaster?

CHAPTER TEN

'And now,' announced Clarissa leading the way down the staircase and across the great hall, 'we'll end with a visit to Ambrose's private Chamber of Horrors.'

The tour of the castle had been hurried and incomplete. Cordelia sensed that the sun-warmed terrace beckoned and that the thoughts of the party were less on Ambrose's treasures than on their pre-luncheon sherry. But there were treasures, and she promised herself that if she had the chance she would enjoy later and at leisure what was a small but comprehensive museum of the artistic achievements and spirit of Victoria's long reign. The tour had been too rushed. Her mind was a confusion of form and colour; porcelain, pictures, glass and silver jostled for place: pottery exhibited at the Great Exhibition of 1851, jasper, Grecian ware, terracotta, majolica; cabinets of painted Wedgwood dishes and delicate pâte-sur-pâte made by M.L Solon for Minton; part of a Coalport dinner-service presented by Queen Victoria to the Emperor of Russia and decorated with English and Russian Orders surrounding the Russian royal crown and eagles.

Clarissa had floated on ahead waving her arms and producing a stream of doubtfully accurate information. Ivo had lingered when he was allowed to and had said little. Roma stumped behind them with an expression of careful uninterest and from time to time made an acid comment about the misery and exploitation of the poor represented by these glittering monuments to wealth and privilege. Cordelia felt some sympathy with her. Sister Magdalen, who had taught nineteenth-century history at the Convent, hadn't shared the views of some of the sisters that since the pleasures of the world were to be rejected so might some of its vicarious sorrows, and had attempted to instil a social sense into her privileged pupils. Cordelia couldn't see a picture of that pudding-faced matriarch with her plain, discontented-looking children around her without seeing also the wan, aching-eyed seamstresses working their eighteen-hour day, the factory children half-asleep at their looms, the bobbin lace-makers bent double over their cushions, and the steaming tenements of the East End.

Cordelia had found more to interest her than to admire in Ambrose's collection of pictures. Everything that she most disliked in high Victorian art was here, the strained eroticism, the careful naturalism which had nothing to do with nature, the vapid anecdotal pictures and the debased religiosity. But he did have a Sickert and a Whistler. As they passed along the gallery Roma said to her:

'There's a William Dyce in my room called "The Shell Gatherers". Not badly painted, rather good, in fact. A crinolined group of ladies examining their finds on a Kentish beach. But what's the reality? A group of over-fed, over-clad, bored and sexually frustrated upper-class females with nothing to do with their time but collect shells to make their useless shell-boxes, paint insipid water-colours, entertain the gentlemen after dinner at the pianoforte, and wait for a man to give status and purpose to their lives.'

It was while she and Roma were standing in front of a Holman Hunt, neither of them finding anything to say, that Ambrose had come up to them.

'Not perhaps one of his best. The Victorians may have got their money from the dark satanic mills but they had a passionate craving for beauty. It was their tragedy that, unlike us, they understood only too well how far they fell short of achieving it.'

The tour was now almost at an end. Clarissa led them down a tiled passageway to Ambrose's business room. Here, apparently, was the promised Chamber of Horrors.

It was a smaller room than most in the castle and looked out over the lawn which faced the eastern entrance. One wall was hung with a framed collection of Victorian popular gallows literature, the crudely printed and illustrated broadsheets which were sold to the mob after a notable trial or execution. Roma seemed particularly interested in them. Murderers, looking remarkably slim and elegant in their breeches, sat penning their last confessions under the high-barred window of the condemned cell, listened in the chapel at Newgate to their last sermons with their coffins placed at hand, or dropped from the rope end as the robed Chaplain stood, his book in hand. Cordelia disliked the pictures of hanging and moved to join Ambrose and Ivo who were examining a wall shelf of Staffordshire figures. Ambrose identified his favourites.

'Meet my notorious murderers and murderesses. That pair are the infamous Maria and Frederick Manning, hanged in November 1847 in front of Horsemongers Lane Gaol before a riotous crowd of fifty thousand. Charles Dickens saw the execution and he wrote afterwards that the behaviour of the crowd was so indescribable that he thought he was living in a city of devils… Maria wore black satin for her part in the entertainment, a choice which did absolutely nothing for its subsequent fashionable appeal. The gentleman appropriately clad in a shooting-jacket is William Corder aiming his pistol at poor Maria Marten. Notice the Red Barn in the background. He might have got away with it if her mother hadn't repeatedly dreamed that her daughter's body was buried there. He was hanged at Bury St Edmunds in 1828, also in front of a large and appreciative audience. The lady next to him in the bonnet and carrying a black bag is Kate Webster. The bag contains the head of her mistress whom she beat to death, cut into pieces and boiled in the kitchen boiler. She is said to have gone round the local shops offering cheap dripping for sale. She was turned off, as they used to say, in July 1879.'

Leaving the business room, they paused at two elegant rosewood display cases which stood one each side of the door. The left-hand one contained a clutter of small objects Which were all neatly labelled; a doll and a solitaire set with small coloured marbles, both of which had belonged to the Queen as a child; a fan, early Christmas cards, scent bottles in crystal, silver gilt and enamel, and a collection of small silver objects, waist hook, chatelaine, prayer-book and posy-holder. But it was the right-hand case which drew their eyes. Here were less agreeable mementoes, an extension of Ambrose's museum of crime. He explained:

That tag end of rope is part of the executioner's rope which hanged Dr Thomas Neill Cream, the Lambeth poisoner, in November 1892. The stained linen nightdress with the broderie anglaise frills was worn by Constance Kent. It's not the nightdress she had on when she slit the throat of her small stepbrother but it has a certain interest all the same. That pair of handcuffs with the key were used on young Courvoisier who murdered his master, Lord William Russell, in 1840. The spectacles are a pair which belonged to Dr Crippen. As he was hanged in November 1910 he's really nine years out of my period but I couldn't resist them.'

Ivo asked:

'And the marble of a baby's arm?'

'That hasn't any criminal interest as far as I know. It should be in Memento Mori or in the other cabinet but I hadn't time to rearrange the exhibits. But it doesn't look out of place among the props of murder. The man who sold it to me would approve. He told me that he kept imagining that the limb was oozing blood.'

Clarissa hadn't spoken and, glancing at her, Cordelia saw that her eyes were fixed on the marble with a mixture of fear and revulsion which none of the other exhibits had evoked. The arm, a chubby replica in white marble, lay on a purple cushion bound with cord. Cordelia herself thought it an unpleasant object, sentimental and morbid, useless and undecorative, and to that extent not untypical of the minor art of its age. Clarissa said:

'But it's perfectly hateful! It's disgusting! Where on earth did you pick it up, Ambrose?'

'In London. A man I know. It may be the only extant copy of one of the limbs of the royal children made for Queen Victoria at Osborne House, said to be by Mary Thornycroft. This one could be poor Pussy, the Princess Royal. It's either that or a memorial piece. And if you dislike it, Clarissa, you should see the Osborne collection. They look like the remnants of a holocaust, as if the Prince Consort had descended on the royal nursery with a machete, as he may well have been tempted to do, poor man.'

Clarissa said:

'It's repulsive! What on earth possessed you, Ambrose? Get rid ofit.'

'Certainly not. It may be unique. I regard it as an interesting addition to my minor Victoriana.' Roma said:

'I've seen the Osborne pieces. I find them repulsive too. But they throw an interesting light on the Victorian mind, the Queen's in particular.'

'Well, this throws an interesting light on Ambrose's mind.' Ivo said quietly:

'As a piece of marble, it's rather well done. It's the association you find unpleasant, perhaps. The death or mutilation of a child is always distressing, don't you think, Clarissa?'

But Clarissa appeared not to have heard. She turned away and said:

'For God's sake don't start arguing about it. Just get rid of it, Ambrose. And now I need a drink and my lunch.'

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Half a mile from the shore Simon Lessing stopped his slow and regular crawl stroke, turned on his back and let his eyes rest on the horizon. The sea was empty. Faced with that shuddering waste of water, it was possible to imagine that there was emptiness also behind him, that the island and its castle had gently subsided under the waves, silently and without turbulence, and that he floated alone in a blue infinity of sea. This self-induced sense of isolation excited but didn't frighten him. Nothing about the sea ever did. Here was the element in which he felt most at peace; guilt, anxiety, failure washed away in a gentle and perpetual baptism of redemption.

He was glad that Clarissa hadn't wanted him tagging along behind her on the tour of the castle. There were rooms he would be interested to see, but there would be time enough to explore on his own. And it would give him another excuse to keep out of her way. He couldn't swim more than twice a day at most without it seeming odd and deliberately unsociable but it would seem perfectly natural to ask if he might wander off to explore the castle. Perhaps the weekend might not be so terrifying after all.

He had only to thrust himself upright to feel the bite of the cold undercurrent. But now he floated, spread-eagled under the sun, feeling the sea creeping over his chest and arms as softly warm as a bath. From time to time he let his face submerge, opening his eyes on the thin film of green, letting it wash lightly over his eyeballs. And deep down there was the knowledge, unfrightening and almost comforting, that he only had to let himself go, to give himself up to the power and gentleness of the sea and there need never again be guilt or anxiety or failure. He knew that he wouldn't do it; the thought was a small self-indulgence which, like a drug, could be safely experimented with as long as the doses were small and one stayed in control. And he was in control. In a few minutes it would be time to turn and strike for the shore, to think about luncheon and Clarissa and getting through the next two days without embarrassment or disaster. But now there was this peace, this emptiness, this wholeness.

It was only at moments like this that he could think without pain of his father. This was how he must have died, swimming alone in the Aegean on that summer morning, finding the tide too strong for him, letting himself go at last without a struggle, without fear, giving himself up to the sea he loved, embracing its majesty and its peace. He had imagined that death so often on his solitary swims that the old nightmares were almost exorcized.

He no longer awoke in the darkness of the early hours as he had in those first months after he had learned his father's death, sweating with terror, desperately tearing at the blankets as they dragged him down, living every second of those last dreadful minutes, the stinging eyes, the agony as he glimpsed through the waves the lost, receding, unattainable shore. But it hadn't been like that. It couldn't have been like that. His father had died secure in his great love, unresisting and at peace.

It was time to turn back. He twisted under the water and began again his steady powerful crawl. And now his feet found the shingle and he pulled himself ashore, colder and more tired than he had expected. Looking up, he saw with surprise that there was someone waiting for him, a dark-clad, still figure standing like a guardian beside his pile of clothes. He shook the water from his eyes and saw it was Tolly.

He came up to her. At first she didn't speak but bent and picked up his towel and handed it to him. Panting and shivering he began patting dry his arms and neck, embarrassed by her steady gaze, wondering why she was there. Then she said:

'Why don't you leave?'

She must have seen his incomprehension. She said again:

'Why don't you leave, leave this place, leave her?' Her voice, as always, was low but harsh, almost expressionless. He stared at her, wild-eyed under the dripping hair.

'Leave Clarissa! Why should I? What do you mean?'

'She doesn't want you. Haven't you noticed that? You aren't happy. Why go on pretending?'

He cried out in protest.

'But I am happy! And where can I go? My aunt wouldn't want me back. I haven't any money.' She said:

'There's a spare room in my flat. You could have that for a start. It isn't much, a child's room. But you could stay there until you found something better.'

A child's room. He remembered hearing that she had once had a child, a girl who had died. No one ever spoke about her now. He didn't want to think about her. He had thought enough about dying and death. He said:

'But how could I find somewhere? What would I live on?'

'You're seventeen, aren't you? You're not a child. You've got five O-levels. You could find something to do. I was working at fifteen. Most children in the world start younger.'

'But doing what? I'm going to be a pianist. I need Clarissa's money.'

'Ah yes,' she said, 'you need Clarissa's money.'

And so, he thought, so do you. That's what this is all about. He felt a surge of confidence, of adult cunning. He wasn't a child to be so easily fooled. Hadn't he always sensed her dislike of him, caught that contemptuous glance as she set down his breakfast on those days when she and he were alone in the flat, watched the silent resentment with which she gathered up his laundry, cleaned his room. If he weren't there she wouldn't need to come in except twice a week to check that all was well. Of course she wanted him out of the way. Probably she expected to be left something in Clarissa's will; she must be ten years younger even if she didn't look it. And she was only a servant after all. What right had she to upset him, to criticize Clarissa, to patronize him, offering her sordid little room as if it were a favour. It would be as bad as Mornington Avenue; worse. The small, seductive devil at the back of his mind whispered its enticement. However difficult things might be at times he would be crazy to give up the patronage of Clarissa, who was rich, to put himself at the mercy of Tolly, who was poor.

Perhaps something of this reached her. She said almost humbly but with no trace of solicitation:

'You'd be under no obligation. It's just a room.' He wished she would go. Yet he couldn't walk away, couldn't start dressing while that dark, oppressive figure stood there seeming to block the whole beach. He drew himself up and said as stiffly as his shivering body would permit:

'Thank you, but I'm perfectly happy as I am.'

'Suppose she gets tired of you like she did your father.' He gaped at her, clutching his towel. Above them a gull shrieked, shrill as a tormented child. He whispered:

'What do you mean? She loved my father! They loved each other! He explained to me before he left us, mother and me. It was the most marvellous thing that had ever happened to him. He had no choice.'

'There's always a choice.'

'But they adored each other! He was so happy.'

'Then why did he drown himself?'

He cried:

'It isn't true! I don't believe you!'

'You don't have to if you don't want to. Just remember it when your turn comes.'

'But why should he do it? Why?'

'To make her feel sorry, I suppose. Isn't that usually why people kill themselves? But he should have known. Clarissa doesn't understand about guilt.'

'But they told me that there was an inquest. They found that it was accidental death. And he didn't leave a note.'

'If he did they didn't see, it. It was Clarissa who found his clothes on the beach.'

His eyes fell to where his own trousers and jacket were jumbled under a stone. A picture came unbidden into his mind, so clear that it might have been memory. The gritty sand, hot as cinders, an alien sea layered in purple and blue to the horizon, Clarissa standing with the wind billowing in her sleeves, the note in her hand. And then the tattered scraps of white, fluttering down like petals, briefly littering the sea before floating and dissolving in the surf. It had been three weeks before his father's body, what was left of it, had been washed up. But bones and flesh, even when the fish have finished with it, lasted longer than a scrap of paper. It wasn't true. None of it was true. As she had told him, there was always a choice. He would choose not to believe.

He looked down so that he need not meet her eyes, that compelling stare which was much more convincing than any words she could speak. There was a swathe of seaweed wound round his calf, brown as a gash on which the blood had dried. He bent and plucked at it. It tightened, a slimy ligature. He knew that she was watching him. Then she said:

'Suppose she died. What would you do then?'

'Why should she die? She isn't sick, is she? She never said anything to me about being sick. What's wrong with her?'

'Nothing. Nothing's wrong with her.'

'Then why are you talking about dying?'

'She thinks she's going to die. Sometimes when people think that strongly enough they do die.'

His heart surged with relief. But that was ridiculous! She was trying to frighten him. Everything was plain to him now. She had always been jealous of him just as she had been-jealous of his father. He picked up his jacket and tried to sound dignified-through the chattering of his teeth.

'If she does die I'm sure you'll be remembered. I shouldn't worry if I were you. And now perhaps you'll let me get dressed. I'm cold and it's time for luncheon.'

As soon as the words were out he felt ashamed. She turned' away without another word. And then she looked back and their eyes met for the last time. He knew what she must see in his, the shame, the fear. He was prepared to encounter anger and resentment. But what he hadn't expected to see was pity.

CHAPTER TWELVE

A long arcade, brick-built but with columns and arches of patterned stonework, led from the west side of the castle, past a rose garden and formal pool, to the theatre. Making his solitary way, rather late, to watch part of the final run-through, Ivo could picture the slow after-dinner procession of Victorian guests passing under the arches, pale arms and necks above the richness of satin and velvet, jewels sparkling on bosoms and in the intricately piled hair, the white shirt fronts of the men gleaming in the moonlight. The theatre itself surprised him, less by the perfection of its proportions, which he had expected, than by its contrast to the rest of the castle. He wondered whether it was the work of a different architect; he would have to ask Ambrose. But if Godwin had been responsible, it was apparent that his client's insistence on opulence and ostentation had prevailed over any inclination he himself might have had for lightness or restraint. Even now, with only half the house lights lit, the theatre glowed with richness. The deep red velvet of the curtains and seats had faded but was still remarkably well preserved. The candle lighting had been replaced by electricity – the conversion must have given Ambrose a pang – but the delicate convolvulus light-shades were still in use and the original crystal chandelier still glittered from the domed ceiling. Everywhere there was ornament, sumptuous, florid, occasionally charming, but always splendid in its craftsmanship. Across the front of the boxes gilded, plump-buttocked cherubs held swags of flowers or lifted trumpets to pouting mouths, while the richly carved royal box with its Prince of Wales feathers and twin seats, regal as thrones, must have satisfied even the most ardent monarchist's view of what was owing to the heir apparent. Ivo had settled himself at the end of the fourth row of the stalls with no intention of staying for more than an hour. He was anxious to disabuse the cast of any idea they might have that he was on the island primarily to review their performance and this casual appearance to watch the final rehearsal would remind them that he was less interested in what they managed to make of Webster's tragedy than in the glories, scandals and legends of the theatre itself. He was glad that the seats, designed for broad Victorian rumps, were so luxuriously comfortable. The afternoon was always the worst time for him when his luncheon, however frugal, lay heavily on his distorted stomach and the monstrous spleen seemed to grow and harden under his supporting hands. He twisted himself more comfortably into the velvet plush, aware of Cordelia sitting silent and upright further along the row, and tried to fix his attention on the stage.

The cast had obviously been instructed by De Ville, a director more at home with the moderns, to concentrate on the sense and let the verse look after itself, a ploy which would have been disastrous with Shakespeare but which succeeded well enough with Webster's rougher metre. And at least it made for pace. Ivo had always believed that there was only one way to direct Webster, as a highly stylized drama of manners, the characters, mere ritual personifications of lust, decadence and sexual rapacity, moving in a stately pavane towards the inevitable orgiastic triumph of madness and death. But De Ville, half sunk in lugubrious disgust at finding himself actually directing amateurs, was obviously aiming at some semblance of realism. It would be interesting to see how he dealt with the more gratuitous horrors. He would be lucky to get away with the proffered severed hand and the gaggle of madmen without a suppressed giggle or two. Revenge tragedy was hardly a genre for the inexperienced; but then, what classic was? Certainly this charnel-house poet, heaping horror on horror until the appetite sickened, and then suddenly piercing the heart with lines of redeeming beauty, demanded more than the present enthusiastic bunch of play-actors. Still, De Ville only had to get one performance out of them. It wasn't what you could raise yourself to on one night but what you could continue to do, night after night and two matinees a week, for three months or more, that marked the professional from the amateur. He had known that the play was to be done in Victorian costume. The idea had seemed to him an eccentric, slightly ludicrous conceit. But he could see that it had its uses. The stage and the small auditorium fused into one claustrophobic cockpit of evil, the high-necked dresses and the bustles hinted at a sexuality which was the more lascivious because covert, overlaid with Victorian respectability. And there was some wit in the decision to dress Bosola as a kilted Highlander although it was hard to imagine Victoria's good old Brown in this complex creature of nihilism and thwarted nobility.

The four principals had been rehearsing now for nearly fifty-five minutes. De Ville had been leaving them pretty much to themselves, his heavy, frog-like face expressing nothing but a settled gloom. Probably he had resented being dragged away from his post-prandial nap and subjected to yet another sea trip merely to indulge Clarissa's wish for a final run-through in costume of her more important scenes. Ivo glanced at his watch. Boredom was taking hold of him as he knew it would, but the effort of moving seemed too great. He glanced along the row and watched Cordelia's face, upturned to the stage, the firm yet delicate chin, the sweet curve of the throat. He thought: two years ago I should have been mildly agonizing over her, scheming how I might get into her bed before the weekend was out, fretting at the possibility of failure. He recalled his past exploits, less with disgust than with a detached wonder that so much time and thought and energy should have been expended on such petty expedients against boredom. The trouble had been so disproportionate to the satisfaction, the desire less urgent than the need to prove himself still desirable. What, after all, would getting into bed with her have meant but a small fillip to the ego, ranking only a little higher than the quality of the food and wine and the wit of the after-dinner conversation as an index of the success of the weekend. Always he had aimed to conduct his affairs on the level of a civilized, uncommitted exchange of pleasure. And always they had ended in rows, recriminations, in messiness and disgust. It had been no different with Clarissa except the rows had been more bitter, the disgust more lasting. But then, with Clarissa he had made the mistake of letting himself become involved. With Clarissa, at least for those first six months when he had been cuckolding Simon's father, he had known again the agonies, the ecstasies, the uncertainties of love.

He made himself look again at the stage. They were playing the second scene of Act Three. Clarissa, dressed in a voluminous, lace-trimmed dressing-gown was seated at her looking-glass with Cariola in attendance, hairbrush in hand. The dressing-table, like all the props, was authentic, borrowed, he supposed, from the castle. There was more than one advantage in staging the play in the eighteen nineties. The scene was being played with the accompaniment of a musical-box which had been placed on the dressing-table and which tinkled out a medley of Scottish airs. That too was probably another of Ambrose's pieces of Victoriana, but he suspected that the idea was Clarissa's. The scene began well enough. He had forgotten how Clarissa could take on an almost luminous beauty, the power of that high, slightly cracked voice, the grace with which she used her arms and body. She wasn't a Suzman or a Mirren, but she did manage to convey something of the high erotic excitement, the vulnerability and the rashness of a woman deeply in love. That wasn't surprising; it was a part she had played often enough in real life. But to produce such conviction with a leading man who obviously saw Antonio as an English country gentleman sinning above his station was something of an achievement. But Cariola was a disaster, nervous and skittish, tripping across the stage in her goffered cap like a soubrette in a French farce. When she had stumbled for the third time over her lines De Ville called out impatiently:

'You've only to remember three lines, God help you. And cut out the coyness. You're not playing No, No, Nanette. All right. Take it from the beginning of the scene.' Clarissa protested:

'But it needs pace, lightness. I lose the impetus if I have to keep going back.' He reiterated:

'Take it from the beginning.'

She hesitated, shrugged, then sat silent. The cast glanced at each other furtively, shuffled, waited. Ivo's interest suddenly rekindled. He thought:

'She's losing her temper. With her, that's halfway to losing her nerve.'

Suddenly she took the music-box and slammed down the lid. The crack was as sharp as a gunshot. The tinkling little tune stopped. It was followed by absolute silence as the cast seemed to hold their breath. Then Clarissa came forward to the footlights:

'That bloody box is getting on my nerves. If we have to have background music in this scene, then surely Ambrose can find something more suitable than those damn Scottish tunes. They're driving me mad, so God knows what they'll do to the audience.'

Ambrose called quietly from the back of the auditorium. Ivo was surprised to hear him and wondered how long he had been silently sitting there.

'It was your idea, as I remember.'

'I wanted a musical-box but not a bloody Scottish medley. And do we have to have an audience? Cordelia, can't you find something useful to do? God knows, we're paying you enough. Tolly could do with some help ironing the costumes, unless you propose to sit on your ass all afternoon.'

The girl got to her feet. Even in the half-light, Ivo could detect the flush rising on her throat, could see her mouth half open in protest, then close resolutely. Despite those candid almost judgemental eyes, the disconcerting honesty, the impression of controlled competence, she was at heart a sensitive child. Anger rose in him, satisfyingly strong and uncomplicated. He rejoiced that he could feel it. With difficulty, he pulled himself erect. He was aware that all eyes had turned towards him. He said calmly:

'Miss Gray and I will take a walk. The performance hasn't been exactly riveting so far and the air outside will be fresher.'

When they were outside, their going silently watched by the cast, she said:

'Thank you, Mr Knightley.'

He smiled. Suddenly he felt well, extraordinarily well, his whole body mysteriously lighter.

'I'm afraid I'd make a poor dancer in my present state, and if I had to cast you as any character in Emma it certainly wouldn't be poor Harriet. You must excuse Clarissa. When she's nervous, she's apt to become rude.'

'That may be her misfortune but I don't find it particularly excusable.'

He added:

'And public rudeness provokes in me the kind of childish retort which is only satisfying for the second after it's spoken. She'll apologize very prettily when she next sees you alone.'

'I'm sure she will.'

Suddenly she turned to him and smiled:

'Actually I should like a walk if you won't find it too exhausting.'

She was, he thought, the only person on the island who could say that to him without making him feel either irritated or embarrassed. He said:

'What about the beach?'

'I'd like that.'

'It'll be slow going, I'm afraid.' 'That doesn't matter.'

How very sweet she was, with that gentle, self-contained dignity. He smiled and held out his hand to her.

'"Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia, the Gods themselves throw incense." Well, shall we go?'

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

They trudged slowly side by side along the very edge of the tide where the firmer sand made the going easiest. The beach was narrow, cut by rotting breakwaters and bounded by a low stone wall beyond which rose the tree-covered, friable cliffs. Much of the bank must once have been planted. Between the beeches and the oaks were clumps of laurel, old rose bushes twined among the thicker foliage of rhododendrons, woody geraniums distorted by the wind, hydrangeas in their autumn shades of bronze, lime-yellow and purple, so much more subtle and interesting, thought Cordelia, than the gaudy heads of high summer. She felt at peace with her companion and wished for a moment that she could confide in him, that her job needn't impose such a weight of deception. For ten minutes they walked in undemanding silence. Then he said:

'This may be a stupid question. Gray isn't an uncommon name. But you're not by any chance related to Redvers Gray?'

'He was my father.'

'There's something about the eyes. I only met him once, but his was a face one didn't forget. He had a great influence on my generation at Cambridge. He had the gift of making rhetoric sound sincere. Now that the rhetoric and the dream are not only discredited, which is discouraging, but unfashionable, which is fatal, I suppose he is almost forgotten. But I should like to have known him.'

Cordelia said:

'So should I.'

He glanced down at her.

'It was like that, was it? The revolutionary idealist dedicated to mankind in the abstract but not much good at caring for his own child. Not that I can criticize. I haven't done too well with mine. Children need you to talk to them, play with them, give time to them when they're young. If you can't be bothered it isn't surprising if, when they're adolescents, you find that you don't much like each other. But then, by the time mine were adolescents I didn't much like their mother either.'

Cordelia said:

'I think I could have liked him if we'd had time. I did spend six months with him and the comrades in Germany and Italy. But then he died.'

'You make death sound like a betrayal. And so, of course, it is.'

Cordelia thought of those six months. Half a year of cooking for the comrades, shopping for the comrades, carrying messages, sometimes not without danger, finding rooms, propitiating landladies and shopkeepers, sewing for the comrades. They and her father believed implicitly in equality for women without troubling to acquire the basic domestic skills which would have made that equality possible. And it was for that precarious nomadic existence that he had taken her from the Convent, made it impossible for her to take up her place at Cambridge. She no longer felt any particular resentment. That period of her life was passed, finished. And she hoped that they had given something to each other, if only trust. She had early dropped Redvers from her name telling herself that it was an unnecessary piece of cabin luggage. She had been reading Browning at the time. Now she wondered if it had been a more significant rejection even a small revenge. The thought was unwelcome and she thrust it away. She heard him say:

'And what about your education? One was always seeing pictures of him being dragged off by the police. That's all very admirable in youth no doubt. In middle age it begins to look embarrassing and ridiculous. I don't remember hearing about a daughter, or of a wife for that matter.'

'My mother died when I was born.'

'And who looked after you?'

'I was placed with foster parents for most of the time. Then when I was eleven, I won a scholarship to the Convent of the Holy Child. That was a mistake, not the scholarship but the choice of school. They muddled my name with another C. Gray, who was a Roman Catholic. I don't think father much liked it, but by the time he bothered to reply to the Education Officer's letter I was settled and they didn't like to move me. And I wanted to stay.'

He laughed. 'Redvers Gray with a convent-educated daughter! And they didn't succeed in converting you? That would have taught Papa, dedicated atheist, to answer his letters more promptly.'

'No, they didn't convert me. But then they didn't try. I didn't believe but I was happy in my invincible ignorance. It's rather an enviable state. And I liked the Convent. I suppose it was the first time I felt secure. Life wasn't messy any more.'

She had never before spoken so freely of her time at the Convent, she who was so slow to confide. She wondered whether this unusual frankness was possible only because she knew he must be dying. The thought seemed to her ignoble and she tried to put it from her. He said:

'You agree with Yeats. "How but in custom and in ceremony are innocence and beauty born?" I can see that it must have been reassuring, even one's sins neatly categorized into venial and mortal. Mortal sin. I like the expression even if I reject the dogma. It has a note of splendid finality. It dignifies wrongdoing, almost gives it form and substance. One can imagine oneself saying, "What have I done with my mortal sin? I must have put it down somewhere." One could carry it around, neatly packaged.'

Suddenly he stumbled. Cordelia put out her hand to steady him. His palm in hers was cold, the dry skin sliding over the bones. She saw that he looked very tired. The walk over the shingle had not, after all, been easy. She said:

'Let's sit for a while.'

There was a kind of grotto above them cut out of the cliff, with a mosaic terrace, now fractured and almost overgrown, and a curved marble seat. She helped pull him up the slope, watching as his feet found convenient clumps of grass and half hidden stone steps. The back of the seat, warmed by the sun, still struck a little chill through her thin shirt. They sat side by side, untouching, and lifted their faces to the sun. Above them hung a beech tree. Its trunk and boughs had the tender luminosity of a girl's arm, its leaves, just beginning to turn with their autumn gold, were veined marvels of reflected light. The air was very still and quiet, the silence pierced only by the occasional cry of a gull, while below them the sea hissed and withdrew in its everlasting restlessness.

After a few minutes, his eyes still closed he said:

'I suppose a mortal sin has to be something special, something more original and momentous than the expedients, the meannesses, the small delinquencies which make up everyday living for most of us?'

Cordelia said:

'It's a grievous offence against the law of God, which puts the soul at risk of eternal damnation. There has to be full knowledge and consent. It's all laid down. Any RC will explain it to you.'

He said:

'Something evil, if the word means anything to – you, if you believe in the existence of evil.'

Cordelia thought of the Convent chapel, altar candles flickering fitfully, her own bowed lace-covered head among the ranks of muttering conformists. 'And deliver us from evil.' For six years she had repeated these words at least twice a day long before she had ever asked herself what it was from which she craved deliverance. It had taken her first case, after Bernie's death, to teach her that. She could still recall, in sleeping and waking dreams, the horror which she had not in fact actually seen; a white elongated neck, a boy's disfigured face drooping from the noose, the twisting feet pointing to the floor. It was when she had finally stared into the face of his murderer that she had known about evil. She said:

'Yes, I believe in the existence of evil.'

'Then Clarissa once did something which you might dignify as evil. I don't know whether the good sisters would designate it as mortal sin. But there was knowledge and consent. And I've a feeling that, for Clarissa, it could prove mortal.'

She didn't speak. She wouldn't make it easy for him. But there was no self-control in her silence. She knew he would go on.

'It happened during the run of Macbeth in July 1980, Tolly -Miss Tolgarth – had had an illegitimate daughter four years earlier. There was no particular secret about it, most of us in Clarissa's set knew about Viccy. She was a sweet child. Grave-faced, rather silent, intelligent I think, as far as one can judge at that age. Sometimes, but only rarely, Tolly would bring her to the theatre, but most of the time she kept her private and working lives separate. She paid a child-minder to look after Viccy while she was working and it must have been convenient having mainly an evening job. She wouldn't take any money from the father. I think she was too possessive about Viccy to want to share even the cost of her food. Then two days before Clarissa opened in Macbeth it happened. Clarissa was at the theatre – there was a final rehearsal – and the minder was in charge of Viccy. The child had slipped out into the street and was playing with something in the gutter behind a parked lorry. It was the usual tragedy. The driver didn't see her and reversed. She was horribly injured. They rushed her to hospital and operated and she stood that very well. We thought that she'd make it. But on the first night of Macbeth the hospital telephoned at nine forty-five to say that there had been a relapse and to ask Tolly to go at once. Clarissa took the call. She had just come offstage for her costume change before the Third Act. She was appalled at the thought of losing her dresser at that moment. She took the message and put down the receiver. Then she told Tolly that the hospital wanted her to visit but that there was no hurry, after the performance would be all right. When Tolly wanted to ring back she wouldn't let her. And shortly after the performance ended, the hospital rang again to say that the child was dead.' 'How do you know this?'

'Because I took the trouble to get in touch with the hospital and ask about that first message. And because I was there in Clarissa's dressing-room when it came. You could say I was in something of a privileged position at the time. I wasn't with them when Clarissa finally told Tolly that she couldn't leave. I'd have stopped that; at least I hope I would. But I was there when the call came through. Then I went back to my seat. When the play ended and I went backstage to take Clarissa out to supper, Tolly was still there. And fifteen minutes later the hospital telephoned to say the child was dead.'

'And when you learned what had happened, was that when you stopped being a privileged person?'

'I should like to be able to tell you that it was. The truth is less flattering. She became my mistress for two reasons; firstly because I'd gained some reputation and Clarissa has always found power an aphrodisiac, and secondly because she imagined that a fuck a week would ensure her good notices. When she discovered her mistake – like most men I'm capable of betrayal but not of that particular betrayal – the privileges ceased. There are some favours it b unwise to pay for in advance.'

'Why are you telling me this?'

'Because I like you. Because I don't want to have this weekend spoilt by watching yet another person I respect being seduced by her charm. She has charm even if she hasn't bothered yet to exercise it on you. I don't want to see you behaving like all the others. I suspect that you may be possessed of that divine common sense which is impervious to the blandishments of egotism, whether sexual or otherwise, but who can be sure? So I am committing one more small act of betrayal to strengthen you against temptation.' 'Who was the child's father?'

'No one knows, except presumably Tolly, and she isn't saying. The question is, who did Clarissa think he was?' Cordelia glanced at him. 'Not her husband?'

'Poor besotted Lessing? Possible I suppose, but hardly probable. He and Clarissa had only been married a year. Admittedly, she was already giving him hell, but I can't see him choosing that way of revenge. My guess is that it was De Ville. His only requirements are that the woman is comely and willing and not an actress. He's reputed to be impotent with anyone who holds an Equity card, but that may be only his device for keeping his professional and private lives separate.'

'The man who is directing the Webster? The one who's here now? Do you think that Clarissa was in love with him?'

'I don't know what Clarissa means by that word. She may have wanted him if only to prove that she could get him. One thing's certain; if he wouldn't play then she wouldn't easily forget an affair with her own dresser.'

'Why do you think he's here? He's famous, he doesn't have to bother with an amateur production, particularly out of London.'

'Why are any of us here? He may see the island as a future dramatic Glyndebourne, a world-famous centre for experimental drama. This may just be a way of getting his foot in the door. After all, he's not exactly sought-after now. His tricks were much admired in their day, but there are some clever young dogs coming along now. And Ambrose, if he's prepared to spend money, could make something of his Courcy Festival. Not commercially, of course; a theatre which only seats a hundred comfortably can hardly be that, particularly when it could always be cut off by a storm on the first night. But he could have some fun with it once he's got rid of Clarissa.'

'And does he want to get rid of Clarissa?'

'Oh, yes,' said Ivo easily. 'Hadn't you noticed that? She's trying to take him over, him and his theatre and his island. He likes his private kingdom. Clarissa is a particularly persistent invader.'

Cordelia thought of the child, lying alone on her high, aseptic hospital bed behind the drawn curtains. Had she been conscious? Had she known that she was dying? Had she perhaps cried out for her mother? Had she gone frightened and alone into that last goodnight? She said:

'I don't see how Clarissa can live with that memory.'

'I'm not sure that she can. When a person is terrified of dying it could be because with one part of their minds they feel that they deserve it.'

'How do you know she's terrified?'

'Because there are some emotions which even an actress as experienced as Clarissa can't altogether hide.'

He turned to her, saw the expression of her face, upturned to the glitter of shuddering green and gold, and said quietly:

'There are, perhaps, excuses one should make for her. And if not excuses, explanations. She was about to make an important costume change. She couldn't have managed it herself, and there wasn't another dresser available.'

'Did she even try to find one?'

'I don't suppose so. You see, from her point of view, she wasn't in the world of hospitals and sick children. She was Lady Macbeth. She was at Dunsinane Castle. I doubt whether she would have left the theatre to go to her own dying child, not at that moment. It didn't occur to her that someone else might want to.'

Cordelia cried:

'But you can't excuse it! You can't explain it. You don't really believe that a play, any play, any performance is more important than a dying child!'

'I don't suppose for one moment that she really believed the child to be dying, assuming that she gave the matter thought.'

'But is that what you believe? That a performance, any performance, could be more important?'

He smiled:

'Now we're edging towards that old philosophical minefield. If the building's on fire and you can only rescue a syphilitic old tramp or a Velasquez which, or who, gets incinerated?'

'No, we aren't. We're talking about a dying child wanting her mother, balancing that need against a performance of Macbeth. And I get tired of that old burning building analogy. I should throw the Velasquez out of the window and start lugging the tramp to safety. The real moral choice is when you find that he's too heavy. Do you escape alone or keep trying and risk getting incinerated with him?'

'Oh, that's easy. Obviously you escape alone and without leaving the decision too conscientiously to the last possible moment. About the child; no, I don't believe that any performance could be more important, certainly none that Clarissa is capable of giving. Does that satisfy you?'

'I don't understand how Miss Tolgarth can go on working for her. I couldn't.'

'But you will? I confess I'm intrigued about your precise function here. But presumably you won't throw in your hand?'

'But that's different; at least I shall persuade myself that it is. I'm just a temporary employee. But Tolly believed Clarissa when she was told that there was no immediate danger; she trusted her. How can she stay with her now?'

'They've been together almost all their lives. Tolly's mother was Clarissa's nurse. The family with a small f served the Family with a large 'F' for three generations. They're born to be served, she was born to serve them. Perhaps, given the habit of subservience, a dead child here or there doesn't make any difference.'

'But that's horrible! It's ridiculous, and degrading. It's Victorian!'

'Don't you believe it! The instinct for worship is remarkably persistent. What else is religious belief? Tolly's lucky to have her God walking the earth with shoes that need cleaning, clothes that need folding, hair that needs brushing.'

'But she can't want to go on serving. She can't like Clarissa.'

'What has liking to do with it? Though she slay me yet shall I trust her. It's a perfectly common phenomenon. But I admit I do sometimes wonder what would happen if she faced the truth about her own feelings. If any of us did, come to that. It's getting colder, isn't it? Don't you feel it? Perhaps it's time we were getting back.'

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

They hardly spoke on the way back to the castle. For Cordelia, the sunlight had drained out of the day. The beauty of sea and shore passed unregarded by her desolated heart. Ivo was obviously very tired by the time they reached the terrace and said that he would rest in his room; he wouldn't bother with tea. Cordelia told herself that it was her job to stay close to Clarissa however unwelcome that might be to both of them. But it took an effort of will before she could make her way back to the theatre, and it was a relief to find that the rehearsal still wasn't over. She stood for a minute at the back of the auditorium, then made her way to her own room. The communicating door was open and she could see Tolly moving from bathroom to bedroom. But the thought of having to speak to her was intolerable and Cordelia made her escape.

Almost on impulse she opened the door next to her own which gave access to the tower. A circular staircase of elaborately decorated wrought iron curved upwards into semi-darkness lit only by occasional slit windows less than a brick in width. She could see there was a light-switch, but preferred to climb steadily upwards in the gloom in what seemed an endless spiral. But at last she reached the top and found herself in a small, light-filled circular room with six tall windows. The room was unfurnished except for one cane armchair with a curved back and was obviously used to store acquisitions for which Ambrose hadn't yet found a place or which he had inherited from the previous owner; chiefly a collection of Victorian toys. There was a wooden horse on wheels, a Noah's ark with carved animals, three china dolls with bland faces and stuffed limbs, a table of mechanical toys including an organ-grinder with his monkey, a set of cat musicians on a revolving platform, gaudily dressed in satin and each with his instrument, a grenadier toy soldier with his drum, a wooden musical-box.

The view was spectacular. The whole island, seen as if from an aircraft, was a neatly patterned coloured map precisely placed in a crinkled sea. To the east was a smudge which must be the Isle of Wight. To the north the Dorset coast looked surprisingly close; she could almost make out the stunted pier and the coloured terraces. She gazed down over the island, at the northern marshes fringed with white gulls, the central uplands, the fields, small patches of green amid the many-hued curdle of autumnal trees, the brown cliffs sliding down to the shore, the spire of the Church rising amid the beeches, the roof of the arcade leading to a toy theatre. From his cottage in the stable block the foreshortened figure of Oldfield crept, a bucket in either hand, and, as she watched, Roma emerged from the copse of beech trees which lined the lawn and made her way, hands hunched in her pockets, towards the castle. Across the grass a peacock stalked, dragging his tattered tail.

Here, slung between earth and sky in a brick-enclosed eyrie, the sound of the sea was a low moan almost indistinguishable from the sighing of the wind. Suddenly Cordelia felt immensely lonely. The job which had promised so much seemed now a humiliating waste of time and effort. She no longer cared who was sending the messages or why. She felt that she hardly cared whether Clarissa lived or died. She wondered what was happening at Kingly Street, how Miss Maudsley was coping, whether Mr Morgan had come to see to the name-plate. And thinking of him reminded her of Sir George. He had paid her to do a job. She was here to protect Clarissa, not to judge her. And there were only two more days to be got through. By Sunday it would all be over and she would be free to get back to London; need never hear Clarissa's name again. She recalled Bernie's words when he had once rebuked her for being over-fastidious:

'You can't make moral judgements about your clients in this job, mate. Start that and you may as well shut up shop.'

She turned from the window and, on impulse, opened the musical-box. The cylinder slowly revolved and the delicate metal filaments plucked out the tune 'Greensleeves'. Then one by one she set the other mechanical toys in motion. The grenadier thumped his drum; the cats revolved, mouths grinning, jerking their satined arms; cymbals clashed; the plaintive 'Greensleeves' was lost in the discordant din. And thus, in a gentle cacophony of childish sounds, which couldn't entirely shut out from her mind the image of a dying child but which helped to release some tension in her, Cordelia stared down over Ambrose's coloured kingdom.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Ivo had been wrong. Clarissa didn't apologize for her behaviour at the rehearsal but she did exert herself to be particularly charming to Cordelia over tea. It was a boisterous and protracted feast of sandwiches and over-rich cake, and it was after six before the launch bearing De Ville and the other principals back to Spey-mouth finally drew away from the quay. Clarissa spent the hour before it was time to dress for dinner playing Scrabble in the library with Ambrose. She played noisily and badly, constantly calling out to Cordelia to look up challenged words in the dictionary or to support her against Ambrose's allegations that she was cheating. Cordelia, happily engrossed with old copies of the Illustrated London News and the Strand Magazine, in which she could read the Sherlock Holmes stories as they had originally appeared, wished that she could have been left in peace. Simon was apparently to entertain them with music after dinner and the distant sound of Chopin from the drawing-room where he was practising was pleasantly restful and evocative of her schooldays. Ivo was still in his room and Roma sat in silence with the weekly journals and Private Eye. The library, with its barrel roof and carved brass-fronted bookcases set between the four tall windows, was one of the most beautifully proportioned in the castle. The whole of the southern wall was taken up with one immense window decorated with round panes of coloured glass. In the daytime the window framed nothing but a view of sea and sky. But now the library was in darkness except for the three pools of light from the desk lamps, and the great window rose like a sheet of rain-washed marble, blue-black and smudged with a few high stars. It was a pity, thought Cordelia, that, even here, Clarissa was incapable of occupying herself in peaceable silence.

When it was time to dress they went up together and Cordelia unlocked both rooms and made a check on Clarissa's bedroom before she went in. All was well. She dressed quickly, put out the light, then sat quietly at her window looking out at the distant clumps of trees, black against the night sky, and the faint shimmer of the sea. Suddenly a light flashed from the south. She watched. In three seconds it flashed again and then for a third and last time. She thought that it must be some kind of signal, perhaps in answer to one from the island. But why and from whom? But then she told herself that the thought was childish and melodramatic. It was probably some solitary sailor on his way back to Speymouth harbour casually flashing a light over the quay. But there remained something discomforting and almost sinister about that threefold flash as if someone was signalling that the cast was assembled, the leading lady ensconced in splendour under the castle roof, that the drawbridge could be drawn up and the play begin. But this was a castle without a drawbridge, its moat the sea. For the first time since her arrival, Cordelia was touched by a sense of claustrophobic unease. Here their only lifelines were the telephone and the launch, both easily put out of commission. She had been drawn to the mystery and loneliness of the island; now she missed the solid reassurance of the mainland, of towns and fields and hills ranged at her back. It was then that she heard Clarissa's door close and Tolly's departing footsteps. Clarissa must be ready. Cordelia went through the communicating door and they made their way together to the hall.

The dinner was excellent, artichokes followed by poussin and spinach au gratin. The south-facing room still held the warmth of the day and the wood fire had been lit more for its sweet-smelling and comforting glow than because it was needed. The three tall candlesticks threw a steady light on the epergne of coloured glass and Parian, the rich gold, green and rose of the Davenport dinner-service and the engraved table-glasses. Above the fireplace was an oil painting of the two daughters of Herbert Gorringe. Their poses were awkward, almost angular, and the faces with their bright, exophthalmic eyes under the strong Gorringe brows and the moist, half-open mouths looked flushed and feverish while the reds and deep blues of the evening dresses shone as brightly as if the paint had recently dried. Cordelia found it difficult to keep her eyes from the picture which so far from being tranquil or domestic seemed to her charged with a hectic sexual energy. Watching her gaze, Ambrose said:

'It's by Millais, one of the comparatively few social portraits which he did. The dinner-service we're using was a wedding gift to the elder daughter from the Prince and Princess of Wales. Clarissa insisted that I bring it out for tonight.'

It seemed to Cordelia that there was a great deal which Clarissa insisted on at Courcy Castle. She wondered if she also proposed to supervise the washing-up.

It should have been a festive meal but the pleasure didn't match the food or the excellence of the wines. Beneath the glittering surface and the easy social chat flowed a current of unease, which from time to time spurted into antagonism. No one but Simon and herself with their youthful appetites did justice to the food, and he shoved it in furtively, watching Clarissa from the corner of bis eye like a child allowed up for his first dining-room meal and expecting any minute to be banished to the nursery. Clarissa, elegant in her high-necked dress of blue-green chiffon, began by teasing her cousin about the absence of her partner who had apparently been expected for the weekend, a topic which she seemed reluctant to let go.

'But it's so odd of him, darling. Surely we didn't frighten him away? I thought you wanted to show him off? Isn't that why you schemed for an invitation? Who are you ashamed of, us or him?'

Roma's face was an unbecoming pink above the harsh blue of her taffeta dress.

'We're expecting an American customer to drop into the shop this Saturday. And Colin has got behind with the accounts. He's hoping to get them finished before Monday.'

'On a weekend? How conscientious of him. But I'm relieved to hear that you have some accounts worth doing. Congratulations.'

Cordelia, finding that she could make little headway with Simon, who seemed afraid to speak, withdrew her interest from her fellow guests and concentrated on her meal. When she next took notice it was to hear Roma's belligerent voice. She was addressing Ambrose across the table, clutching her fork as if it were a weapon.

'But you can't opt out of all responsibility for what's happening in your own country! You can't just say that you're not concerned, not even interested!'

'But I can. I didn't collude in the depreciation of its currency, the spoliation of its countryside, the desecration of its towns, the destruction of its grammar schools or even the mutilation of the liturgy of its Church. For what am I personally expected to feel a responsibility?'

'I was thinking of aspects which some of us see as more important. The growth of Fascism, the fact that our society is more violent, less compassionate and more unequal than it has been since the nineteenth century. And then there's the National Front. You can't ignore the Front!'

'Indeed I can, together with Militant Tendency, the Trots and the rest of the rabble. You'd be surprised at my capacity for ignoring the ignorable.'

'But you can't just decide to live in another age!'

'But I can. I can live in any century I wish. I don't have to choose the dark ages, old or new.'

Ivo said quietly:

'I'm grateful that you don't reject modern amenities or modern technology. If I should enter into the final process of dying during the next few days and need a little medical help to ease the way, I take it you won't object to using the telephone.'

Ambrose smiled round at them and raised his glass:

'If any of you decide to die in the next few days, all necessary measures will be taken to ease you on your way.'

There was a short, slightly embarrassed silence. Cordelia looked across at Clarissa, but the actress's eyes were on her plate. For a second, the long fingers trembled and were still.

Roma said:

'And what happens to Eden when Adam, solaced with no Eve, finally returns to the dust?'

'It would be pleasant to have a son to follow one here, I admit, almost worth marrying and breeding for. But sons, even supposing they came to order and if the process of getting them, deceptively simply physiologically, wasn't so fraught with practical and emotional complications, are notoriously unreliable. Ivo, you're the only one here with experience of children.'

Ivo said:

'It's unwise, certainly, to look to them for vicarious immortality.'

'Or anything else, wouldn't you say? A son might easily convert the castle to a casino, lay down a nine-hole golf course, make the air hideous with speedboats and water skiing and hold pretentious Saturday hops for the locals, eight-fifty a head, three-course dinner included, evening dress obligatory, no extras guaranteed.'

Clarissa looked across at Ivo:

'Talking of children, what's the news of your two, Ivo? Is Matthew still living in that Kensington squat?'

Cordelia saw that Ivo's chicken had been pushed almost untouched to the side of his plate and that although he was forking his spinach into shreds, little of it was reaching his mouth. But he had been drinking steadily. The claret decanter was on his right hand and he reached for it again, adding to a glass which he seemed not to realize was already three-quarters full. He looked across at Clarissa, eyes bright in the candlelight.

'Matthew? I suppose he's still with the Children of the Sun or whatever they call themselves. As we don't communicate I'm not in a position to say. Angela, on the other hand, writes a filial letter at boring length every month. I have two granddaughters now, she informs me. Since Angela and her husband refuse to visit a country where they might find themselves sharing a dining-table with a black and I have a distaste for sharing a table with my son-in-law, I am unlikely to make their acquaintance. My ex-wife, in case you meant to inquire, is with them in Johannesburg, which she calls Jo'burg, and is said to be enchanted with the country, the climate, the company and the kidney-shaped swimming pool.'

Clarissa laughed, a small bell note of triumph.

'Darling, I wasn't asking for a family history.'

'Weren't you?' he said easily. 'Oh, I rather thought you were.'

The table fell into a silence which, to Cordelia's relief, lasted with few interruptions until the meal was at last over and Munter opened the door for the women to follow Clarissa into the drawing-room.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Ivo wanted neither coffee nor liqueur but he carried the decanter of claret and his glass with him into the drawing-room and settled himself in an armchair between the fire and the open french windows. He felt no particular social responsibility for the rest of the evening. The dinner had been sufficiently grim, and he had every intention of getting quietly but thoroughly drunk. He had listened too much to his doctors. Throw physic to the dogs, I'll none of it. Obviously, what he needed was to drink more, not less; and if it could be wine of this quality and at Ambrose's expense, so much the better. Already his self-disgust at allowing Clarissa to provoke him into that spurt of angry revelation was fading under the influence of the wine. And what was taking its place was a gentle euphoria in which his mind became supernaturally clear, while the faces and words of his companions moved into a different dimension so that he watched their antics with bright sardonic eyes as he might actors on a stage.

Simon was preparing to play for them, arranging his music on the stand with uncertain hands. Ivo thought: Oh God, not Chopin followed by Rachmaninov. And why, he wondered, was Clarissa draping herself over the boy, ready to turn the pages? It wasn't as if she could read music. If this was to be the start of her usual system of alternate kindness and brutality she would end by driving the boy out of his wits as she had his father. Roma, in the taffeta dress which would have looked too young on an ingénue of eighteen, was sitting rigidly on the edge of her chair like a parent at a school concert. Why should she care how the boy performed? Why should any of them care? Already his nervousness was communicating itself to his audience. But he played better than Ivo expected, only occasionally attempting to disguise the misfingerings by too fast a tempo and the over-use of the sustaining pedal. Even so, it was too like a public performance to be enjoyable, the pieces chosen to show off his technique, the occasion made more important than anyone wanted. And it went on too long. At the end Ambrose said:

'Thank you, Simon. What are a few wrong notes between friends? And now, where are the songs of yesteryear?'

The decanter was now less than a quarter full. Ivo stretched himself more deeply in the chair and let the voices come to him from an immense distance. They were all round the piano now, roaring out sentimental Victorian drawing-room ballads. He could hear Roma's contralto, invariably late and slightly off-key, and Cordelia's clear soprano, a convent-trained voice, a little unsure but clear and sweet. He watched Simon's flushed face as he bent over the keys, the look of intense, exultant concentration.

He was playing with more assurance and sensitivity now than he had alone. For once, the boy was enjoying himself.

After about half an hour Roma drifted away from the piano and walked over to look at two oils by Frith, crowded anecdotal canvases showing rail-travellers going to the Derby by first class and third class. Roma walked from one to the other studying them intently as if to check that no detail of social or sartorial contrast had been neglected by the artist. Then Clarissa suddenly dropped her hand from Simon's shoulder, swept past Ivo, her chiffon floating against his knee, and went out on the terrace alone. Cordelia and Ambrose were left singing together. The three of them at the piano were linked by their enjoyment, seemingly unaware of their audience, transposing and consulting, choosing and comparing and collapsing into laughter when a piece proved beyond their range or competence. Ivo recognized only a few of the songs; Peter Warlock's Elizabethan pastiches, Vaughan Williams's 'Bright is the Ring of Words'. He was listening now with the nearest he had come to happiness since his illness had been diagnosed. Nietzsche was wrong; it wasn't action but pleasure which bound one to existence. And he had become afraid of pleasure; to admit even the possibility of joy to his shrivelled senses was to open the mind to anguish and regret. But now, listening to that sweet voice blending with Ambrose's baritone and floating past him out and over the sea, he lay back, weightless, in a dreamy contentment which was without bitterness and without pain. And gradually his senses began to tingle into life. He was aware of the cool stream of air from the window on his face, nothing as inconvenient as a draught, but a barely perceptible sensation like a stroking finger; of the sharp red of the wine glowing in the decanter and its softness against his tongue; of the smell of the wood fire, evocative of lost boyhood autumns.

And then his mood was broken. Clarissa stormed into the room from the terrace. Simon heard her and stopped playing in mid-bar. The two voices sang on for a few notes then broke off. Clarissa said:

'I'll have enough of amateurs before the weekend's finished without you three adding to the boredom. I'm going to bed. Simon, it's time you called it a day. We'll go together; I want to see to your room. Cordelia, ring for Tolly will you and tell her

I'm ready for her, then come up in fifteen minutes, I want to discuss arrangements for tomorrow. Ivo, you're drunk.'

She waited with a shiver of impatience until Ambrose had opened the door for her, then swept out, merely pausing briefly to offer him her cheek to kiss. He bent forward but was too late and his pursed lips pecked ludicrously at the air. Simon bundled up his music with shaking hands, looked round as if for help, and ran after her. Cordelia went across to where the embroidered rope hung by the side of the fireplace. Roma said:

'Black marks all round. We should have realized that we're here to applaud Clarissa's talent not to demonstrate our own. If you plan to make a career as secretary-companion, Cordelia, you'll have to learn more tact.'

Ivo was aware of Ambrose bending over him, of his flushed face and the black eyes bright and malicious under the strong half circles.

'Are you drunk, Ivo? You're remarkably quiet.'

*I thought I was, but I seem not to be. Sobriety has overtaken me. But if you would open another bottle I could begin the agreeable process again. Good wine is a good familiar creature, if it be well used.'

'But shouldn't you keep your mind clear for the task of tomorrow?'

Ivo held out the empty decanter. He was surprised to see that his hand was perfectly steady. He said:

'Don't worry. I shall be sober enough for what I have to do tomorrow.'

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Cordelia waited exactly fifteen minutes, refused Ambrose's offer of a nightcap, then made her way upstairs. The communicating door between her room and Clarissa's was ajar and she went through without knocking. Clarissa, in her cream satin dressing-gown, was sitting at the dressing-table. Her hair was tugged back from her face and tied with a ribbon at the nape of the neck; her hairline was bound with a crêpe band. She was scrutinizing her face in the glass and didn't look round.

The room was lit only by one bright light on the dressing-table and the softer glow of the bedside lamp. A thin wood fire crackled in the grate and threw leaping shadows over the richness of damask and mahogany. The air smelt of woodsmoke and perfume and the room, dim and mysterious, struck Cordelia as smaller and more luxurious than in its daytime brightness. But the bed was more than ever dominant, glowing under its scarlet canopy, sinister and portentous as a catafalque. Cordelia was certain that Tolly must have been there hefore her. The sheets were turned back and Clarissa's nightdress had been laid out, its waist pinched. It looked like a shroud. In the shadowed half-light it was easy to imagine that she stood in the doorway of a bedroom in Amalfi with Webster's doomed duchess bright-haired at her toilet, while horror and corruption stalked in the shadows and beyond the half-open window a tideless Mediterranean lay open to the moon.

Clarissa's voice broke into her mood. 'Oh, here you are. I've sent Tolly away so that we can talk. Don't just stand there. Find yourself a chair.' On each side of the fireplace was a low, spoon-backed chair with carved arms and feet. Cordelia slid one forward on its casters and seated herself to the left of the dressing-table. Clarissa peered at herself in the glass then unscrewed a jar of cleansing pads and began wiping off her eye-shadow and mascara. Thin black-stained scraps of tissue crept over the polished mahogany. The left eye, wiped clean of make-up, looked diminished, almost lifeless, giving her suddenly the mask of a lopsided clown. She peered at the denuded lid, frowned, then said:

'You seem to have enjoyed yourself this evening. Perhaps I should remind you that you were hired as a detective not an after-dinner entertainer.'

It had been a long day and Cordelia couldn't summon the energy for anger.

'Perhaps if you were honest with them and told them why I'm here they'd be less likely to treat me as a fellow guest. Private detectives aren't expected to sing, at least I wouldn't think so. They probably wouldn't even want to eat with me. A private eye is hardly a comfortable dining companion.'

'What good would that do? If you don't mix with them, how can you watch them? Besides, the men like you. I've seen Ivo and Simon looking at you. Don't pretend that you don't know it. I hate that kind of sexual coyness.' 'I wasn't going to pretend anything.'

Clarissa was busy now with an immense jar of cleansing cream, smearing dollops of the cream over face and neck and wiping it off with strong upward sweeps of cotton wool. The discarded greasy balls were added to the mess on the dressing-table. Cordelia found herself studying Clarissa's face with as much intensity as did its owner. The eyes were a little too far apart, the skin was thick, unluminous, but almost without lines; the cheeks were flat and wide; the mouth with its pouting lower lip too small for beauty. But it was a face that could take on loveliness at Clarissa's will and even now, bandaged, unenhanced and sunk in repose, it held the assurance of its latent, eccentric beauty.

Suddenly, she asked:

'What do you think of Simon's playing?'

'I'm not really qualified to judge. Obviously, he has talent.'

She was about to add that he might make a more successful accompanist than solo performer, then thought better of it. It was perfectly true: she wasn't competent to judge. And she had the feeling that ignorant though she was, some kind of decision might depend on her answer.

'Oh, talent! That's common enough. One doesn't invest six thousand pounds or so in mere talent. The thing is, has he the guts to succeed? George thinks not, but that he may as well be given his chance.'

'Sir George knows him better than I do.'

Clarissa said sharply:

'But it isn't George's money is it? I'll consult Ambrose, but not until after the play. I can't worry about anything until then. He'll probably damn the poor boy. Ambrose is such a perfectionist. But he does know something about music. He'd be a better judge than George. If only Simon had taken up a stringed instrument, he might eventually try for a place in an orchestra. But the piano! Still, I suppose he could always work as an accompanist.'

Cordelia wondered whether she should point out that the job of a professional accompanist, so far from being an easy option, required a formidable combination of technical ability and musicality, but she reminded herself that she hadn't been employed to advise on Simon's career. And this talk of Simon was wasting time. She said:

'I think we should discuss the messages and our plans_; for the weekend, especially tomorrow. We ought to have spoken earlier.'

'I know, but there hasn't really been time what with the rehearsal and Ambrose showing off his castle. Anyway, you know what you're here for. If there are any more messages, I don't want to receive them. I don't want to be shown them… I don't want to be told about them. It's vital that I get through tomorrow. If I can only get back my confidence as an actress, I can face almost anything.'

'Even the knowledge of who is doing this to you?'

'Even that.'

Cordelia asked:

'How many of the people here know about the messages?'

Clarissa had finished cleaning her face and now began removing the varnish from her nails. The smell of acetone overlaid the smell of scent and make-up.

'Tolly knows. I haven't any secrets from Tolly. Anyway she was with me in my dressing-room when some of them were brought in by the doorman, the ones sent by post to the theatre. I expect Ivo knows; there's nothing happens in the West End that he doesn't get to hear about. And Ambrose. He was with me in my dressing-room at the Duke of Clarence when one was pushed under the door. By the time he'd picked it up for me and I'd opened it, whoever it was had gone. The corridor was empty. But anyone could have got in. Backstage at the Clarence is like a warren and Albert Betts used to drink and wasn't always on the door when he should have been. They've sacked him now, but he was still working there when the note was delivered. And my husband knows, of course. Simon doesn't, unless Tolly has told him. I can't think why she should.'

'And your cousin?'

'Roma doesn't know and, if she did, she. wouldn't care.' 'Tell me about Miss Lisle.'

^There's not much to tell and what there is, is boring. We're first cousins, but George has told you that. It's quite a common story. My father made a sensible marriage and his younger brother ran off with a barmaid, left the Army, drank and made a general mess of his life, then expected Daddy to help out. And he did, at least as far as Roma was concerned. She was always staying with us when I was a child, particularly after Uncle died. Poor Little Orphan Annie. Glum, badly dressed and perpetually miserable. Even Daddy couldn't stand her for long. He was the most marvellous person, I adored him. But she was such a bore, and so plain, worse than she is now. Daddy was one of those people who really couldn't bear ugliness, particularly in women. He loved gaiety, wit, beauty. He just couldn't make himself look at a plain face.'

Cordelia thought that Daddy, who sounded like a self-satisfied humbug, must have spent most of his life with his eyes shut, depending, of course, on his standard of ugliness. Clarissa added:

'And she wasn't a bit grateful.'

'Should she have been?'

Clarissa seemed to feel that the question deserved serious thought, or as much as she could spare from the business of filing her nails.

'Oh, I think so. He didn't have to take her in. And she could hardly expect him to treat her the same as me, his own child.' 'He could have tried.'

'But that's not reasonable, and you know it. You wouldn't behave like that so why expect him to. You really must guard against becoming just a bit of a prig. Men don't like it.'

Cordelia said:

'I don't much like it myself. Someone once told me that it's the result of having an atheist father, a convent education and a nonconformist conscience.'

There was silence between them, not uncompanionable. Then Cordelia said on impulse:

'These notes – could Miss Tolgarth have anything to do with them?'

'Tolly! Of course not. Whatever put that idea into your head? She's devoted to me. You mustn't be put off by her manner. She's always been like that. But we've been together since I was a child. Tolly adores me. If you can't see that you're not much of a detective. Besides, she can't type. The messages are typed in case you hadn't noticed.' Cordelia said gravely:

'You should have told me about her child. If I'm to help I need to know anything that might be relevant.' She waited, apprehensive, for Clarissa's response. But the hands, busy with their self-ministrations, didn't falter.

'But that isn't relevant. It was all a mistake. Tolly knows that. Everyone knows it. I suppose Ivo told you. That's typical of his malice and disloyalty. Can't you see that he's sick? He's dying! And he's eaten up with jealousy. He always has been. Jealousy and malice.'

Cordelia wondered whether she could have asked the question more tactfully, whether it had been wise to ask it at all. Ivo hadn't asked her not to betray their conversation but presumably he had hoped for discretion. And the weekend promised to be difficult enough without setting two of the guests at each other's throats. Direct lying had never been easy for her. She said cautiously:

'No one has been disloyal. Obviously I did some tactful research before I arrived here. These things do get talked about. I have a friend in the theatre.' Well that was true enough anyway even if poor Bevis was more often out than in. But Clarissa was uninterested in putative theatrical friends.

'I'd like to know what right Ivo has to criticize me. Do you realize how many careers he's ruined by his cruelty? Yes, cruelty! I've seen actors – actors mind you – in tears after one of his reviews. If he could have resisted the impulse to be clever he might have been one of the great British critics. He could have been a second Agate or a Tynan. And what is he now? Dying on his feet. He's no right to come here looking as he does. It's like having a death's head at table. It's indecent.'

It was interesting, thought Cordelia, the way in which death had replaced sex as the great unmentionable, to be denied in prospect, endured in a decent privacy, preferably behind the drawn curtains of a hospital bed, and followed by discreet, embarrassed, uncomforted mourning. There was this to be said about the Convent of the Holy Child; the views of the Sisters on death had been explicit, firmly held and not altogether reassuring; but at least they hadn't regarded it as in poor taste. She said:

'Those first messages, the ones that came when you were playing Lady Macbeth, the ones you threw away. Were they the same as the later ones, typed on white paper?'

'Yes, I suppose so. It was a long time ago.'

'But you can't have forgotten?'

'They must have been the same, mustn't they? What does it matter? I don't want to talk about it now.'

'It's the only chance we may get. I haven't been able to see you alone today and tomorrow isn't going to be any easier.'

Clarissa was on her feet now, pacing between the dressing-table and the bed.

'It wasn't my fault. I didn't kill her. She wasn't properly cared for. If she had been she wouldn't have had the accident. What's the point of having a child – a bastard too – if you don't look after it?'

'But wasn't Tolly at work, looking after you?'

'The hospital had no right to phone like that, upsetting people. They must have known that it was a theatre that they were calling, that West End curtains rise at eight, that we'd be in the middle of a performance. She couldn't have done anything if I had let her go. The child was unconscious, she wouldn't have known her. It's sentimental and morbid, this sitting by the bedside waiting for people to die. What good does it do? And I had three changes in the Third Act. Kalenski designed the banquet costume himself; barbaric jewellery, a crown set with great dollops of red stones like blood, a skirt so stiff I could hardly move. He meant me to be weighed down, to walk stiffly like an over-encumbered child. "Think of yourself as a seventeenth-century princess," he said, "wonderingly loaded with inappropriate majesty." Those were his words, and he made me keep moving my hands down the sides of the skirt as if I couldn't believe that I was actually wearing so much richness. And of course it made a marvellous contrast with the plain cream shift in the sleep-walking scene. It wasn't a nightgown, they used to sleep naked apparently. I used it to wipe my hands. Kalenski said, "Hands, darling, hands, hands, that's what this part is all about." It was a new interpretation, of course, I wasn't the usual kind of Lady Macbeth, tall, domineering, ruthless; I played her like a sex-kitten but a kitten with hidden claws.'.

It was, thought Cordelia, a novel interpretation of the part, but surely not altogether consonant with the text. But perhaps Kalenski, like other Shakespearean directors whose names came to mind, didn't let that bother him. She said:

'But was it true to the text?'

'Oh, my dear, who cares about the text? I don't mean that exactly, but Shakespeare's like the Bible, you can make it mean anything, that's why directors love him.'

'Tell me about the child.'

'Macduff's son? Desmond Willoughby played him, an intolerable child. A vulgar Cockney accent. You can't find a child actor now who knows how to speak English. Too old for the part too. Thank God I never had to appear with him.'

One biblical text came into Cordelia's mind, brutally explicit in its meaning, but she didn't speak it aloud:

Whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.

Clarissa turned and looked at her. Something in Cordelia's face must have pierced even her egotism. She cried:

'I'm not paying you to judge me! What are you looking like that for?'

'I'm not judging you. I want to help. But you have to be honest with me.'

'I am being honest, as honest as I know how. When I first saw you, that day at Nettie Fortescue's, I knew I could trust you, that you were someone I could talk to. It's degrading to be so afraid. George doesn't understand, how could he? He's never been afraid of anything in his life. He thinks I'm neurotic to care. He only went to see you because I made him.'

'Why didn't you come yourself?'

^CI thought you might be more likely to accept the job if he asked you. And I don't enjoy asking people for favours. Besides, I had a fitting for one of my costumes.'

'There wasn't any question of a favour. I needed the job. I probably would have taken almost anything if it wasn't illegal and didn't disgust me.'

'Yes, George said that your office was pretty squalid. Well, pathetic rather than squalid. But you aren't. There's nothing squalid or pathetic about you. I couldn't have put up with the usual kind of female private eye.'

Cordelia said gently:

'What is it that you're really afraid of?'

Clarissa turned on Cordelia, her softly gleaming, cleansed, un-coloured face looking for the first time, in its nakedness, vulnerable to age and grief, and gave a sad, rather rueful smile. Then she lifted her hands in an eloquent gesture of despair.

'Oh, don't you know? I thought George had told you. Death. That's what I'm afraid of. Just death. Stupid isn't it? I always have been: even when I was a young child. I don't remember when it began, but I knew the facts of death before I knew the facts of life. There never was a time when I didn't see the skull beneath the skin. Nothing traumatic happened to start it off. They didn't force me to look at my Nanny, dead in her coffin, nothing like that. And I was at school when Mummy died and it didn't mean anything. It isn't the death of other people. It isn't the fact of death. It's my death I'm afraid of. Not all the time. Not every moment. Sometimes I can go for weeks without thinking about it. And then it comes, usually at night, the dread and the horror and the knowledge that the fear is real. I mean, no one can say "Don't worry it may never happen." They can't say "It's all your imagination, darling, it doesn't really exist." I can't really describe the fear, what it's like, how terrible it is. It comes in a rhythm, wave after wave of panic sweeping over me, a kind of pain. It must be like giving birth, except that I'm not delivering life, it's death I have between my thighs. Sometimes I hold up my hand, like this, and look at it and think: Here it is, part of me. I can feel it with my other hand, and move it and warm it and smell it and paint its nails. And one day it will hang white and cold and unfeeling and useless and so shall I be all those things. And then it will rot. And I shall rot. I can't even drink to forget. Other people do. It's how they get through their lives. But drink makes me ill. It isn't fair that I should have this terror and not be able to drink! Now I've told you, and you can explain that I'm stupid and morbid and a coward. You can despise me.'

Cordelia said:

'I don't despise you.'

'And it's no good saying that I ought to believe in God. I can't. And even if I could, it wouldn't help. Tolly got converted after Viccy died so I suppose she believes. But if someone told Tolly that she was going to die tomorrow she'd be just as unwilling to go. I've noticed that about the God people. They're just as frightened as the rest of us. They cling on just as long. They're supposed to have a heaven waiting but they're in no hurry to get there. Perhaps it's worse for them; judgement and hell and damnation. At least I'm only afraid of death. Isn't everyone? Aren't you?'

Was she? Cordelia wondered. Sometimes, perhaps. But the fear of dying was less obtrusive than more mundane worries; what would happen when the Kingly Street lease ran out, whether the Mini would pass its MOT test, how she would face Miss Maudsley if the Agency no longer had a job for her. Perhaps only the rich and successful could indulge the morbid fear of dying. Most of the world needed its energies to cope with living. She said cautiously, knowing that she had no comfort to offer:

'It doesn't seem reasonable to be afraid of something which is inevitable and universal and which I shan't be able to experience, anyway.'

'Oh, those are just words! All they mean is that you're young and healthy and don't have to think about dying. To lie in cold obstruction and to rot. That was in one of the messages.'

'I know.'

'And there's another for you to add to the collection. I've been keeping it for you. It came by post to the London flat yesterday morning. You'll find it at the bottom of my jewel case. It's on the bedside table, the left-hand side.'

The instruction as to the side was unnecessary; even in the subdued light and amid the clutter of Clarissa's bedside table, the softly gleaming casket was an object that caught the eye. Cordelia took it in her hands. It was about eight inches by five, with delicately wrought clawed feet, the lid and sides embossed with a representation of the judgement of Paris. She turned the key, and saw that the inside was lined with cream quilted silk. Clarissa called:

'Ambrose gave it to me when I arrived this morning, a good luck present for the performance tomorrow. I took a fancy to it when I saw it six months ago but it took a time before he got the message. He has so many Victorian baubles that one less can't make any difference. The casket we're using in Act Three is his, well, most of the props are. But this is prettier. More valuable too. But not as valuable as the thing I'm keeping in it. You'll find the letter in the secret drawer. Not so very secret, actually. You just press the centre of one of the leaves. You can see the line if you look carefully. Better bring it here. I'll show you.'

The box was surprisingly heavy. Clarissa pulled out a tangle of necklaces and bracelets as if they were cheap costume jewellery. Cordelia thought that some of the pieces probably were, bright beads of coloured stone and glass intertwined with the sparkle of real diamonds, the glow of sapphires, the softness of milk-white pearls. Clarissa pressed the centre of one of the leaves which decorated the side of the box and a drawer in the base slid slowly open. Inside Cordelia saw first a folded cutting of newsprint. Clarissa took it out:

'I played Hester in a revival of Rattigan's The Deep Blue Sea, at the Speymouth Playhouse. That was in 1977, Jubilee Year, when Ambrose was abroad in his year's tax exile. The theatre's closed now, alas. But they seemed to like me. Actually, that's probably the most important notice I ever had.'

She unfolded it. Cordelia glimpsed the headline. 'Clarissa Lisle triumphs in Rattigan revival.' Her mind busied itself for only a second on the oddity of Clarissa's attaching so much importance to the review of a revival in a small provincial town and she noticed, almost subconsciously, that the cutting was oddly shaped and larger than the space taken by the notice. But her interest fastened on the letter. The envelope matched the one handed to her by Mrs Munter from the morning postbag but the address had been typed on a different and obviously older machine. The postmark was London, the date two days earlier, and like the other it was addressed to the Duchess of Malfi but at Clarissa's Bayswater flat. Inside was the usual sheet of white paper, the neat black drawing of a coffin, the letters RIP. Underneath was typed a quotation from the play.

Who must despatch me?

I account this world a tedious theatre

For I must play a part in't 'gainst my will.

Cordelia said:

'Not very appropriate. He must be getting to the end of suitable quotations.'

Clarissa tugged off her hair-band. In the glass, her reflection gazed back at them both, a ghost face, hung about with pale dishevelled hair, the huge eyes troubled under their heavy lids.

'Perhaps he knows that he won't need many more. There's only tomorrow. Perhaps he knows – who better? – that tomorrow will be the end.'