The Skull Beneath The Skin

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Cordelia slept more deeply and for longer than she had expected. She was awoken by a quiet knock at the door. Instantly she was fully conscious and, throwing her dressing-gown round her shoulders, she went to open it. It was Mrs Munter with her early-morning tea. Cordelia had meant to be up well before she arrived. It was embarrassing to be discovered sleeping behind a locked door as if she were confusing Courcy Castle with a hotel. But if Mrs Munter was surprised at this eccentricity she gave no sign but placed the tray on the bedside table with a quiet 'Good morning, Miss,^’ and left as unobtrusively as she had arrived.

It was half-past seven. The room was filled with the smudged half-light of dawn. Going to the window, Cordelia saw that the eastern sky was just beginning to streak into brightness and that a low mist hung over the lawn and curled like smoke between the tree tops. It was going to be another lovely day. There was no sign of any bonfire, yet the air held the smoky wood-fire smell of autumn and the great mass of the sea heaved, grey and silver, as if it exuded its own-mysterious light.

She crept to the communicating door and opened it very gently. It was heavy, but it swung open without a creak. The curtains were drawn across the windows but there was enough light from her own room to show her Clarissa, still sleeping, one white arm curved round her pillow. Cordelia tiptoed up to the bed and stood very still listening to the quiet breathing. She felt a sense of relief without knowing exactly why. She had never believed that there was a real threat to Clarissa's life. And their precautions against mischief had been thorough. Both the doors to the corridor had been locked with the keys left in the locks. Even if someone had a duplicate there was no way in which he could have got in. But she needed the reassurance of Clarissa's untroubled breathing.

And then she saw the paper, a pale oblong gleaming against the carpet. Another message had been delivered, pushed under the door. So whoever was responsible was here, on the island. She felt her heart jolt. Then she took hold of herself, angry that she hadn't thought of the possibility of a missive under the door, resenting her own fear. She crept across to pick up the paper and took it into her own room, shutting the door behind her.

It was another passage from The Duchess of Malfi, eleven short words surmounted by a skull.

Thus it lightens into action, I am come to kill thee.

The form was the same, but the paper was different. This message was typed on the back of an old woodcut headed 'The Gt Meffenger of Mortality'. Beneath the tide was the crude figure of death bearing an hourglass and arrow followed by four stanzas of verse.

She gulped down her tea, pulled on her trousers and shirt and went in search of Ambrose. She had hardly hoped to find him so early but he was already in the breakfast room, coffee cup in hand, gazing out over the lawn. It was one of the rooms which she had seen on Friday's quick tour of the castle, the furniture and fittings all designed by Godwin. There was a simple refectory table with a set of fretwork-backed chairs while one long wall was entirely covered by a set of cupboards and open shelves, charmingly carved in light wood and surmounted by a tiled frieze in which orange trees in bright blue pots alternated with highly romanticized scenes from the legend of King Arthur and the Round Table. At the time Cordelia had thought it an interesting example of the architect's move towards the simplicities of the Aesthetic Movement, but now its self-conscious charm was lost on her.

Ambrose turned at her entrance and smiled.

'Good morning. It looks as if we're going to be lucky in the weather. The guests should arrive in sunshine and get back without risk of parting with their supper. The crossing can be treacherous in bad weather. Is our leading lady awake?'

'Not yet.'

Cordelia made a sudden resolution. It could do no harm to tell him. The woodcut almost certainly came from his house. Clarissa had told her that he already knew about the poison-pen messages. And Clarissa was his guest. Above all, she wanted to see his reaction to the paper. She held it out and said:

'I found this pushed under Clarissa's door this morning. Does it belong to you? If so, someone has mutilated it for you. Look on the back.'

He studied it briefly, then turned it over. For a moment he was silent. Then he said:

'So the messages are still coming. I did wonder. Has she seen this?'

There was no need to ask whom he meant. 'No. And she won't.'

'Very wise of you. I take it that weeding out this kind of nuisance is one of your duties as secretary-companion?'

'One of them. But does it belong to you?'

'No. It's interesting, but not my period.'

'But this is your house. And Miss Lisle is your guest.'

He smiled and wandered over to the sideboard.

'Will you have coffee?' She watched while he went over to the hotplate, poured her cup and refilled his own. Then he said:

'I accept the implied criticism. One's guests certainly have the right not to be harassed or menaced while under one's roof. But what do you suggest I can do? I'm not a policeman. I can hardly interrogate my other house guests. That, apart from its certain lack of success, would only result in six aggrieved persons instead of one. I doubt whether Clarissa would thank me. And, forgive me, aren't you taking this a little too seriously? I admit that it's a practical joke in poor taste. But is it any more than a joke? And surely the best response to this kind of nonsense is a dignified silence, even a certain amused contempt. Clarissa is an actress. She should be able to simulate one response or the other. If there is someone on the island who is trying to spoil her performance he – or more likely she – will soon give up if Clarissa demonstrates a total unconcern.'

'That's what she will do, at least until after the play. She won't see this. I can trust you not to tell her?'

'Of course. I have a strong interest in Clarissa's success, remember. You didn't put the thing there yourself by any chance?'

'No.'

'I thought not. Forgive my asking, but you see my difficulty. If it wasn't you, it was presumably her husband – except that he isn't here at the moment – her stepson, her cousin, her faithful dresser, or one of her oldest friends. Who am I to start probing these family and long-standing relationships? Incidentally, that woodcut belongs to Roma.' 'To Roma! How do you know?'

'You do sound fierce, quite like a schoolmistress. Roma used to teach you know. Geography and games, Clarissa tells me. A strange combination. I can't quite picture Roma, whistle at the lip, panting down the hockey field exhorting the girls to greater efforts or plunging into the deep end of the swimming pool. Well, perhaps I can believe that. She has aggressively muscular shoulders.'

Cordelia said:

'But the woodcut?'

'She told me that she found it in a second-hand book and thought I might be interested in seeing it. She showed it to me yesterday, just before the rehearsal, and I left it on the blotter on my desk in the business room.'

'Where anyone could have seen and taken it?'

'You sound like a detective. As you say, where anyone could have seen and taken it. It looks, incidentally, as if the message were typed on my machine. That, too, is kept in the business room.'

The typesetting, at least, would be easy enough to check. She might as well do it now. But before she could make the suggestion Ambrose said:

'And there's another thing. Forgive me if I find it rather more annoying than Clarissa's poison pen. Someone has broken the lock of the display cabinet outside the business room and taken the marble arm. If, during your duties as secretary-companion you should happen to learn who it is, I'd be grateful if you would suggest that he or she put it back. I admit that the marble's not to everyone's taste but I have a fondness for it.'

Cordelia said:

'The arm of the Princess Royal? When did you notice that it had gone?'

'Munter tells me that it was in the display case when he locked up last night. That was at ten minutes past midnight. He unlocked this morning shortly after six but didn't look at the display case although he thinks that he might have noticed if the arm had gone. But he can't be sure. I myself saw that it was missing, and that the lock had been forced, when I went to the kitchen to make tea just before seven.' Cordelia said:

'It couldn't have been Clarissa. She was asleep when I got up this morning. And I doubt whether she'd have the strength to break a lock.'

'Not much strength was required. A strong paper-knife would have done the trick. And, conveniently enough, there was a strong paper-knife on the desk in the business room.'

Cordelia asked:

'What are you going to do?'

'Nothing, at least until after the play. I can't see how it affects Clarissa. It's my loss, not hers. But I take it you would prefer her not to know?'

'I think it's vital that she doesn't know. The least thing could upset her. We'll just have to hope no one else notices that the arm has gone.'

He said:

'If they do, I suppose I can say that I've removed it since Clarissa found it so displeasing. It's humiliating to have to lie when there's no need, but if you think it important that Clarissa isn't told…'

'I do. Very important. I'd be grateful if you'd say and do nothing until after the play.'

It was then they heard the footsteps, firm, quick, clanging on the tiled floor. Both turned simultaneously and gazed at the door. Sir George Ralston appeared, tweed-coated and holding a grip. He said:

'I got through the meeting late yesterday. Drove most of the night and slept in a lay-by. Thought Clarissa would like me to put in an appearance if I could make it.'

Ambrose said:

'But how did you get to the island? I didn't hear a launch.'

'Found a couple of early fishermen. They put me ashore in the small bay. Got my feet wet but nothing worse. I've been on the island a couple of hours. Didn't like to disturb you. Is that coffee?'

A jumble of thoughts ran through Cordelia's mind. Was she still wanted? She could hardly ask Sir George directly with Ambrose present. She was supposed to be on the island as Clarissa's secretary, a job that was unlikely to be affected by his sudden appearance. And what about her room? Presumably he would wish to move next door to his wife. She was uncomfortably aware that she must look less than pleased to see him and that Ambrose was glancing at her with a sardonic, wryly amused look which recognized her discomfiture. Murmuring an excuse she slipped away.

Clarissa was stirring although Tolly hadn't yet brought in the early tray. Cordelia drew back the curtains and unlocked the door. She stood by the bed until Clarissa opened her eyes, then said:

'Your husband has just arrived. Apparently the meeting ended sooner than he expected.'

Clarissa heaved herself up from her pillows.

'George? But that's ridiculous! He isn't expected until late tonight at the earliest.'

'Well, he's here.'

Cordelia thought that it was as well she had warned Clarissa. Sir George could hardly have been gratified at her reception of the news. She sat up and stared straight ahead, her face expressionless. Then she said:

'Tug on that bell-rope, will you? The one by the fireplace. It's time Tolly brought in my tea.'

Cordelia said:

'I wondered whether you'll still want me.'

Clarissa's voice was sharp, almost frightened.

'Of course I still want you! What possible difference does this make? You know what you're here to do. If someone's out to get me, they aren't going to stop because George has arrived.'

'I could move out of the next-door room if you like.'

Clarissa swung her legs out of bed and made for the bathroom.

'Oh, don't be so bloody naive, Cordelia! Stay where you are. And tell George I'm awake if he wants to see me.'

She disappeared. Cordelia decided to wait in the bedroom until Tolly arrived with the tea. If she could help it, there would

be no time between now and the rise of the curtain when Clarissa would be left unguarded.

Clarissa returned from the bathroom and climbed back into bed.

Cordelia said:

'Before Miss Tolgarth arrives, could you tell me what the programme is today?'

'Oh, don't you know? I thought I'd explained it all. The curtain is due to rise at three thirty. Ambrose is arranging an early lunch, about midday, and I shall rest up here alone from one until two forty-five. I don't like to spend too long in my dressing-room before a performance. You can call me at two forty-five and we'll decide what, if anything, I want you to do during the play. The launch will fetch the Cottringham party from Speymouth. They should arrive at two thirty or shortly afterwards. There is a larger hired launch for the guests and that is due at three. We have tea in the interval at four thirty, set out under the arcade if it's warm enough, and supper at seven thirty in the great hall. The launches are ordered for nine.'

Cordelia said:

'And this morning? What is planned for the three hours between breakfast and luncheon? I think we should try to stay together.'

'We shall all stay together. Ambrose has suggested that we might like a trip round the island in Shearwater but I've told him that we're not a party of his five-pounds-a-day summer trippers. I've thought of a better plan. There are sights on Courcy that he hasn't shown us yet. I don't think you need worry about being bored. We'll start with a visit to the skulls of Courcy.'

Cordelia said:

'The skulls of Courcy? Do you mean real skulls, here in the castle?'

Clarissa laughed.

'Oh, they're real enough. In the crypt of the Church. Ambrose will recite the famous legend. They should put us all nicely in the mood for the horrors of Amalfi.'

Tolly with the tea-tray and Sir George arrived simultaneously. He was received very prettily. Clarissa held out a languid arm.

He raised her hand to his lips then bent with a stiff,, graceless movement and briefly laid his face against hers. She cried, her voice high and brittle:

'Darling, how lovely! And how clever of you to find someone to bring you across.'

He didn't look at Cordelia. He said gruffly:

'You're all right?'

'Darling, of course. Did you think I wasn't? How touching! But, as you see, here I am, Duchess of Malfi still.'

Cordelia left them. She wondered whether Sir George would find an opportunity of speaking to her privately and, if so, whether she should tell him about the woodcut pushed under the door. It was, after all, he who had employed her. But it was Clarissa who had sent for her, Clarissa who was her client, Clarissa she was paid to protect. Some instinct urged her to keep her counsel, at least until after the play. And then she remembered the missing marble. In the surprise of Sir George's arrival it had slipped from the front of her mind. But now its pale image gleamed in her imagination with all the sinister force of an omen. Ought she at least to warn Sir George that it was missing? But warn him against what? It was only the carved replica of a baby's limb, the limb of a long-dead princess. How could it harm anyone? Why should it hold in its chubby fingers such a weight of portentous power? She couldn't even explain to herself why she thought it so important that Clarissa wasn't told about the loss, except that the marble had repelled her and that any mention of it would be upsetting. Surely she had been right in asking Ambrose to say nothing, at least until after the play? So why tell Sir George? He hadn't even seen the limb. It would be time enough for them all to be told when Ambrose started inquiring and looking for it after the play. And that would be this evening. There was only today to be got through. She was aware that she wasn't thinking very clearly. And one thought in particular surprised and fretted her. Surely the presence of Clarissa's husband on Courcy Island ought to make her job easier? She should be feeling relieved at a sharing of responsibility. Why then should she see this unexpected arrival as a new and unwelcome complication? Why should she feel for the first time that she was caught in a charade in which she stumbled blindfold, while unseen hands spun her round, pushed and pulled at her, in which an unknown intelligence watched, waited and directed the play?

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Breakfast was a long-drawn-out meal to which the members of the house party came singly, ate at leisure and seemed reluctant to finish. The food would have done justice to Herbert Gorringe's Victorian notions of a proper start to the day. As the lids of the silver dishes were raised, the discordant smells of eggs and bacon, sausages, kidneys and haddock filled the breakfast room, stifling appetite. Despite the early promise of another warm day Cordelia sensed that the party was ill at ease and that she wasn't the only one present who was mentally counting the hours to nightfall. There seemed to be an unspoken conspiracy not to upset Clarissa, and when she announced her plan to visit the Church and the crypt the murmur of agreement was suspiciously unanimous. If anyone would have preferred a trip round the island or a solitary walk no one admitted it. Probably they were well aware how precarious was her control before a performance and no one wanted to risk being held responsible if that control broke. As they walked in a group along the arcade, past the theatre and under the shadow of the trees which led to the Church, it seemed to Cordelia that Clarissa was surrounded by the solicitous care afforded to an invalid or – and the thought was disagreeable – to a predestined victim.

Sir George was the one most at ease. When they entered the Church and the rest of the party gazed round with the air of people resolved to find something positive to say, his reaction was immediate and uncompromising. He obviously found its nineteenth-century fusion of religious enthusiasm with medieval romanticism unsympathetic and viewed the richly decorated apse with its mosaic of Christ in glory, the coloured tiles and the polychromatic arches with a prejudiced eye.

'It looks more like a Victorian London Club – or a Turkish bath come to that – than a Church. I'm sorry, Gorringe, but I can't admire it. Who d'you say the architect was?'

'George Frederick Bodley. My great-grandfather had quarrelled with Godwin by the time he came to rebuild the Church. His relationships with his architects were always stormy. I'm sorry you don't like it. The paintings on the reredos are by Lord Leighton, by the way, and the glass is by William Morris's firm who specialized in these lighter hues. Bodley was one of the first architects to use the firm. The east window is considered rather fine.'

'I don't see how anyone could actually pray in the place. Is that the War Memorial?'

'Yes. Put up by my uncle from whom I inherited. It's the only architectural addition he ever made to the island.'

The memorial was a plain stone slab set in the wall to the south of the altar which read:

In memory of the men of Courcy Island who fell on the battlefields of two world wars and whose bones lie in foreign soil.

1914-1918

1939-1945

This at least met with Sir George's approval.

'I like that. Plain and dignified. Wonder who put the wreath there. Been there some time by the look of it.' Ambrose had come up behind them. He said:

'There'll be a fresh one on nth November. Munter makes them from our own laurels and hangs one up each year. His father was killed in the war, in the Navy I think. Anyway, he was drowned. He told me that much.'

Roma asked:

'And do you assist at this charade?'

'No, he hasn't asked me. It's a purely private ceremony. I'm not sure I'm even supposed to know that it happens.' Roma turned away.

'It throws a new light on Munter though. Who would suspect him of that streak of romanticism? But I wouldn't have thought that the memorial was particularly appropriate. His father didn't live or work on the island, did he?'

'Not to my knowledge.'

'And if he drowned, his bones won't be buried in any soil, foreign or otherwise. It all seems rather pointless. But then, Remembrance Day is pointless. No one seems to know any longer what it's supposed to be for.'

Sir George said:

'It's for remembering the good chaps who've gone. Once a year. For two minutes. You wouldn't think that was too much to ask. And why degrade it into a sentimental mass love-in? At our last Parade the padre preached a sermon about the Third World and the World Council of Churches. I could see that some of the older chaps in the Legion were getting restless.'

Roma said:

'I suppose he thought his sermon had something to do with world peace.'

'Armistice Day isn't to do with peace. It's to do with war, and remembering one's dead. A nation that can't remember its dead will soon cease to be worth dying for. And what's so peaceful about the Third World?'

He turned quickly away and for a moment Cordelia thought that his eyes were moist. But then she saw that it was just a trick of the light and was embarrassed at her naivety. He might be remembering his own good chaps and the lost, forgotten and discredited causes for which they had died. But he was remembering without tears. He had seen so many bodies, so many deaths. Could any death now, she wondered, be more to him than a single statistic?

A door in the vestry led down to the crypt. To make their way down narrow stone steps lit by Ambrose's torch was to descend into a different world, a different time. Here alone was there any trace of the original Norman building. The roof was so low that Ivo, the tallest of them, could hardly stand upright, and the squat, heavy pillars strained as if bearing on their capitals the weight of nine centuries. Ambrose put out his hand to a wall switch and the claustrophobic chamber sprang into harsh unflattering light. They saw the skulls at once. One whole wall was patterned with them, a grinning parade of death. They had been ranged on rough oak shelves and were so tightly wedged that Cordelia judged that it would be impossible to separate them except by hacking them apart. Little care had been taken in the arrangement. In some places cement had been poured over them fixing mouth to mouth in the parody of a kiss. In others, the grit of the years had seeped between them binding them into cohesion; blocking the nasal cavities, collecting in the eye sockets and laying over the smooth domes a patina of dust like a shroud. Ambrose said'.

'There's a legend about them of course: there always is. In the seventeenth century the island was held by the de Courcy family; they had, in fact, been here since the fourteen hundreds. The de Courcy at that time was a particularly unpleasant representative of his breed. Someone must have told him about Tiberius' little doings on Capri – I don't suppose he could himself read – and he started to emulate them here. You can imagine the kind of thing; local maidens from the mainland abducted, droit de seigneur exercised on a scale which even the most compliant tenants found unreasonable, mutilated bodies brought in on the tide to the general disapproval of the locals. Speymouth was a small fishing village then. The town only reached any size or importance in the Regency – a sort of West Country Brighton. But the word got around. No one did anything, of course. The story is that the father of one of the abducted girls, whose tortured body floated ashore three weeks later, laid information against him with the local magistrate. De Courcy was subsequently tried at the Assizes but acquitted. One supposes it was managed in the usual way, a venal judge, perjured witnesses, bribed jurymen, a mixture of subservience and fear. And, of course, there was no direct evidence. At the end of the trial the father – he was an immensely powerful man according to the legend – rose up in court and cursed de Courcy and. all his clan in the customary dramatic terms of dead first-born, revolting diseases, the castle falling into ruins, the line extinct. Everyone must have enjoyed that part immensely. And then, in 1665 came the Plague.'

Cordelia thought that Ambrose's pause, if intended for dramatic effect, was unnecessary. The little group ranged round him were gazing at him with the rapt attention of foreign tourists whose guide, for once, is giving value for money. Ambrose went on.

'The Plague raged particularly fiercely on this coast. It was said to have been brought here by a family from Cheapside who had relations in the village and fled here for safety. One by one the local families fell victim. The parson and his family died early and there was no one to say the rites over the dead. Soon there was only one old man willing to bury them. Anarchy reigned. The island felt itself to be safe and de Courcy threatened death to anyone who landed. The story is that a boatload of women and children with one adult male to manage the boat did try. But if they were hoping to arouse de Courcy's compassion they were disappointed. He was behaving perfectly reasonably in this instance, of course. The only way to escape the pestilence was quarantine. It wasn't quite as reasonable to drive holes in the planks in the bottom of the boat before forcing it out to sea so that the human cargo drowned before they could reach shore, but that may be only a gloss on the story. About those

seventeenth-century boat people, I think we ought to give him the benefit of the doubt… And now for the climax.'

Ivo murmured:

'This story has everything but costumes by Motley and incidental music by Menotti.' But Cordelia saw that he was as interested as any of them.

'I don't know whether you know about the bubonic plague, the symptoms I mean. The victims would first have the sensation that they could smell rotting apples. After that came the dreaded pink rash on the forehead. The day came when the father of the murdered girl smelt the smell, saw in his glass the mark of death. It was a summer night but unruly, the sea turbulent. He knew that he hadn't long to live, the Plague killed swiftly. He launched his boat and set sail for the island.

'De Courcy and his private court were at dinner when the door of the great hall opened and he appeared, his great shambling sea-drenched figure, stumbling towards his enemy, eyes blazing. There was a moment when they were all too astounded for action. And in that moment he reached de Courcy, flung his great arms around him and kissed him full on the mouth.'

No one spoke. Cordelia wondered whether they would break into polite applause. The story had been well told and it had, in its simplicity, its terror, its almost symbolic confrontation of innocence with evil, a remarkable power. Ivo said:

'That story would make an opera. You've got the scenario. All you need is a Verdi or a second Benjamin Britten.'

Roma Lisle, gazing at the skulls in fascinated distaste, asked: 'And did the curse come true?'

'Oh yes. De Courcy and all his people here caught the Plague and were wiped out. The line is now extinct. It was four years before anyone came here to bury them. But then a kind of superstitious awe surrounded the island. The landsfolk averted their eyes from it. Fishermen, remembering the old religion, crossed themselves when they sailed in its shadow. The castle crumbled. It remained a ruin until my great-grandfather bought the place in 1864, built himself a castle in the modern style, reclaimed the land, cleared the undergrowth. Only the ruins of the old Church remained standing. De Courcy and his islanders hadn't been buried in the churchyard. The locals hadn't thought that they merited Christian burial. As a result Herbert Gorringe kept turning up the skeletons when planting his pleasure garden. His men collected the skulls and arranged them here, a nice compromise between Christian disposal and tossing them on the bonfire.'

Roma said:

'There's something carved above the top shelf, words and numbers. The carving's a bit crude. It could be a biblical reference.'

'Ah, that's a personal comment by one of the Victorian workmen who thought that the setting up of this row of Yoricks might be an opportunity to point a moral and adorn a tale. No, I shan't identify it for you. Look it up for yourselves.'

Cordelia didn't need to look it up. A convent-born knowledge of the Old Testament and a lucky guess led her unerringly to the text.

'Judgement is mine saith the Lord. I will repay.'

It was, she thought, an inappropriate comment on a vengeance which, if Ambrose's story were true, had been so singularly, so satisfyingly human.

It was very cold in the crypt. Conversation had died. They stood in a ring looking at the row of skulls as if these smooth domes of bone, the ragged nasal orifices, the gaping sockets, could be made to yield the secret of their deaths. How unfrightening they were, thought Cordelia, these age-long symbols of mortality, set up like a row of grinning devils to frighten children at a fairground and, in their denuded anonymity, stripping human pretensions to the risible evidence that what lasted longest in man were his teeth.

From time to time during Ambrose's story she had glanced at Clarissa, wondering what effect this recital of horrors might have on her. It seemed to her strange that the crudely drawn caricature of a skull could produce such fear while the reality provoked no more than an exaggerated frisson of distaste. But Clarissa's refined sensibilities were apparently capable of sustaining any amount of assault provided the horrors were anaesthetized by time and there were no threats to herself. Even in the harsh, draining glare of the crypt her face looked flushed and the immense eyes shone more brightly. Cordelia doubted whether she would be happy to visit the crypt alone but now, feeling herself the centre of the company, she was enjoying a thrill of vicarious dread like a child at a horror movie who knows that none of the terror is real, that outside is the familiar street, the ordinary faces, the comfortable world of home. Whatever Clarissa feared, and Cordelia couldn't believe that the fear was faked, she had no sympathy with these long-dead tormented souls, no dread of a supernatural visitation in the small hours. She was expecting that, when her fate came and in whatever guise, it would still wear a human face. But now excitement had made her euphoric. She said to Ambrose:

'Darling, your island's a repository of horrors, charming on the surface and seething underneath. But isn't there something closer in time, a murder which really did happen? Tell us about the Devil's Kettle.'

Ambrose avoided looking at her. One of the skulls was unaligned with its fellows. He took the white ball between his hands and tried to grind it back into place. But it couldn't be shifted and, suddenly, the jaw bone came apart in his hands. He shoved it back, wiped his hands on his handkerchief and said:

'There's nothing to see. And the story is rather beastly. Only interesting really to those who relish in imagination the contemplation of another's pain.'

But the warning and the implied criticism were wasted on her. She cried:

'Darling, don't be so stuffy! The story's forty years old at least and I know about it anyway. George told me. But I want to see where it happened. And I've got a personal interest. George was here on the island at the time. Did you know that George was here?'

Ambrose said shortly:

'Yes, I know.'

Roma said:

'Whatever it is, you may as well show us. Clarissa won't give you any peace until you do and the rest of us are entitled to have our curiosity satisfied. It can hardly be worse than this place.'

No one else spoke. Cordelia thought that Clarissa and her cousin were unlikely allies even in persuasion and wondered whether Roma was genuinely interested or merely hoped to get the story over with so that she could get out of the crypt. Clarissa's voice assumed the wheedling note of an importunate child.

'Please, Ambrose. You promised that you would some time or other. Why not now? After all, we're here.'

Ambrose looked at George Ralston. The look seemed to invite consent, or at least comment. But if he were hoping for support in resisting Clarissa, he was disappointed. Sir George's face was impassive, its restlessness for once stilled.

Ambrose said:

'All right, if you insist.'

He led them to a low door at the west end of the crypt. It was made of oak, almost black with age and with strong bands of iron and a double bolt. Beside it on a nail hung a key. Ambrose shot back the bolts then inserted the key in the lock. It turned easily enough but he needed all his strength to pull open the door. Inside he reached up and switched on a light. They saw before them a narrow vaulted passage only wide enough for two to walk abreast. Ambrose led the way with Clarissa at his shoulder. Roma walked alone followed by Cordelia and Simon with Sir George and Ivo at the rear.

After less than twenty feet, the passage gave way to a flight of steep stone steps which curved to the left. At the bottom it widened but the roof was still so low that Ivo had to stoop. The passage was lit by unshaded but protected light bulbs hung from a cable and the air, although fusty, was fresh enough to breathe without discomfort. It was very quiet and their footsteps echoed on the stone floor. Cordelia estimated that they must have covered about two hundred yards when they came to a turn in the passage and then a second flight of steps, steeper than the first and rougher, as if hewn out of the rock. And it was then that the light failed.

The shock of instantaneous and total blackness after the artificial brightness of the tunnel made them gasp and one of the women – Cordelia thought that it was Clarissa – gave a cry. She fought against a moment of panic, calming by an act of will her suddenly pounding heart. Instinctively she stretched out her hand into the darkness and encountered a firm warm arm under thin cotton, Simon's arm. She let go but almost immediately felt her hand grasped by his. Then she heard Ambrose's voice.

'Sorry, everyone, I'd forgotten that the lights are on a time switch. I'll find the button in a second.'

But Cordelia judged that it must have been fifteen seconds before the light came on. They blinked at each other in the sudden glare, smiling a little sheepishly. Simon's hand was immediately withdrawn as if scalded and he turned his face from her. Clarissa said crossly:

'I wish you'd warn us before playing silly tricks.' Ambrose looked amused.

'No trick I assure you. And it won't happen again. The chamber above the Devil's Kettle has an ordinary light system. Only another forty yards to go. And you did insist on this excursion, remember.'

They went down the steps with the aid of a looped rope which had been threaded through rings bolted into the rock. After another thirty yards the. passage widened to form a low-roofed cave. Ivo asked, his voice sounding unnaturally loud:

'We must be forty feet below ground. How is it ventilated?'

'By shafts. One of them comes up into the concrete bunker built in the war to guard the southern approach to the island. And there are a number of others. The first of them is believed to have been installed by de Courcy. The Devil's Kettle must have had its uses for him.'

In the middle of the floor was an oak trapdoor furnished with two strong bolts. Ambrose drew them back and pulled open the flap. They crowded round and six heads bent to peer down. They saw an iron ladder leading down to a cave. Below them heaved sea water. It was difficult to tell which way the tide was running but they could see the light streaming in from- an aperture shaped like a half moon and they heard for the first time the faint susurration of the sea and smelt the familiar salty seaweed tang. With each wave the water gushed almost silently into the cave and swirled around the rungs of the ladder. Cordelia shivered. There was something remorseless, almost uncanny, about that quiet, regular spouting. Clarissa said:

'Now tell!'

Ambrose was silent for a minute. Then he said:

'It happened in 1940. The island and the castle were taken over by the Government and used as a reception and interrogation centre for foreign nationals of the Axis powers trapped in the United Kingdom by the war, and others, including a number of British citizens who were suspected, at worst, of being enemy agents or at best of being Nazi sympathizers. My uncle was living in the castle with only his one manservant and they were moved out to the cottage in the stable block now occupied by Oldfield. What went on in the castle was, of course, top secret. The internees were only kept here for a relatively short time and I've no reason to suppose that their stay was particularly uncomfortable. A number were released after interrogation and clearance, some went on to internment on the Isle of Man, some I suppose eventually came to less agreeable ends. But George knows more about the place than I do. As Clarissa says, he was stationed here as a young officer for a few months in 1940.'

He paused, but again there was no response. He had spoken as if Sir George were no longer with them. Cordelia saw Roma glance at Ralston, surprised, a little wary. She half opened her mouth then thought better of it. But she kept her gaze on him with a stubborn intensity rather as if she were seeing him for the first time.

Ambrose went on:

'I don't know any of the details. Someone does, I suppose, or as much of the truth as came out. There must be an official record of the incident somewhere although it was never published. All I know is what my uncle told me on one of my rare visits and that was mostly rumour.'

Clarissa permitted herself a display of nicely judged impatience. It was, thought Cordelia, as artificial as the simulated moue of distaste with which she had first regarded the shelf of skulls. Clarissa had no need of impatience; Clarissa knew exactly what was coming.

Ambrose spread plump hands and shrugged, as if resigned to a recital he would prefer to have avoided. But he could have avoided it, thought Cordelia, if he had really tried. And for the first time she wondered whether the conversation, even the visit to the crypt, had been the result of collusion.

He said:

'In March 1940 there were about fifty internees on Courcy and, among them, a hard core of dedicated Nazis most of whom were Germans trapped in Britain at the outbreak of war. They suspected one of their number, a boy of twenty-two, of having betrayed their secrets to the British authorities during interrogation. Perhaps he did. On the other hand, he may have been a British under-cover agent who had infiltrated their group. All I know are rumours, and second-hand rumours at that. What does seem beyond dispute is that the group of Nazis convened a secret court in the crypt of the Church, convicted their comrade of treason and condemned him to death. Then they gagged him, bound his arms and brought him down the passageway to this cave, the Devil's Kettle. As you can see it has a narrow opening which leads to the east cove but the cave is always flooded at high tide. They bound their victim to that iron ladder and left him to drown. He was a very tall young man. He died slowly in the darkness, and he died hard. Later one of them crept back to untie him and let the body float out to sea. When it was washed up only two days later the wrists were cut through almost to the bone. One of his fellow internees told a story of the young man's mounting depression and it was suggested that he had bound his wrists to prevent himself from swimming and had leapt into the sea. None of his judges or executioners ever spoke.'

Roma asked:

'Then how was the story ever known?'

'Someone talked eventually, I suppose, but not until after the war. Oldfield was living in Speymouth at the time and was employed here by the Army. He may have heard rumours. He doesn't admit it now, but someone on the island must have suspected. Someone may even have condoned what happened, or at least closed his eyes. After all, the Army were in charge here. Yet the gang got their hands on the keys to the crypt and the secret passage and managed to return them undetected. That suggests, well, let's say a certain degree of official carelessness on someone's part.'

Clarissa turned to her husband.

'What was he called, darling, the boy who died?'

'His name was Carl Blythe.'

Clarissa turned to the company. Her voice was as out of key as an hysteric:

'And the most extraordinary thing is that he was English – well,

his father was anyway, his mother was German – and George

was at school with him, weren't you, darling? They were both at

Melhurst. He was three years older and rather a horrid boy,

cruel really, one of those bullies who make other boys' lives a

torment to them, so he and George weren't exactly friends. In

fact George hated him. And then to find him here and at his

mercy. Wasn't it odd?'

Ivo said easily:

'Not particularly. The British public schools produced their share of Nazi sympathizers and this is where you'd expect to find them in 1940.'

Cordelia stared down at the iron ladder. The light in the passage, fierce and garish, did nothing to mitigate the horror; rather it intensified it. In the old days, the cruelty of man to man was decently shrouded in darkness; the mind dwelt on airless unfit dungeons, on light filtering through the slits of narrow windows. But the modern interrogation rooms and torture chambers were ablaze with light. The technocrats of pain needed to see what they were at. Suddenly the place became intolerable to her. The chill of the passageway intensified. She had to tauten her arms and clench her fists to prevent herself visibly shaking. In her imagination the tunnel behind them stretched to infinity and they were doomed to rush down its contracting brightness like terrified rats. She felt a bead of sweat roll down her forehead and sting her eyes and knew that it had nothing to do with the cold. She made herself speak, hoping that her voice didn't betray her.

'Can't we get out of here? I feel like a voyeuse.'

Ivo said:

'And I feel cold.'

Taking her cue promptly, Clarissa shivered. Then Sir George spoke for the first time. Cordelia wondered whether it was her confused senses or the echo from the low roof which made his voice sound so different.

'If my wife has satisfied her curiosity perhaps we might go.'

Then he made a sudden jerk forward. Before they could guess what was coming he put his foot behind the open trapdoor and pushed. It crashed down. The walls seemed to crack and the passage shook under their feet. They must all have cried out, their voices thin screams in the echoing, reverberating roar. When it had faded no one spoke. Sir George had already turned on his heel and was making his way towards the entrance.

Cordelia found herself a little ahead of the others. Fear, and a deadening sense of misery which was stronger than fear and which added to her claustrophobia, urged her forward. Even the crypt with its neatly disposed ossuary was preferable to this horrible place. She stooped to pick up the neatly folded oblong of paper almost instinctively and without curiosity, without even turning it over to see if it were addressed. In the harsh light of the single bulb the neatly drawn skull and the typed quotation were starkly clear and she realized that she had known from the first what it must be.

Thy death is plotted; here's the consequence of murder.

We value not desert nor Christian breath,

When we know black deeds must be cur'd with death.

It was not, she thought, completely accurate. Surely the first word should be 'My' not 'Thy'. But the message was plain enough. She slipped it into her shirt pocket and turned to wait for the rest of the party. She tried to recall where they had all been standing when the lights went out. Surely it had been at about this spot where the tunnel curved. It would have taken only a few seconds for one of them to dart back under cover of the darkness, someone who had the message ready, someone who didn't care, might even have been pleased, that Clarissa would know that her enemy was one of this small party. And if anyone other than she had seen it first, or if the group had been together, then it must have been placed in Clarissa's hands. It was addressed to her in the same typed letters. Ambrose was perhaps the most likely culprit. That light had failed very conveniently. But any of the others could have done it, any except Simon. She had felt his hand firmly in hers.

And then they- came into view. She stood under the light and scanned their faces. But none betrayed anxiety, none showed any surprise, no eyes dropped to the ground. Joining them she felt that she fully understood for the first time why it was that Clarissa was so afraid. Until now the messages had seemed little more than a childish persecution which no intelligent woman would think worth more than a moment's real anxiety. But they were a manifestation of hatred, and hatred, whatever else it was, could never be petty. They were childish, but there was an adult and sophisticated malice behind the childishness and the danger they threatened might, after all, be real and imminent. She wondered whether she was right in keeping this message and the earlier ones from Clarissa, whether it might not be safer to put her on increased guard. But her instructions had been clear; to save Clarissa from any anxiety or annoyance before the performance. There would be time enough after the play to decide what else should be done. And there were less than four hours now before the curtain rose.

While they were passing the row of skulls, this time without a glance, Cordelia found herself walking with Ivo. His speed, whether by necessity or design, was slower than the others and she kept pace with him. He said:

'That was an instructive episode, don't you think? Poor Ralston! I take it that the whole episode and his subsequent moral scruples were an offering of conjugal unreserve. What did you think of it all, oh wise Cordelia?'

'I thought that it was horrible.'

And both of them knew that she wasn't thinking only of that poor renegade's last agony, his lonely and terrible death. Roma came alongside them. Cordelia saw that, for once, she looked animated, her eyes brightly malicious. She said:

'Well that was an unedifying performance. For those of us fortunate enough to be unmarried it makes holy matrimony seem a pretty unholy estate. Almost terrifying.'

Ivo said:

'Marriage is terrifying. At least I've found it so.'

Roma was unwilling to let the matter rest.

'Does she always need to psych herself up with an exhibition of cruelty before a performance?'

'She's nervous certainly. It takes people different ways.'

'But this is only an amateur performance, for God's sake! The theatre can't hold more than eighty or so. And she's supposed to be a professional. What do you think George Ralston was feeling back there?'

The note of satisfaction was unmistakable. Cordelia wanted to say that one had only to have looked at his face to have seen what Sir George was thinking. But she didn't speak. Ivo said:

'Like most professional soldiers, Ralston is a sentimentalist. He takes the great absolutes, honour, justice, loyalty, and binds them to his heart with hoops of steel. I find it rather appealing. But it does make for a certain… rigidity.'

Roma shrugged.

'If you mean that he's abnormally controlled, I agree. It will be interesting to see what happens if ever the control snaps.'

Clarissa turned and called to them, her voice happily imperious:

'Come on, you three. Ambrose wants to lock the crypt. And I want lunch.'

CHAPTER TWENTY

The contrast between the sun-warmed terrace where, once again, luncheon was set out on a linen-covered trestle table, and the dark, rank-smelling pit of the Devil's Kettle, was so great that

Cordelia felt disorientated. That brief descent into the hell of the past could have happened in a different place and time. Looking out across the light-flecked sea to where the canvases of the Saturday sailors curved to catch the breeze, it was possible to imagine that it hadn't happened at all, that de Courcy's plague-ridden court, Carl Blythe's agony as he struggled against the horror of his long dying were the remnants of a nightmare which had no more reality than the caricatures of a horror comic.

It was a light meal, a watercress and avocado salad followed by salmon souffle, chosen perhaps to soothe a nervous digestion. But even so, no one ate with appetite or evident enjoyment. Cordelia took one glass of the cool Riesling and forced down the salmon, knowing rather than tasting that it was delicious. Clarissa's brittle euphoria had given way to a silent preoccupation which no one liked to disturb. Roma crouched on the step at the end of the terrace, her unregarded plate in her lap, and gazed moodily out to sea. Sir George and Ivo stood together but neither spoke. But all of them, except Clarissa and herself, drank steadily. Ambrose said little but moved among them refilling the glasses, his bright eyes amused and indulgent as if they were children behaving predictably under stress.

Unexpectedly, Simon was the liveliest of the party. He was drinking heavily, apparently unnoticed by Clarissa, swilling the wine down as if it were beer, his hand a little unsteady, his eyes bright. At about ten to one, he suddenly announced loudly that he would go for a swim, looking round at them rather as if he expected them to take an interest in this news. No one did, but Clarissa said:

'Not so soon after a meal, darling. Take a walk first.'

The endearment was so unexpected that they all looked up. The boy blushed, gave them a stiff little bow, and disappeared. Shortly afterwards, Clarissa put down her plate, looked at her watch and said:

'Time to rest. No coffee, thank you, Ambrose. I never take it before a performance. I thought you knew that. Will you ask Tolly to bring up the tea-tray at once? China tea. She knows the kind I have. George, would you come up in five minutes? I'll see you later, Cordelia. Better make it ten past one.'

She made her slow way across the terrace with the graceful deliberation of a stage exit. For the first time, she seemed to Cordelia to be vulnerable, almost pathetic in her lonely, self-absorbed fear. She felt an impulse to follow, but knew that it would only arouse. Clarissa's fury. And she had no fear of Clarissa finding another message thrust under the door. Cordelia had checked the room immediately before coming down to lunch. She knew now that the person responsible had been one of the small party who had visited the Devil's Kettle and all of them had been under her eye throughout the meal. Only Simon had left early. And she did not believe for one moment that the culprit was Simon.

Suddenly Roma struggled to her feet and hurried out after her cousin, almost running from the terrace. The eyes of Ambrose and Ivo met but neither spoke, inhibited perhaps by the presence of Sir George. He walked to the end of the terrace, his back to them, coffee cup in hand. He seemed to be counting the minutes. Then he glanced at his watch, replaced his cup on the table and made for the french windows. Looking round, foot on the step, he asked:

'What time does the curtain rise, Gorringe?'

'At three thirty.'

'And we change before then?'

'That's what Clarissa expects. There won't be time afterwards, anyway. Supper is at seven thirty.' Sir George nodded and was gone. Ivo said:

'Clarissa organizes her helots with the brutal precision of a military commander. Ten minutes before you need report for duty, Cordelia. Time surely for a second cup of coffee.'

When Cordelia unlocked her bedroom and went through the communicating door, Sir George was with his wife standing by the window looking out over the sea. The round silver tea-tray with its single cup and saucer, its elegant matching pot, was on the bedside chest as yet untouched. Clarissa, still in her Bermuda shorts and shirt, was pacing up and down, her colour high.

'She asked me for twenty-five thousand, came out with it, red-faced, as if she were a child asking for an increase in pocket money. And now of all times! She couldn't even wait until after the performance. Talk about crass stupidity! Is she deliberately trying to upset me or something?'

Sir George spoke without turning.

'Important to her, I expect. Couldn't bear the suspense of waiting. Had to know. It's not easy to get you alone.'

'She never had any sense of timing, even as a child. If there was a wrong moment for anything, trust Roma to pick it. Part of her general insensitivity. By God, she's chosen the wrong moment now!'

The voice from the window said quietly:

'Would there have been a right one?'

Clarissa seemed not to have heard.

'I told her that I wasn't prepared to hand over capital to support a lover who hadn't even the guts or decency to come and ask for it himself. I gave her some advice. If you have to buy yourself a man, he's not worth having. And if you can't get sex without buying it, buy cheaper. She's madly in love with him, of course. That's what this shop of theirs is all about, a ploy to get him away from his wife. Roma in love! I could almost feel sorry for him if he wasn't such a fool. When a plain virgin of forty-five falls in love for the first time and gets her first taste of sex, God help the man.'

'My dear, is that our concern?'

She said sharply:

'The money's my concern. Apart from anything else, they haven't a chance of making a go of it. No capital, no experience, no sense. Why should I throw good money after bad?'

She turned to Cordelia:

'You'd better go and get yourself dressed. Then lock your room and come out this way. I don't want you fussing about next door while I'm resting. I suppose you'll be wearing that Indian thing again. It shouldn't take long to get into that.'

Cordelia said:

'None of my clothes takes long to get into.'

'Nor to get out of, no doubt.'

Sir George swung round, his voice low:

'Clarissa!'

She smiled, gratified, and going up to him gently tapped his cheek.

'Dear George. Always so gallant.'

She might have been patting a dog. Cordelia said:

'I wondered whether you'd like me to stay next door while you rest. The communicating door could be open or locked as you like. I wouldn't make any noise.'

'I've told you! I don't want you next door, or anywhere near me for that matter. I might want to speak some of the verse and I can't do that when I know someone's listening. With the three doors locked and no telephone in the room I suppose I can hope to be left in peace.' Suddenly she called out:

'Tolly!'

Tolly came out of the bathroom, dark-clad, expressionless as ever. Cordelia wondered how much if anything she had heard. Without being asked she went to the wardrobe and brought out Clarissa's satin robe and folded it over her arm. Then she went and waited silently beside her mistress. Clarissa unbuttoned her shirt and let it fall. Tolly made no move to pick it up but unhooked the back of Clarissa's brassiere. That too fell away and was plucked off by Clarissa, held out and let drop. Lastly Clarissa unbuttoned the front of her shorts and eased them off together with her pants letting them fall together over her knees to the floor. She stood there for a moment immobile, her pale body dappled in the sunlight; the full, almost heavy breasts, the narrow waist, the jutting angular hips and smudge of corn-gold hair. Without haste Tolly unfolded the dressing-gown and held it out for Clarissa's waiting arms. Then she knelt, collected the bundle of discarded clothes and returned to the bathroom. Cordelia thought that it had been a ritualistic display of almost innocent sensuality, less vulgar than she would have expected, narcissistic rather than provocative. A conviction came to her as certain as it was irrational, that this was the image of Clarissa that she would remember all her life. And, whatever its motive, Clarissa's moment of frank exultation in her beauty seemed to have calmed her. She said:

'Don't take any notice of me, darlings. You know what it is before a performance.' She turned to Cordelia:

'Just get anything you want from your room and let me have both the keys. I'll set the alarm for two forty-five so come up about then and I'll let you know if there's anything I want you to do during the performance. And don't rely on being able to watch up front. I may want you backstage.'

Cordelia left them still together and went into her room by the communicating door. As she substituted her long cotton dress for shirt and jeans, she thought about Roma's extraordinary request. Why hadn't she done the obvious thing and waited until after the performance when she might have hoped to catch her cousin in the euphoria of success? But perhaps she had seen this as the most propitious, perhaps the only possible time. If the performance were a fiasco Clarissa would be unapproachable; it was possible that she might even leave the island without waiting for a celebratory party. But surely Roma must have known her cousin well enough to see that whatever moment she chose, hers was a hopeless cause. What was she hoping for; that Clarissa would once again indulge in the grand generous gesture as she obviously had with Simon Lessing, that she wouldn't be able to resist the insidiously gratifying role of patron and deliverer? Cordelia thought that two things were certain. Roma must be in desperate need of the money; and Roma, for one, wasn't betting on Clarissa's success.

She brushed her hair vigorously, gave a final look at herself in the glass without enthusiasm, and locked her bedroom door leaving the key in the lock. Then she knocked at the communicating door and went through. The key to that door was in the lock on Clarissa's side. Sir George and Tolly had left and Clarissa was seated at the dressing-table brushing her hair with long firm strokes. Without looking round she said:

'What have you done with your key?'

'Turned it and left it in the lock. Shall I lock the communicating door now?'

'No. I'll see to it. I want to check that you've locked your outside door.' Cordelia said:

'I'll stay within call. If you want me I'll be at the end of the corridor. I can perfectly well get a chair from my room and sit there with a book.'

Clarissa's anger flared:

'Can't you understand English? What are you trying to do, spy on me? I've told you! I don't want you next door and I don't want you pussyfooting up and down the corridor. I don't want you, or anyone, near me. What I want now is to be left in peace!' The note of hysteria was new and unmistakable. Cordelia said: 'Then will you roll up one of your towels tightly and wedge it against the door? I don't want any notes delivered to you by hand.'

Clarissa's voice was sharp.

'What do you mean? Nothing has happened since I arrived, nothing!'

Cordelia said soothingly:

'I just want to ensure that it stays that way. If whoever is responsible should land on Courcy Island, he might make one last attempt to get a message to you. I don't in the least think that it will happen. I'm sure it won't. The notes have probably stopped for good. But I don't want to take any risks.'

Clarissa said ungraciously:

'All right. It's not a bad idea. I'll block the bottom of the door.'

There seemed nothing else to say. As Cordelia went out, Clarissa followed her, firmly closed the door on her and turned the key. The scrape of metal, the small click were faint but Cordelia's keen ears heard them distinctly. Clarissa was locked in. There was nothing more that she could do until two forty-five. She looked at her watch. It was just one twenty.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

There was only an hour and a half to be got through, but Cordelia found herself possessed of an irritable restlessness which made the slow minutes stretch interminably. It was a nuisance that her room was barred to her and that, before locking it, she had forgotten to pick up her book. She went to the library hoping to pass an hour with old bound copies of the Strand Magazine. But Roma was there, not reading but sitting upright close to the telephone, and the look she gave Cordelia was so unwelcoming that it was obvious she was expecting or hoping for a call and wanted to take it in private. Closing the door, Cordelia thought with envy of Simon, probably even now enjoying his solitary swim and of Sir George, striding out with his binoculars at the ready. She wished that she could be with him, but her long skirt was unsuitable for walking and, in any case, she felt that she shouldn't leave the castle.

She made her way to the theatre. The house lights were already on and the crimson and gold auditorium with its rows of empty seats seemed to be waiting in a hushed, portentous, nostalgic calm. Backstage, Tolly was checking the main women's dressing-room, setting out boxes of tissues and a supply of hand towels. Cordelia asked if she needed any help and received a polite but definite refusal. But she remembered that there was something she could do. Sir George, when he was at Kingly Street, had mentioned checking the set. She wasn't sure what he had had in mind. Even if the poison pen managed to secrete a missive on the set or among the props, Clarissa would hardly open and read it in the middle of a performance. But Sir George had been right. It was a sensible precaution to check the set and the props and she was glad to have something definite to do.

But all was well. The set for the first scene, a Victorian garden outside the palace, was simple: a blue backcloth, bay trees and geraniums in stone urns, a highly sentimental statue of a woman with a lute, and two ornate cane armchairs with cushions and footrests. At the side of the stage stood the props table. She checked over the assortment of Ambrose's Victoriana assembled for the indoor scenes; vases, pictures, fans, glasses, even a child's rocking-horse. A suede glove stuffed with cotton wool was placed ready for the prison scene and did, indeed, look unpleasantly like a severed hand. The musical-box was here, as was the silver-bound jewel chest for the Second Act. Cordelia opened it, but no missive lurked in its rosewood depths.

There was nothing else she could usefully do. There was still an hour before she was due to wake Clarissa. She walked for a time in the rose garden, but the sun was less warm here on the westerly side of the castle and, in the end, she returned to the terrace and sat in the corner of the bottom step leading to the beach. It was a small sun trap; even the stones struck warm to her thighs. She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun, relishing the soft air on her eyelids, the smell of pines and seaweed, and soothed by the gentle hiss of the waves on the shingle.

She must have dozed briefly, but was roused by the arrival of the launch. Ambrose and both the Munters were there to receive the cast, Ambrose already changed and wearing a voluminous silk cloak over his dinner-jacket, which gave him the appearance of a Victorian music-hall conjurer. There was a great deal of excited chatter as the cast, some of the men already in Victorian costume, jumped ashore and disappeared through the archway which led to the eastern lawn and the main entrance to the castle. Cordelia looked at her watch. It was two twenty; the launch was early. She settled down again but didn't dare risk closing her eyes. And twenty minutes later, she set off through the french windows to call Clarissa.

She paused outside the bedroom door and glanced at her watch. It was two forty-two. Clarissa had asked to be called at two forty-five but a few minutes could hardly matter. She knocked, quietly at first, and then more loudly. There was no reply. Perhaps Clarissa was already up and in the bathroom. She tried the door and to her surprise it opened and, looking down, she saw that the key was in the lock. The door opened easily with no obstructing wedge of towel. So Clarissa must have already got up.

For some reason which she was never able afterwards to understand, she felt no premonition, no unease. She moved into the dimness of the room calling gently:

'Miss Lisle, Miss Lisle. It's nearly two forty-five.'

The lined and heavy brocade curtains were drawn across the windows, but brightness pierced the paper-thin slit between them, and even their heavy folds couldn't entirely exclude the afternoon sun which seeped through as a gentle diffusion of pinkish light. Clarissa lay, ghost-like, on her crimson bed, both arms gently curved at her sides, the palms upwards, her hair a bright stream over the pillow. The bedclothes had been folded down and she was lying on her back, uncovered, the pale satin dressing-gown drawn up almost to her knees. Lifting her arms to draw back the curtains, Cordelia thought that the subdued light in the room played odd tricks; Clarissa's shadowed face looked almost as dark as the canopy of the bed, as if her skin had absorbed the rich crimson.

As the folds of the second curtain swung back and the room sprang into light she turned and saw clearly for the first time what it was on the bed. For a second of incredulous time her imagination whirled crazily out of control, spinning its fantastic images; Clarissa had applied a face mask, a darkening, sticky mess which had even seeped into the two eye-pads; the canopy was disintegrating, dripping its crimson fibres, obliterating her face with its richness. And then the ridiculous fancies faded and her mind accepted the stark reality of what her eyes had seen. Clarissa no longer had a face. This was no beauty mask. This pulp was Clarissa's flesh, Clarissa's blood, darkening and clotting and oozing serum, spiked with the brittle fragments of smashed bones.

She stood at the side of the bed, shaking. The room was full of noise, a regular drumming which filled her ears and pounded against her ribs. She thought: I must get someone, I must get help. But there was no help. Clarissa was dead. And she found that her limbs were rooted, only her eyes could move. But they saw things clearly, too clearly. Slowly she turned them from the horror on the bed and fixed them on the bedside chest. Something was missing, the silver jewel casket. But the small round tray of tea was still there. She saw the shallow cup, delicately painted with roses, the pale dregs of tea with two floating leaves, the smear of lipstick on the rim. And beside the tray there was something new: the marble limb, thick with blood, resting on top of a sheet of white paper, the chubby blood-stained fingers seeming to pin it to the polished wood. The blood had seeped over the paper, almost obliterating the familiar skull and crossbones, but the typed message had escaped that insidious stream and she could read it clearly:

Other sins only speak; murder shrieks out:

The element of water moistens the earth,

But blood flies upwards and bedews the heavens.

And then it happened. The alarm clock on the other bedside cabinet rang making her leap with terror. Her limbs were galvanized into life. She dashed round the bed and tried to silence it, grabbing it with hands so shaking that the clock clattered on the polished wood. Oh God! Oh God! Would nothing stop it? Then her fingers found the button. The room was silent again, and in the echo of that dreadful ringing she could hear once again the thudding of her heart. She found herself looking at the thing on the bed as if terrified that the din had woken it, that Clarissa would suddenly jerk up stiff as a marionette and confront her with that faceless horror.

She was calmer now. There were things she must do. She must tell Ambrose. Ambrose would have to ring the police. And nothing must be touched until the police arrived. She found herself looking, round the room, noticing all the details with great intensity: the balls of cotton wool smeared with make-up on the dressing-table, the bottle of eye lotion still unstoppered, Clarissa's embroidered slippers neatly placed on the hearth-rug, her makeup box open on a fireside chair, her copy of the script fallen by the bed.

As she turned to the door it opened and she saw Ambrose with Sir George behind him, his binoculars still round his neck. They stared at each other. No one spoke. Then Sir George pushed past Ambrose and moved up to the bed. Still without a word he stood gazing down at his wife, his back rigid. Then he turned. His face was taut; all its restlessness stilled, the skin almost green. Then he swallowed and put his hand to his throat as if he were about to retch. Cordelia made an instinctive movement towards him and cried:

'I'm sorry! I'm so very sorry!'

The words in all their futile banality appalled her as soon as she had uttered them. And then she saw his face, a mask of astonished horror. She thought: Oh, God, he thinks I'm confessing! He thinks I killed her.

She cried:

'You employed me to look after her. I was here to keep her safe. I should never have left her.'

She watched the horror drain from his face. He said calmly, almost crisply:

'You couldn't have known. I didn't, believe she was in any danger, no one did. And she wouldn't have let you stay with her, ' you or anyone. Don't blame yourself.'

'But I knew that the marble had been taken! I should have warned her.'

'Against what? You couldn't have expected this.' He said again, sharply as if he were giving a command: 'Don't blame yourself, Cordelia.'

It was the first time he had used her Christian name. Ambrose was still at the door. He said: 'Is she dead?' 'See for yourself.'

He moved up to the bed and looked down at the body. His face flushed a deep red. Watching him, Cordelia thought that he looked more embarrassed than shocked. Then he turned away.

He said:

'But this is incredible!' Then he whispered, 'Horrible! Horrible!'

Suddenly he darted to the communicating door and turned the knob. It was unlocked. They followed him into Cordelia's room and through into the bathroom. The window to the fire escape was open as she had left it. Sir George said:

'He could have got out this way and down the fire escape. We'd better organize a search of the island. The castle too, of course. How many men can we muster including those in the play?'

Ambrose made a rapid calculation.

'About twenty-five of the players and six of us including Oldfield. I don't know whether Whittingham will be much use.'

'That's enough for four search parties, one for the castle, three to cover the island. It needs to be systematic. You'd better ring the police at once. I'll get the men organized.'

Cordelia could imagine the disruption that thirty or more people tramping over the house and island would cause. She said:

'We mustn't touch anything. Both these rooms must be locked. It's a pity that you handled the door knob. And we'd better prevent the audience from landing. About the search, mightn't it be better to wait for the police?'

Ambrose looked uncertain. Sir George said: 'I'm not prepared to wait. That's not possible. It's not possible, Gorringe!'

His voice was fierce. His eyes looked almost wild. Ambrose said soothingly:

'No, of course not.' Sir George asked: 'Where's Oldfield?'

'In his cottage, I imagine. The stable block.'

'I'll get him to take out the launch and patrol the Channel between here and Speymouth. That'll block any escape by sea. And then I'll join you in the theatre. Better warn the men that I'll be wanting them.'

He was gone. Ambrose said:

'It's best that he has something to do to keep him busy. And I don't suppose they'll do any harm.'

Cordelia wondered what Oldfield was supposed to do if he did intercept a boat leaving the island. Board it and tackle a murderer single-handed? And did either Ambrose or Sir George seriously expect to find an intruder on Courcy? Surely the significance of that bloody hand couldn't have escaped them.

Together they checked the door in Cordelia's room leading to the corridor. It was locked from the inside with the key still in place. So the murderer couldn't have left by that route. Next they closed and locked the communicating door. Finally they locked Clarissa's room behind them and Ambrose pocketed the key. Cordelia said:

'Are there any duplicate keys?'

'No, none. The spare bedroom keys' were missing when I inherited and I've never bothered to have others made. It wouldn't have been easy, anyway. The locks are complicated; these are the original keys.'

As they turned from the door they heard footsteps and Tolly appeared round the corner of the gallery. Acknowledging them with only a nod she went up to Clarissa's door and knocked. Cordelia's heart thumped. She looked at Ambrose, but he seemed bereft of speech. Tolly knocked again, this time more loudly. Then she turned to Cordelia.

'I thought you were supposed to call her at two forty-five. She should have left it to me.'

Cordelia said, through lips which were so dry and swollen that she thought they would crack:

'You can't go in. She's dead. Murdered.'

Tolly turned and knocked again.

'She's going to be late. I have to go to her. She always needs me before a performance.'

Ambrose took a step forward. For a moment Cordelia thought that he was going to lay a hand on Tolly's shoulder. Then his arm dropped. He said in a voice which seemed unnaturally harsh:

'There isn't going to be a performance. Miss Lisle is dead. She's been murdered. I'm just about to ring the police. Until they arrive no one can go into that room.'

This time she understood. She turned and faced him, her face expressionless but so white that Cordelia, thinking she would faint, put out a hand and grasped her arm. She felt Tolly shudder, a small spasm of rejection, almost of revulsion which was unmistakable, as shocking as a blow in the face. Quickly she withdrew her hand. Tolly said:

'The boy, does the boy know?'

'Simon? Not yet. No one knows except Sir George. We've only just discovered the body.'

His voice held a trace of aggrieved impatience, like an overworked servant. Cordelia almost expected him to protest that he couldn't see to everything at once. Tolly still fixed her eyes on him. She said:

'You'll break it gently, sir. It will be a shock to him.'

Ambrose said curtly:

'It's a shock for us all.'

'Not for one of us, sir.'

She turned and left them without another word. Ambrose said:

'Extraordinary woman! I've never understood her. I doubt whether Clarissa did. And why this sudden concern for Simon? She's never shown any particular interest in the boy. Oh, well, we'd better get on with telephoning the police.'

They made their way down the stairs and through the great hall. Here preparations for the buffet supper were already under way. The long refectory table was covered with a cloth and rows of wine glasses were ranked at one end. The door to the dining-room was open and Cordelia could see Munter pulling the chairs from the table and putting them in line, presumably before carrying them into the hall. Ambrose said:

'Wait here a moment, will you.'

A minute later he was back. He said:

'I've told Munter. He'll get down to the quay and prevent the launches from tying up.'

They went together into the business room. Ambrose said:

'If Cottringham were here, he'd probably insist on speaking to the Chief Constable personally. But I suppose the Speymouth police are the ones to ring. Ought I to ask for the CID?'

'I should just ring the Speymouth Station and leave it to them. They'll know the procedure.'

She looked up the number for him and waited while he got through. He gave the facts succinctly and without emotion, mentioning that Lady Ralston's jewel box was missing. Cordelia was interested that he had noticed its absence; nothing had been said while they were in the bedroom. There was a certain amount of delay from the other end of the line and then the crackle of a voice. She heard Ambrose say:

'Yes, we've already done that,' and, later: 'That is what I propose doing as soon as I get off the line.' Shortly afterwards he put down the receiver and said:

'Much as you expected. Lock the rooms. Don't touch anything. Keep people together. Don't let anyone land. They're sending a Chief Inspector Grogan.'

In the theatre the house lights were already on. A door to the left of the proscenium led backstage. From the open doors of the two main dressing-rooms came laughter and a confusion of voices. Most of the cast had already changed and were now making up with a great deal of giggling advice from their friends. The atmosphere was reminiscent of an end-of-term frolic. Ambrose knocked on the closed doors of the two rooms reserved for the principals, then called out loudly:

'Will you all come on stage please, immediately.'

They tumbled out in an unruly bunch, some clutching their clothes around them. But one glance at his face silenced them and they trooped on to the stage subdued and expectant. Partly costumed and half made-up as they were, their faces white except for the garish patches of rouge, they looked, thought Cordelia, like the clients and inmates of some Victorian bawdy-house pulled out by the police for interrogation. Ambrose said:

'I'm afraid I have some very shocking news for you. Miss Lisle is dead. It looks very much like murder. I've telephoned the police and they'll be here shortly. In the meantime, they've asked that you all stay together here in the theatre. Munter and his wife will bring you all some tea and coffee and anything else you need. Perhaps, Cottringham, you'd take charge here. There are still people I have to tell.'

One of the women, a blonde, pert-faced girl dressed as a parlour-maid in a frilled apron and goffered cap with long streamers said:

'But what about the play?'

It was a question born of shock which Cordelia thought she would probably remember with shame all her life. Someone gasped, and she blushed scarlet. Ambrose said curtly:

'The performance is cancelled.'

Then he turned on his heel and left. Cordelia followed. She said:

'What about the search parties?'

'I'll leave that to Ralston and Cottringham to sort out. I've told the cast to stay together. I can't cope with trying to enforce police instructions against the determination of the bereaved husband to demonstrate his competence. Where, do you suppose, are the rest of the party?'

He sounded almost peevish. Cordelia said:

'I suppose Simon is swimming. Roma was in the library, but she's probably dressing by now. I imagine that Ivo is in his room, resting.'

'See them, will you, and break the news. I'll go and find Simon. Then we'd better stay together until the police arrive. I suppose it would be courteous if I kept company with my guests in the theatre but I'm not in the mood to cope with a gaggle of agitated women all hurling questions at me.' Cordelia said:

'The less they're told until the police arrive, the better.' He glanced at her with his sharp bright eyes. 'I see. You mean we should keep quiet about the actual cause of death?'

'We don't know the actual cause of death. But yes, I think we should say as little as possible to anyone.'

'But surely the cause of death was obvious. Her face had been battered in.'

'That may have been done after death. There was less blood than one would expect.'

'There was more than enough blood for me. You're remarkably knowledgeable for a secretary-companion.'

'I'm not a secretary-companion. I'm a private detective. There's no point in carrying on the charade any longer. Anyway, I know that you'd already guessed. And if you're going to say that I've been useless, I know that too.'

'My dear Cordelia, what more could you have done? No one could have expected murder. Stop blaming yourself. We're going to be stuck here together at least until the inquest, and it will be boring enough being grilled by the police without having you sunk in lugubrious self-reproach. It doesn't suit you.'

They had reached the door which led from the arcade into the castle. Glancing round, they saw Simon in the distance, towel slung round his shoulders, making his way down the long grass slope which led upwards from the rose garden between the avenue of beeches to the crown of the island. Without speaking, Ambrose went to meet him. Cordelia stood in the shadow of the doorway and watched. Ambrose didn't hurry; his walk was little more than a leisurely stroll. The two figures came together and stood in the sun, their heads bent, their shadows staining the bright grass. They didn't touch. After a moment, still distanced, they began walking slowly towards the castle. Cordelia passed into the great hall. Coming down the staircase was Ivo with Roma at his side. He was in his dinner-jacket, Roma was still wearing her trouser-suit. She called down to Cordelia:

'Where is everyone? The place is dead as a morgue. I've just been telling Ivo I've no intention of changing, and I'm not coming to the play. You two can do what you like but I'm damned if I'll climb into an evening dress in the middle of a warm afternoon just to watch a bunch of amateurs make fools of themselves and pander to Clarissa's megalomania. You all indulge her nonsense as if you're terrified of her. Someone should put a stop to Clarissa.'

Cordelia said:

'Someone has.'

They froze on the stairway, gazing down at her. She said:

'Clarissa's dead. Murdered.'

And then her control broke. She gave a gasp and felt the hot tears coursing down her face. Ivo ran down to her and she felt his arms, thin and strong as steel rods, pulling her towards him. It was the first human contact, the first sympathetic gesture which anyone had made since the shock of finding Clarissa's body, and the temptation to give way and cry like a child against his shoulder was almost irresistible. But she gulped back her tears, fighting for control, while he held her gently without speaking. Looking up over his shoulder she saw, through her tears, Roma's face hanging above her, a streaked amorphous pattern of white and pink. Then she blinked and the features came into focus: the mouth, so like Clarissa's, hanging loose, the eyes staring wide, the whole face blazing with an emotion which could have been terror or triumph.

She wasn't sure how long they stayed there, she locked in Ivo's arms, Roma staring down at them. Then she heard footsteps behind her. She broke free murmuring over and over again, 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.' Ambrose spoke:

'Simon's gone to his room. He's very shocked and he wants to be alone. He'll be down as soon as he feels ready.'

Ivo asked:

'What happened. How did she die?'

Ambrose hesitated and Roma cried out:

'You've got to tell us! I insist that you tell us!'

Ambrose looked at Cordelia. He gave a shrug of resigned apology. 'Sorry, but I'm not prepared to do the work of the police. They have a right to know.' He looked up at Roma. 'She was battered to death. Her face has been smashed to pulp. It looks as if the weapon used was the limb of the dead princess. I haven't told Simon how she was killed and I think it better that he doesn't know.'

Roma sank down on the stairs and grasped the banister. She said:

'Your marble? The killer took your marble? But why? How did he know it was there?' Ambrose said:

'He, or she, took it from the display cabinet some time before seven o'clock this morning. And I'm afraid that the police are only too likely to take the view that he knew it was there because, yesterday before luncheon, I myself showed it to him.'

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Ten minutes later Roma, Ivo and Cordelia stood at the drawing-room window and looked down over the terrace to the landing stage. All three of them were now outwardly calm. The first shock had been replaced by a restlessness, almost an unhealthy, prurient excitement which they recognized in themselves and each other and which was as shaming as it was unexpected. They had all resisted the temptation to take alcohol, perhaps feeling that it would be unwise to face the police with its smell on their breath. But Munter had served strong coffee in the drawing-room and it had been almost as effective.

Now they watched as the two heavily loaded launches rocked dangerously at the quayside, the passengers in their evening clothes crowding to one side like a gaudily clad cargo of aristocratic refugees fleeing from some republican holocaust. Ambrose was talking to them, with Munter standing at his shoulder like a second line of defence. There was a great deal of gesticulating. Even at this distance, Ambrose's pose, the slightly bent head, the spread hands, conveyed regret, distress and some embarrassment. But he was standing firm. The sound of chattering came to them, faint but high like the squeaking of distant starlings. Cordelia said to Ivo:

'They look restless. I expect they want to stretch their legs.' 'Want to pee I expect, poor dears.'

'There's someone standing up on the gunwale taking photographs. If he's not careful, he'll go overboard.'

. 'That's Marcus Fleming. He's supposed to be taking the pictures to illustrate my article. Oh well, he'll be able to phone a scoop of sorts to London if they don't capsize with excitement before they reach shore.'

'The fat lady seems very determined, the one in mauve.'

'That's Lady Cottringham, the formidable dowager. Ambrose had better watch her. If she gets one foot on the quay there'll be no holding her. She'll dash in to give poor Clarissa the once-over, subject us all to third-degree and solve the crime before the police get here. Ah, victory for Ambrose! The launches are pulling away.'

Roma said quietly:

'And here come the police.'

Round the corner of the island came four bright wings of spray. Two sleek, dark-blue launches were approaching, their long wakes feathering the paler blue of the sea. Roma said:

'Odd that one feels so apprehensive. Stupid, too. It's like being a schoolgirl again. One always felt and looked most guilty when one was totally innocent.'

Ivo said:

'Totally? That's an enviable state. I've never managed to achieve it. But I shouldn't worry. The police have a formula for these occasions. The suspects are ranked in strict order of priority; first, the husband, then the heirs, then the family, then close friends and acquaintances.'

Roma said dryly:

'As I'm both an heir and a relation, I can hardly find that reassuring.'

They watched in silence as the two brightly laden launches drew clumsily away and those sleek blue hulls came rapidly closer.

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