The Skull Beneath The Skin

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Munter's body was taken away with a speed and efficiency which Cordelia thought was almost unseemly. By ten o'clock the metal container with its two long side-handles had been slid from the jetty on to the deck of the police launch with as little ceremony as if it had held a dog. But what, after all, had she expected? Munter had been a man. Now he was a weight of latent putrefaction, a case to be given a file and a number, a problem to be solved. She told herself that it was unreasonable to expect that the men – police officers? mortuary attendants? undertaker's staff? – would bear him away with the solemnity appropriate to a funeral. They were doing a familiar job without emotion, and without fuss.

And with this second death the suspects were able to watch the police at work. They did it discreetly from the window of Cordelia's bedroom, watching while Grogan and Buckley walked slowly round the body like a couple of marine scientists intrigued by some bedraggled specimen which had been washed up by the tide. They watched while the photographer did his job, hardly seeming to notice or speak to the police, occupying himself with his own expertise. And this time Dr Ellis-Jones didn't appear. Cordelia wondered whether this was because the cause of death was apparent or whether he was busy elsewhere with another body. Instead, a police surgeon arrived to certify that life was extinct and to make the preliminary examination. He was a large and jovial man, dressed in sea boots and a knitted jersey patched on both elbows, who greeted the police like old drinking companions. His cheerful voice rose clearly on the quiet morning air. It was only when he knelt to rummage in his case for his thermometer that the watchers at the window silently withdrew and took refuge in the drawing-room, ashamed of what had suddenly seemed an indecent curiosity. And it was from the drawing-room windows, less than ten minutes later, that they saw Munter's body borne through the archway and across the quay to the launch. One of the bearers said something to his mate and they both laughed. He was probably complaining about the weight.

And with this second death even the police questioning didn't take long. There was, after all, not a great deal that anyone could tell, and Cordelia guessed how suspiciously unanimous that little must sound. When it was her turn she went into the business room weighed down by the conviction that nothing she said would be believed. Grogan stared at her across the desk, his pale, unfriendly eyes red-rimmed as if he had gone without sleep. The two musical-boxes were on the desk in front of him, carefully positioned side by side.

When she had finished her account of Munter's appearance at the dining-room windows, of the finding of his body and the recovery of the musical-box, there was a long silence. Then he said:

'Why exactly did you go up to the tower room on Friday afternoon?'

'Just curiosity. Miss Lisle didn't want me at the rehearsal and Mr Whittingham and I had finished our walk. He was tired and had gone to rest. I was at a loose end.'

'So you amused yourself by exploring the tower?'

'Yes.'

'And then you played with the toys?'

He made it sound as if she were a tiresome child who hadn't been able to keep her hands off someone else's kiddy car. She realized with a mixture of anger and hopelessness the impossibility of explaining, of making him understand that impulse to set the whole childish menagerie working, to drown wretchedness with a cacophony of sound. And even if she had confided the cause of her distress, Ivo telling her of the death of Tolly's child, would her story have sounded any more plausible? How did one explain to a policeman, perhaps to a judge, a jury, those small, seemingly irrational compulsions, the pathetic expedients against pain, which hardly made sense to oneself? And if it were difficult for her, so egregiously privileged, how did those others cope; the ignorant, the uneducated, the inarticulate, faced with the esoteric and uncompromising machinery of the law? She said:

'Yes, I played with the toys.'

'And you are absolutely certain that the musical-box you found in the tower room played the tune "Greensleeves"?' He smacked his great palm down on the lid of the left-hand box, then lifted the lid. The cylinder turned and the delicate teeth of the long comb once more picked out the nostalgic, plaintive tune. She said:

'I'm absolutely sure.'

'Externally, they're very alike. The same size, the same shape, the same wood, almost the same pattern on the lids.' 'I know. But they play different tunes.'

She could understand the frustration and the irritation which he was keeping so tightly under control. Had she liked him better, she might have sympathized. If she were telling the truth, then Munter had lied. He had left the ground floor of the castle some time during that critical hour and forty minutes. The only entrance to the tower was from the gallery floor. He had been within feet of Clarissa's door. And Munter was dead. Even if Grogan believed him innocent, even if some other suspect were brought to trial, her evidence about the musical-box would be a gift for the defence. He said:

'You didn't mention your visit to the tower when you were questioned yesterday.'

'You didn't ask me. You were chiefly interested in what I did and saw on Saturday. I didn't think it important.'

'There's nothing else that you didn't think important?'

'I've answered all your questions as honestly as I can.'

He said:

'Perhaps. But that isn't quite the same thing, is it, Miss Gray?'

And the small voice of her own conscience, in collusion with him, indicted her. Have you? Have you?

Suddenly he leaned across the desk and put his face close to hers. She thought she could smell his breath, sour and tainted with beer, and had to force herself not to draw back.

'What exactly happened on Saturday morning in the Devil's Kettle?'

'I've told you. Mr Gorringe told us the story of the young internee who was left to drown. And I found that quotation from the play.'

'And that's all that happened?'

'It seems to me enough.'

He sat back and she waited. He didn't speak. At last she said:

'I should like to go to Speymouth this afternoon. I want to get off the island.'

'Who doesn't, Miss Gray?'

'That's all right, is it? I don't have to ask permission? I mean, you can't stop me going where I like unless you arrest me?'. He said:

'That, no doubt, is what you'd advise your clients if you had any. And you'd be perfectly right. We can't stop you. But you must be in Speymouth tomorrow at two o'clock for the inquest. It won't take long, just a formality. We'll be asking for an adjournment. But you were the one who found the body. You were the last person to see Miss Lisle alive. The Coroner will want you there.'

She wondered whether it was intended to sound like a threat. She said: 'I'll be there.'

He looked up and said so gently that she almost believed him to be sincere:

'Enjoy yourself in Speymouth, Miss Gray. Have a good day.'

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

It was after twelve thirty when she was released. Strolling out to join the others who were drinking their pre-luncheon sherry on the terrace, she learned that Oldfield had already gone to the mainland to fetch the post and supplies. Ambrose was expecting a parcel of books from the London Library. Cordelia asked if Shearwater could be ordered for her for two o'clock and he agreed without curiosity, merely inquiring when she would like the launch to be at Speymouth quay for the return journey. Cordelia ordered it for six o'clock.

She wasn't hungry for luncheon and nor, apparently, was anyone else. Mrs Munter had provided a cold buffet in the dining-room, too much food, most of it intended for the party, set out indiscriminately in an appetite-stifling mass. The wonder was, thought Cordelia, that she had bothered at all. No one had spoken of her since the finding of her husband's body. She too had been interviewed by the police, but had spent most of the morning secluded in her flat or moving silently and unnoticed from pantry to dining-room. Cordelia doubted whether Ambrose was greatly concerned about her and there was no one else to care. She decided to see if she was all right, to ask, before setting out, whether there was anything she could do for her in Speymouth. She doubted whether her intrusion would be welcomed. What was there, after all, that she or anyone could do? But at least she could ask.

She didn't trouble to sit down but cut herself slices of cold beef and put them between bread. Then making her excuses to Ambrose, she helped herself to an apple and a banana and took her picnic on to the beach. Already her mind was moving away from this claustrophobic island towards the mainland. She felt like a refugee, waiting to be rescued from some plague-ridden and violent colony, watching with desperate eyes for the boat which would bear her away from the smell of rotting corpses, the shouting and tumult, the bodies strewn on the shore, towards the safety and normality of home. The mainland which she had seen recede with such high hopes only three days earlier now shone in the imagination with all the refulgence of a promised land. It seemed to her that two o'clock would never come.

Shortly before one thirty she made her way along the tiled passage past the business room to the baize door which she knew must lead to the servants' flat. There was no bell or knocker but while she was wondering how to attract attention, Mrs Munter came quietly up behind her carrying on her hip a basket of washing. Without speaking, she held open the door and Cordelia passed before her down a shorter passageway and into.a sitting-room to her right. Like all Victorian architects, Godwin had ensured that from none of their rooms could the servants overlook their betters whether the family were disporting themselves indoors or out, and the single window gave a view only of a wide yard with, beyond it, the stable block with its charming clock tower and weather vane. Across the yard was slung a washing line from which drooped a pair of Munter's huge pyjamas. They seemed to Cordelia pathetic and embarrassing and she averted her eyes as if detected in a prurient curiosity.

The room itself was starkly furnished, not uncomfortable, but despite the artful simplicity of the art nouveau furniture almost devoid of character. There was a television set in the corner but no books or pictures and no photographs or ornaments on the dresser. It was as if the inhabitants had no past to remember, no present to celebrate. And no third person, apparently, ever sat here. There were only two easy chairs, one on each side of the elegantly carved iron grate, and only two upright chairs set opposite each other at the dining-table.

Mrs Munter didn't invite her to sit down. Cordelia said:

'I didn't mean to bother you. I just wanted to see that you are all right. And I'm going into Speymouth shortly. Is there anything I can get or do for you?'

Mrs Munter swung her basket of washing down on the table and began folding the clothes.

'There's nothing. I'll be with you on the boat likely enough. I'm leaving, Miss. I'm getting off the island.'

'I know how you must feel. But if you're frightened I could share a room with you tonight.'

'I'm not frightened. What is there to be frightened of? I'm leaving that's all. I never liked being here and now that he's gone I don't have to stay.'

'Of course not, if that's how you feel. But I'm sure Mr Gorringe wouldn't want you to do anything in a hurry. He'll want to talk to you. There are bound to be well… arrangements.'

'There's nothing to talk about. He's been a good enough master but it was Munter he wanted. I came with Munter. Now we're separate.'

Separate, thought Cordelia, finally and for ever. There had been no mistaking the note of satisfaction, almost of triumph. And she had come to the flat out of an embarrassed compassion, inexperienced as she might be, to try to give comfort. None, it appeared, was wanted or necessary. But surely there would be wages outstanding, offers of help to be made, funeral arrangements to be discussed? Ambrose would surely want to reassure her that she could stay on at the castle as long as it suited her. And, of course, there would be the police, Grogan and his ubiquitous experts in death, trained in suspicion and mistrust. If Munter had been deliberately pushed to his death, she could have done it. With one undetected murderer already on the island, what better time to get rid of an unwanted husband? Cordelia didn't doubt that Grogan, faced with this ungrieving widow, would place her high on his list of suspects. And the police were bound to see this hurried departure as highly suspicious. She was wondering whether she ought to say a word of warning when Mrs Munter spoke.

'I've spoken to the police. They've no call to keep me. They know where they can find me. Mr Gorringe can see to the funeral arrangements. It's no concern of mine.'

'But you were his wife!'

'I never was his wife. He wasn't the marrying kind, and nor am I. I'll be leaving in the launch as soon as Oldfield is ready.'

'Are you all right for money? I'm sure that Mr Gorringe…'

'I don't need his help. Munter had money. He had ways of making a bit on the side and I know where he kept it. I'll take what's due to me. And I'll be all right. Good cooks don't starve.'

Cordelia felt totally inadequate. She said:

'No indeed. But have you somewhere to go, for tonight I mean?'

'She'll be staying with me.'

Tolly came quietly into the room. She was wearing a dark-blue fitted coat with padded shoulders and a small hat pierced with one long feather. The outfit was reminiscent of the thirties and gave her a slightly raffish and outdated smartness. She was carrying a bulging suitcase bound with a strap. She moved unsmiling to Mrs Munter's side – it was impossible for Cordelia to think of her by any other name – and the two women faced her together.

Cordelia felt that she was seeing Mrs Munter clearly for the first time. Until now she had hardly noticed her. The strongest impression she had made was of an unobtrusive competence. She had been an adjunct to Munter, little more. Even her appearance was unmemorable, the coarse hair, neither fair nor dark, with its stiff, corrugated waves, the stolid body, the stumpy work-worn hands. But now the thin mouth which had given so little away was taut with an obstinate triumph. The eyes which had been so deferentially downcast stared boldly into hers with a look of challenging, almost insolent confidence. They seemed to say: 'You don't even know my name. And now you never will.' Beside her stood Tolly, unchanged in her self-contained serenity.

So they were going away together. Where, she wondered, would they live? Presumably Tolly had a house or flat somewhere in London where she had made a home for her child. Cordelia had a sudden and disconcertingly clear picture of them, not living there surrounded by memories, but installed in a neat suburban house within convenient distance of the Tube and the shopping parade, net curtains looped across the bay window, hindering inquisitive eyes, a small front garden railed against unwelcome intruders, against the past. They had thrown off their servitude. But surely that servitude must have been voluntary? Both were adult women. Surely it wasn't the fear of unemployment that had kept them from their freedom? They could have left their jobs whenever it suited them. So why hadn't they? What was the mysterious alchemy that kept people tied together against all reason, against inclination, against their own interests? Well, death had parted them now, one from Clarissa, the other from Munter; parted them very conveniently the police might think.

Cordelia thought, I'm seeing both of them clearly for the first time and still I know nothing about them. Some words of Henry James fell into her mind. 'Never believe that you know the last word about any human heart.' But did she know even the first word, she who called herself a detective? Wasn't it one of the commonest of human vanities, this preoccupation with the motives, the compulsions, the fascinating inconsistencies of another personality? Perhaps, she thought, we all enjoy acting the detective, even with those we love; with them most of all. But she had accepted it as her job; she did it for money. She had never denied its fascination, but now, for the first time, it occurred to her that it might also be presumptuous. And never before had she felt so inadequate for the task, pitting her youth, her inexperience, her meagre store of received wisdom against the immense mysteriousness of the human heart. She turned to Mrs Munter.

'I should like to have a word with Miss Tolgarth alone. May I please?'

The woman didn't reply but looked at her friend and was given a small nod. Without speaking, she left them.

Tolly waited, patient, unsmiling, her hands folded before her. There was something which Cordelia would like to have asked first, but she didn't need to. And she was less arrogant now than when she had first taken the case. She told herself that there were questions she had no right to ask, facts she had no right to be told. No human curiosity, no longing to have every piece of the jigsaw neatly fitted into place as if her own busy hands could impose order on the muddle of human lives, could justify asking what she knew in her heart was true, whether Ivo had been the father of Tolly's child. Ivo who had spoken of Viccy with knowledge and love, who had known that Tolly had refused to accept any help from the father; Ivo who had taken the trouble to get in touch with the hospital and learn the truth about that telephone call. How strange to think of them together, Ivo and Tolly. What was it, she wondered, that they had wanted of each other? Had Ivo been trying to hurt Clarissa, or assuage a deeper hurt of his own? Was Tolly one of those women, desperate for a child, who prefers not to be burdened with a husband? The birth of Viccy, if not the pregnancy, must surely have been deliberate. But none of it was her business. Of all the things that human beings did together, the sexual act was the one with the most various of reasons. Desire might be the commonest, but that didn't mean that it was the simplest. Cordelia couldn't even bring herself to mention Viccy directly. But there was something she had to ask. She said:

'You were with Clarissa when the first of the messages came, during the run of Macbeth. Would you tell me what they looked like?'

Tolly's eyes burned into hers with a sombre, considering stare but not, she thought, with resentment or dislike. Cordelia went on:

'You see, I think it was you who sent them and I think she might have guessed and known why. But she couldn't do without you. It was easier to pretend. And she didn't want to show the messages to anyone else. She knew what she had done to you. She knew that there were things even her friends might not forgive. And then what she hoped would happen did happen. Perhaps there had been some change in your life which had made you feel that what you were doing was wrong. So the messages stopped.

They stopped until one of the small number of people who had known about them took over. But then they were different messages. They looked different. Their purpose was different. And their end was different and terrible.'

Still there was no reply. Cordelia said gently:

'I know I've no right to ask. Don't answer me directly if you'd rather not. Just tell me what those first messages were like and I think I shall know.'

Then Tolly spoke:

'They were written by hand in capital letters on lined paper. Paper torn from a child's exercise book.'

'And the messages themselves. Were they quotations?'

'It was always the same message. A text from the Bible.'

Cordelia knew that she was lucky to have gained so much. And even this confidence wouldn't have been given if Tolly hadn't recognized some sympathy, some empathy between them. But there was one more question which she thought she might risk.

'Miss Tolgarth, have you any idea who it was who took over?'

But the eyes looking into hers were implacable. Tolly had told all she intended to tell.

'No. I concern myself with my own sins. Let others look to theirs.'

Cordelia said:

'I shall never pass on to anyone what you've just said to me.' 'If I thought that you would, I wouldn't have told you.' She paused, and then asked in the same even tone: 'What will happen to the boy?'

'To Simon? He told me that Sir George will keep him on at Melhurst for his final year and that he'll then try for a place at one of the colleges of music.'

Tolly said:

'He'll be all right now she's gone. She wasn't good for the young. And now, if you'll excuse me, Miss, I'd like to help my friend finish her packing.'

CHAPTER FORTY

There was nothing more to be said or done. Cordelia left the two women together and went to her bedroom to get ready for the afternoon's excursion. As her object was to search for the newspaper review, her full scene-of-crime kit was hardly necessary, but she slipped a hand magnifying-glass, a torch and notebook into her shoulder-bag and pulled her Guernsey over her shirt. It might be cold on the boat on the return trip. Lastly she wound the leather belt twice round her waist and buckled it tight. As always, it felt like a talisman, a girding on of resolution. As she crossed the terrace from the western front of the castle she saw that Mrs Munter and Tolly were already making their way towards the launch, both of them carrying a case in either hand. Oldfield must only recently have landed. He was still dragging his crates of wine and groceries on to the jetty, helped rather surprisingly by Simon. Cordelia thought that the boy was probably glad of something to do.

Suddenly Roma appeared from the dining-room windows and hurried down the terrace in front of her. She went up to Oldfield and spoke to him. The canvas post-bag was on top of his trolley and he unbuckled it and took out the bundle of letters. Drawing close to them Cordelia could sense Roma's impatience. It looked as if she might snatch the bundle from Oldfield's gnarled fingers. But then he found what she was wanting, and handed her a letter. She almost ran from him, then slowed to a walk and, without noticing Cordelia's approach, tore the envelope open and read the letter. For a moment she stood absolutely still. Then she gave a sob, so high that it was almost a wail, and began stumbling along the terrace, pushed past Cordelia, and disappeared down the far steps to the beach.

Cordelia paused for a moment, uncertain whether to follow. Then she called to Oldfield to wait for her, that she wouldn't be long, and ran after Roma. Whatever the news, it had devastated her. There might be something she herself could do to help. And even if not, it was impossible just to board the launch and set off as if the scene had never happened. She tried to silence the small resentful voice which protested that it couldn't have occurred at a more inconvenient time. Was she never to be allowed to get off the island? Why should she always have to be the one to act as universal social worker? But it was impossible to ignore such distress.

Roma was stumbling and reeling along the shore, her hands flung out before her, groping the air. Cordelia thought that she could hear a high continued scream of pain. But perhaps it was the cry of the gulls. She had almost caught up with the fleeing figure when Roma tripped, fell at full length on the shingle and lay there, her whole body shaking with sobs. Cordelia came up to her. To see the proud and reserved Roma in such an abandonment of grief was as physically shocking as a blow to the stomach. Cordelia felt the same rush of impotent fear, the same helplessness. All she could do was kneel in the sand and put her arms round Roma's shoulders, hoping that this human contact might at least help to calm her. She found herself softly cooing as she might to a child or an animal. After a few minutes the dreadful shaking ceased. Roma lay so still that, for a second, Cordelia feared that she had ceased to breathe. Then she heaved herself clumsily upright and threw off Cordelia's arm. Walking unsteadily into the surf she bent and began splashing her face. Then she stood upright for a moment, looking out to sea before turning to face Cordelia.

Her face was grotesque, bloated as a long-drowned visage, the eyes like gummed slits, the nose a bulbous mess. When she spoke, her voice was harsh and guttural, the sounds forcing themselves through swollen vocal cords.

'I'm sorry. That was a disgusting exhibition. I'm glad it was you, if that's any comfort.'

'I wish I could help.'

'You can't. No one can. As you've probably guessed, it's the usual commonplace sordid little tragedy. I've been chucked. He wrote on Friday night. We only saw each other on Thursday. He must have known then what he was going to do.'

She pulled the letter from her pocket and held it out.

'Go on, read it! Read it! I wonder how many drafts it took to produce this elegant, self-justifying piece of hypocrisy.'

Cordelia didn't take the letter. She said:

'If he hadn't the decency and courage to tell you to your face, he isn't worth crying over, he isn't worth loving.'

'What has worth to do with love? My God, why couldn't he have waited?'

Waited for what? thought Cordelia. For Clarissa's money? For Clarissa's death? She said:

'But if he had, could you ever have been sure?'

'Of his motive, you mean? Why should I care? I haven't that kind of pride. But it's too late now. He wrote a day too soon. Oh God, why couldn't he have waited? I told him that I'd get the money, I told him!'

A wave, larger than its fellows, broke at Cordelia's feet and rolled a woman's silver evening sandal among the brighter sea-washed stones. She found herself looking at it with an artificial intensity, making herself wonder what sort of woman had worn it, how it had come to be in the sea, from what wild party on what yacht it had been lost overboard. Or was its owner out there somewhere, a slim, half-clad body turning in the waves? Any thought, even that thought, helped to shut out the harsh unnatural voice which might any moment say those fatal words which couldn't be taken back and which neither of them would be able to forget.

'When I was a child I went to a co-educational school. All the children paired off. When the friendship cooled they used to send each other what they called a chuck note. I never had one. But then I never had a boy friend. I used to think it would be worth getting the chuck note if only I'd had the friendship first, just for one term. I wish I could feel that now. He was the only man who has ever wanted me. I think I always knew why. You can only deceive yourself so far. His wife doesn't much enjoy sex and I was a free fuck. All right, don't look like that! I don't expect you to understand. You can get love whenever you want it.'

Cordelia cried:

'That isn't true, not of me, not of anyone!'

'Isn't it? It was true of Clarissa. She only had to look at a man. One look, that's all it ever took. All my life I've watched her using those eyes. But she won't any more. Never again. Never, never, never.'

Her anguish was like an infection, strong and feverish and smelling of sweat. Cordelia could feel its contamination in her own blood. She stood on the shingle, afraid to approach Roma since she knew that physical comfort would be unwelcome, reluctant to leave her, miserably aware that Oldfield would be getting impatient. Then Roma said gruffly:

'You'd better go if you want to catch the launch.'

'What about you?'

'Don't worry. You can escape with an easy conscience, I shan't do anything stupid. That's the euphemism, isn't it? Isn't that what they always say? Don't do anything stupid. I've been taught my lesson. No more stupidity, Roma! I can tell you what will happen to me, in case you're interested. I'll take Clarissa's money and buy myself a London flat. I'll sell the shop and find myself a part-time job. From time to time I'll take a foreign holiday with a woman friend. We shan't much enjoy each other's company, but it will be better than travelling alone. We'll devise little treats for ourselves, a theatre, an art show, dinner at one of those restaurants where they don't treat solitary women as pariahs. And in the autumn I'll enrol for evening classes and pretend an interest in throwing pots, or the Georgian architecture of London or comparative religion. And every year I shall get a little more fussy about my comforts, a little more censorious of the young, a little more fretful with my friend, a little more right-wing, a little more bitter, a little more lonely, a little more dead.'

Cordelia would have liked to have said: 'But you'll have enough to eat. You'll have your own roof over your head. You won't die of cold. You'll have your strength and your intelligence. Isn't that more than three-quarters of the world enjoys? You're not a Victorian shell-gatherer, waiting for a man to give purpose and status to your life. There doesn't even have to be love.' But she knew that the words would be as futile and insulting as telling a blind man that there was always the sunset.

She turned and walked away leaving Roma still staring out to sea. She felt like a deserter. It seemed discourteous to hurry and she waited until she reached the terrace before breaking into a run.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

No one spoke during the passage to the mainland. Cordelia sat in the prow of the launch fixing her eyes on the gradually approaching shore. Mrs Munter and Tolly setded themselves together in the stern, their bags at their feet. When Shearwater finally berthed, Cordelia waited until they were ashore before herself getting up. She watched while the two women, side by side but still unspeaking, made their slow way up the hill towards the station.

The town was less crowded and less busy than on the Friday morning but it still held its slightly archaic air of cheerful sunlit domesticity. What she found extraordinary was to be so unnoticed. She had half expected that people would turn to stare at her, that she would hear the whispered word 'Courcy' at her back, that she would bear an all too visible mark of Cain. How marvellous it was to be free of Grogan and his minions, at least for a few blessed hours, no longer one of that apprehensive, self-regarding coterie of suspects, but an ordinary girl walking an ordinary street, anonymous among the early afternoon shoppers, the last holiday visitors, the office workers hurrying back to their desks after a belated lunch. She wasted a few minutes in a chemist's shop behind a charming Regency facade buying a lipstick which she didn't need, taking more than usual care over her selection. It was a small gesture of hope and confidence, a salute to normality. The only mention she saw or heard of Clarissa's death was a couple of placards advertising national dailies with.the words 'actress murdered on courcy island' written, not printed, under the paper's name. She bought one at a kiosk and found a brief account on the third page. The police had given the minimum of information and Ambrose's refusal to speak to the press had obviously frustrated them in making much of a story. Cordelia wondered whether, in the end, it would prove to have been wise. She learned from the newsagent that there was now only one local paper, the Speymouth Chronicle, which came out twice a week on Tuesday and Friday. The office was at the northern end of the Esplanade. Cordelia found it without difficulty. It was a white converted house with two large windows, one painted with the words 'Speymouth Chronicle' and the other filled with a display of newspaper photographs. The front garden had been paved to provide a parking space for half a dozen cars and a delivery van. Inside she found a blonde girl of about her own age presiding at a reception desk and simultaneously coping with a small switchboard. At a side table an elderly man was sorting pictures.

Her luck held. She had feared that old copies of the paper might be kept elsewhere or might not be readily available to the public. But when she explained to the girl that she was researching into provincial theatre and wanted to look up the reviews of Clarissa Lisle's performance in The Deep Blue Sea no questions were asked and no difficulties made. The girl called out to her companion to keep an eye on the desk, ignored a light on the switchboard, and took Cordelia through a swing door and down a steep flight of ill-lit stairs to the basement. There she unlocked a small front room from which the exciting musty smell of old newsprint rose to the nostrils like a miasma. Cordelia saw that the archives were bound in springback folders filed in chronological order on steel shelves. In the middle of the room was a long trestle-table. The girl switched on the light and two fluorescent tubes glowed into harsh brightness. She said:

'They're all here, going back to 1860. You can't take anything away and you mustn't write on the papers. Don't slip off without telling me. I have to come and lock up after you've finished. OK? See you later then.'

Cordelia approached her task methodically. Speymouth was a small town and was unlikely to have a permanent theatre company. It was almost certain, therefore, that Clarissa had played with a repertory company during the summer season, most likely between May and September. She would begin her search with those five months. She found no mention of the Rattigan play in May but she did note that the summer repertory company based in the old theatre opened with each new offering on a Monday and played for two weeks. The first reviews appeared on a page devoted to the arts in each Tuesday's edition, a commendably quick response for a small provincial paper. Presumably the reviewer telephoned his copy from the theatre. The first mention of The Deep Blue Sea appeared in an advertisement in early June which stated that Miss Clarissa Lisle would be guest star for the two weeks beginning 18th July. Cordelia calculated that the notice would appear on the arts page, invariably page nine, on 19th July. She lugged the heavy bound volume containing the editions from July to September on to the table and found the paper for that date. It was larger than the normal edition, consisting of eighteen pages instead of the usual sixteen. The reason was made apparent on the first page. The Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh had visited the town on the previous Saturday as part of their Jubilee Year provincial tour, and the Tuesday edition had been the first one following the visit. It had been a big day for Speymouth, the first Royal visit since 1843, and the Chronicle had made the most of it. The account on the first page stated that further pictures were shown on page ten. The words struck a chord of memory. Cordelia was now almost sure that the reverse side of the notice she had seen had been not newsprint but a picture.

But now that success was so close she felt a sudden loss of confidence. All she would discover would be the review by a provincial reporter of a revival which hardly anyone in Speymouth would now remember. Clarissa had said that it was important to her, important enough to keep in the secret drawer of her jewel box. But that, with Clarissa, could have meant anything. Perhaps she had liked the notice, met the reviewer, enjoyed a brief but satisfactory love affair. It could have been as sentimentally unimportant as that. And what possible relevance could it have to her death?

And then she saw that the sheet she wanted wasn't there. She checked twice. No careful turning of the newspaper disclosed pages nine and ten. She bent back the thick wedge of newsprint where it was gripped by the binder. Down the margin of page eleven she thought she could detect a thin impression as if the paper had been faintly scored with a knife or razor blade. She got out her magnifying glass and moved it slowly over the bound edges. Now she could see it clearly, the tell-tale mark, in some places actually cutting the paper, showing where the sheet had been excised. She could detect, too, minute shreds of paper where the edge of page nine was still clasped in the binder. Someone had been here before her.

The girl at the desk was busy with a customer inquiring, but without any visible signs of grief, how she went about inserting a death notice and how much extra a nice bit of verse would cost. She handed over a child's exercise book and pointed out the rounded, laboriously formed letters. Cordelia, always curious about the idiosyncrasies of her fellow humans and for a moment forgetting her own concerns, edged closer and slewed her eyes to read:

The pearly walls were shining, St Peter whispered low,

The golden gate was opened, And in walked Joe.

This piece of extremely dubious theology was received by the girl with a lack of interest which suggested that she had read its like before. She spent the next three minutes attempting to explain what the probable cost would be including the extras if the notice were boxed and surmounted with a wreathed cross, a consultation which was punctuated by long considering silences as they both contemplated samples of the designs on offer. But after ten minutes all was satisfactorily decided and she was then able to turn her attention to Cordelia who said:

'I've found the right edition but the sheet I think I want isn't there. Someone's cut it out.'

'They can't have. It isn't allowed. Those are the archives.'

'Well they have. Is there another copy?'

'I'll have to tell Mr Hasking. They can't go cutting the archives about. Mr Hasking will be in a rare state about that.'

'I'm sure. But I do need to see that page urgently. It's page nine of the edition of 19th July 1977. Haven't you any other back numbers I could look through?'

'Not here. The Chairman might have a set up in London. Cutting the archives! Mr Hasking sets great store by those old copies. That's history, that is, he says.'

Cordelia asked:

'Can you remember who last asked to see them?'

'There was a blonde lady from London last month. Writing a book about seaside piers she said. They blew this one up in 1939 so the Germans couldn't land, then the Council hadn't any money to build it again. That's why it's so stumpy. She said they used to have a music hall on the end when she was a girl and artistes used to come down from London in the season. She knew a lot about piers.'

Cordelia thought that a better equipped or more efficient private detective would have come with photographs of the victim and suspects for possible identification. It would have been useful to know whether the blonde woman who was so knowledgeable about piers looked like Clarissa or Roma. Tolly, unless she had disguised herself, surely an unnecessarily dramatic ploy, was obviously out. She wondered whether Bernie would have thought of photographing the house party unseen, prepared for just such an eventuality. She hadn't herself felt such a tricky procedure was possible or useful. But she did, after all, have the Polaroid in her kit on the island. Perhaps it would be worth a try. She could come back tomorrow. She said:

'And is the pier lady the only one who has recently asked to see the archives?'

'While I've been here. But then, I've only been on the desk a couple of months. Sally could have told you about anyone before that, but she's left to get married. And I'm not always on the desk. I mean someone could've come when I was in the office and Albert was on the desk.'

'Is he here?'

The girl looked at her as if astounded at such ignorance.

'Albert? Of course he isn't. Albert's never here Mondays.'

She looked at Cordelia with sudden suspicion. 'Why d'you want to know who else has been here? I thought you were just after seeing that review.'

'I am. But I was curious who could have cut out that page. As you said, these are important records. And I wouldn't like anyone to think it was I. You're quite sure there isn't a copy anywhere else in the town?'

Without looking round, the elderly man who was still arranging new photographs in the display frame with a deliberation and an eye for artistic effect which suggested that the job could well take the rest of the day, made his suggestion.

'19th July, '77 did you say? That's three days after the Queen's visit. You could try Lucy Costello. She's kept press cuttings on the Royal family for the last fifty years. Isn't likely she'd have missed the Royal visit.'

'But Lucy Costello's dead, Mr Lambert! We had an article about her and her press cuttings the day after they buried her. Three months ago, that was.'

Mr Lambert turned round and spread out his arms in a parody of patient resignation:

'I know Lucy Costello's dead! We all know she's dead! I never said she wasn't dead. But she's got a sister, hasn't she? Miss Emmeline's still alive as far as I know. She'll have the cuttings books. Isn't likely she'd throw them out. They may have buried Miss Lucy but they haven't buried her press cuttings with her, not that I know of. I said to try her. I didn't say speak to her.'

Cordelia asked how she could find Miss Emmeline. Mr Lambert turned away again to his photographs and spoke gruffly, as if regretting his former loquacity:

'Windsor Cottage, Benison Row. Up the High Street, second left. Can't miss it.'

'Is it far? I mean, ought I to take a bus?'

'You'd be lucky. Catch yer death you would waiting for that Number 12. Ten minutes' walk at most. No trouble for a young 'un.'

He selected a picture of a portly gentleman in a mayoral chain, whose sideways glance of salacious bonhomie suggested that the official banquet had more than fulfilled expectations, and positioned it carefully beside a photograph of a well endowed and decidedly underclad bathing beauty, so that his-eyes appeared to. be gazing down her cleavage. Cordelia thought that here was a man who enjoyed his work. She thanked him and the girl for their help and set out to find Miss Emmeline Costello.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Mr Lambert had been right about the distance. It was almost exactly ten minutes' admittedly brisk walk to Benison Row. Cordelia found herself in a narrow street of Victorian houses curving above the town. Although there was a pleasing unity in the age, architecture and height of the cottages, they were charmingly individual. Some had bow windows, others had been fitted with wooden window-boxes from which a profusion of variegated ivy, geraniums and aubrietia trailed their bright pattern against the painted stucco, while the two at the end of the row had bay trees in painted tubs set each side of the gleaming front door. Each had a narrow front garden set behind wrought-iron railings which, perhaps because of their delicate ornamentation, had escaped being sacrificed for scrap iron in the last war. Cordelia realized that she had never before seen a row of houses with their railings complete and they gave to the street, which was outwardly so English in its small-scale prettiness, a touch of charming but alien eccentricity. The little gardens rioted with colour, the warm deep reds of autumn seeming to burst against the railings. Although it was late in the season, the air was a potpourri of lavender and rosemary. There were no cars parked at the kerb, no throat-catching tang of petrol fumes. After the bustle and hot smells of the High Street, walking into Benison Row was like stepping back into the cosy simplicity of another and legendary age.

Windsor Cottage was the fourth house down on the left-hand side. Its garden was plainer than the rest, a neat square of immaculate lawn bordered with roses. The brass door-knocker in the shape of a fish gleamed bright in every scale. Cordelia rang the bell and waited. There was no sound of hurrying footsteps. Again she rang, this time a longer peal. But there was silence. She realized with a pang of disappointment that the owner was out. It had, perhaps, been stupidly sanguine to expect that Miss Costello would be waiting at home simply because she, Cordelia, wanted to see her. But the disappointment dragged at her spirit and filled her with a restless impatience. She was convinced now that the missing news cutting was vital, and only in this neat little house was there a chance of finding it. The prospect of having to return to the island with this clue unexplored, her curiosity unsatisfied, appalled her. She began pacing up and down outside the railings, wondering how long it might be worth waiting, whether Miss Costello would return, perhaps from shopping, or whether she had shut up the house and gone away for a holiday. And then she noticed that the two upper windows were open at the top, and her spirits rose. A middle-aged woman came out of the next-door house, looked up the road as if expecting someone, and was about to close the door when Cordelia ran forward:

'Excuse me, but I was hoping to see Miss Costello. Do you know if she's likely to be back this afternoon?' The woman replied pleasantly:

'She'll be at the Washateria, I expect. She always does her washing on Monday afternoons. She shouldn't be long, unless she decides to have tea in the town.'

Cordelia thanked her. The door closed. The little street sank back into silence. She leaned against the railings and tried to wait in patience.

It wasn't long. Less than ten minutes later she saw an extraordinary figure turn the corner into Benison Row, and knew at once that this must be Miss Emmeline Costello. She was an elderly woman, trundling after her a canvas-covered shopping trolley from the top of which bulged a plastic-covered bundle. She walked slowly but upright, her thin figure obliterated by a khaki army greatcoat so long that its hem almost scraped the pavement. Her small face was as softly puckered as an old apple and further diminished by a red and white striped scarf bound round her head and tied under the chin. Over it had been pulled a knitted purple cap topped with a bobble. If such a superfluity of clothing was necessary on a warm September day, Cordelia could only wonder how she dressed in winter. As Miss Costello came up to the gate Cordelia moved to open it for her and introduced herself. She said:

'Mr Lambert of the Speymouth Chronicle suggested that you might be able to help me. I'm looking for a cutting from an old edition of the paper – 19th July 1977. Would it be an awful nuisance if I looked through your sister's collection? I wouldn't trouble you, but it really is important. I've tried the newspaper archives but the page I want isn't there.'

Miss Costello might present to the world an appearance of almost intimidating eccentricity, but the eyes which looked into Cordelia's were sharp, bright as beads, and accustomed to making judgements, and when she spoke it was in a clear, educated and authoritative voice, which immediately and unmistakably defined her precise place in the complicated hierarchy of the British class system.

'When you're eighty-five, my child, don't live on top of a hill. You'd better come in and have some tea.'

In just such a voice had Reverend Mother greeted her when she had first arrived, tired and frightened, at the Convent of the Holy Child.

She followed Miss Costello into the house. It was apparent that nothing would be done in a hurry and, as a supplicant, she could hardly insist that it was. She was shown into the drawing-room while her hostess went off to remove several layers of her outer clothing and to make tea. The room was charming. The antique furniture, probably brought from a larger family home, had been selected to suit the room's proportions. The walls were almost covered with small family portraits, watercolours and miniatures but the effect was of an ordered domesticity, not of clutter. A mahogany wall cupboard inlaid with a pattern of rosewood held a few choice pieces of porcelain and, on the mantelshelf, a carriage clock ticked away the moments. When Miss Costello reappeared, wheeling a trolley before her, Cordelia saw that the tea service was in green decorated Worcester and that the teapot was silver. It was an occasion, she thought, on which Miss Maudsley would have felt perfectly at home.

The tea was Earl Grey. As she sipped it from the elegant shallow cups Cordelia had a sudden and irresistible impulse to confide. She couldn't, of course, tell Miss Costello who she was or what she was really seeking. But the peace of the room seemed to enclose her with a warm security, a comforting respite from the horror of Clarissa's death, from her own fears, even from loneliness. She wanted to tell Miss Costello that she came from the island, to hear a sympathetic human voice saying how awful it must have been, a comforting elderly voice assuring her in the remembered tones of Reverend Mother that all would be well. She said:

'There's been a murder on Courcy Island. The actress Clarissa Lisle has been killed. But I expect you know. And now Mr Gorringe's manservant has been drowned.'

'I have heard about Miss Lisle. The island has a violent history. I don't suppose these will be the last deaths. But I haven't read the newspaper account, and, as you see, we don't have a television set. As my sister used to say, there's so much ugliness now, so much hatred, but at least we don't have to bring it into our sitting-room. And at eighty-five, my dear, one is entided to reject what one finds unpleasing.'

No, there was no comfort to be had here in this seductive but spurious peace. Cordelia was ashamed of the momentary weakness that had sought it. Like Ambrose, Miss Costello had carefully constructed her private citadel, less beautiful, less remote, less extravagantly self-indulgent, but just as self-contained, just as inviolate.

Neither excitement nor impatience had impaired Cordelia's appetite. She would.have been grateful for more than the two thin slices of bread and butter provided, particularly as the meagreness of the meal bore no relation to its length. It was surprising that Miss Costello could take so long drinking two cups of tea and nibbling her share of the food. But at last they had finished. Miss Costello said:

'My late sister's press cuttings are in her room upstairs. She was a dedicated monarchist' – here Cordelia thought she detected a nuance of indulgent contempt – 'and there was scarcely a royal occasion during the last fifty years which escaped her attention. But her main interest was, of course, in the House of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha. I shall leave you to search on your own if I may. I am unlikely to be able to help you. But please don't hesitate to call if you feel that I could.'

It was interesting but not altogether surprising, thought Cordelia, that Miss Costello hadn't troubled to inquire what she was seeking. Perhaps she regarded such a question as vulgar curiosity or, more likely, feared that it might only provoke one more intrusion of the disagreeable into her ordered life.

She showed Cordelia into the front bedroom. Here Miss Lucy's obsession was immediately apparent. The walls were almost covered with photographs of royalty, some of them half effaced with scribbled signatures. On a long shelf over the bed was closely ranged a collection of Coronation mugs while a glass-fronted display cabinet was filled with other memorabilia, crested and decorated teapots, cups and saucers and engraved glass. The whole of the wall facing the window was fitted with shelves holding a collection of scrapbooks. Here was the famous collection.

Each of the books was marked on the spine with the dates covered and Cordelia was able, without difficulty, to find July 1977. The local press photographers had done justice to Speymouth's big day. There was hardly an aspect of the Royal visit which had gone unrecorded. There were pictures of the Royal arrival, the Mayor in his chain, the curtseying Mayoress, the children with their miniature Union Jacks, the Queen smiling from the Royal car, hand raised in the distinctive Royal wave, the Duke at her side. But there was no cutting which precisely fitted Cordelia's memory of the shape and size of the missing piece. She sank back on her heels, the book open before her, and felt for a moment almost sick with disappointment. The microdots of grinning, anticipatory self-satisfied faces mocked her failure. The chance of success had been slight, but she was chagrined to realize how much hope she had invested in it. And then she saw that hope was not yet lost. On the bottom shelf was stacked a row of stout manilla envelopes each with the year written on it in Miss Lucy's upright hand. Opening the top one she saw that it also contained press cuttings, perhaps duplicates sent to Miss Lucy by friends anxious to help with her collection, or cuttings she had rejected as unworthy of inclusion but hadn't liked to throw away. The envelope for 1977 was plumper than its fellows as befitted Jubilee year. She tipped out the medley of cuttings, most already fading with age, and spread them around her.

And, almost immediately, she found it, the remembered oblong shape, the heading 'Clarissa Lisle triumphs in Rattigan revival', the third column cut down the middle. She turned it over. She didn't know what she had expected but her first reaction was one of disappointment. The whole of the reverse was taken up with a perfectly ordinary press photograph. It had been shot across the Esplanade and showed the opposite pavement thronged with smiling faces, a row of children squatting on the kerb their flags at the ready, their more adventurous elders perched on window ledges or clinging to lamp posts. At the back of the crowd two stout women with Union Jacks round their hats stood on the steps of a house holding up a sagging banner with the words, 'Welcome to Speymouth'. Royalty hadn't yet arrived but the picture conveyed the sense of happy expectation. Cordelia's first irrelevant thought was to wonder why Miss Costello had rejected it. But then, there had been so many pictures to choose from, many in which the Queen was actually shown. But what possible interest could this not particularly distinguished photograph, this record of local patriotism, have for Clarissa Lisle? She looked at it more closely. And then her heart leaped. To the right of the photograph was the slightly blurred figure of a man. He was just stepping out into the road, obviously intent, on some private business, oblivious of all the excitement around him, his preoccupied face staring past the camera. And there could be no doubt about it. The man was Ambrose Gorringe.

Ambrose in Speymouth in July 1977. But that had been the year of his tax exile. Surely he had had to stay overseas for the whole of the financial year; she could remember reading somewhere that even to set foot in the United Kingdom would vitiate the non-resident status. But suppose he had sneaked back – and this picture proved that he must have done – wouldn't that make him liable for all the tax he had avoided, all the money he must have spent on restoring the castle, acquiring his pictures and porcelain, beautifying his private island? She would have to find an expert, discover what the legal position was. There would be firms of solicitors in Speymouth. She could consult a lawyer, put a general question on tax law; there would be no need to be specific. But she had to know and there wasn't much time. She glanced at her watch. Already it was ten minutes to five. The launch would be waiting for her at six o'clock. It was essential to get some kind of confirmation before she returned to the island.

As she gathered up the unwanted cuttings and replaced them in the envelope and went downstairs to find Miss Costello her mind was busy with this new knowledge. If Clarissa had realized the significance of that press photograph, why hadn't anyone else? But then, why should they? Ambrose hadn't lived on the island in 1977. He had probably visited it only rarely; it was unlikely that his face would be known locally. Those who knew him best lived in London and were unlikely ever to see the Speymouth Chronicle. And he had written his bestseller under a pseudonym. Even if someone living locally did recognize the picture, he was unlikely to realize that this was A. K. Ambrose, the author of Autopsy, who was supposed to be spending a year in tax exile. It was hardly the kind of thing one advertised. No, it had been his appallingly bad luck that Clarissa had been playing in Speymouth that week and had wanted to read her notice. And Clarissa had extorted her price for silence. Oh, it would have been subtly managed; there would have been nothing crude or blatant about this blackmail. Clarissa would have laid down her terms with charm, even a tinge of amused regret. But the price would have been demanded, and it had been paid. So much was clear to her now: why Ambrose had tolerated the disruption of his life by the Players, why Clarissa made use of the castle as if she were its chatelaine. Cordelia told herself that none of this proved that Ambrose was a murderer; only that he had a motive. And she held the proof of it in her hand.

Afterwards it was to strike her as strange that never for one moment did she consider taking the cutting at once to the police. First she must get confirmation; then she must confront Ambrose. It was as if this murder investigation had nothing to do with the police. It was a matter between herself and Sir George who had employed her, or perhaps, between herself and the woman she had failed to protect. And Chief Inspector Grogan's arrogant masculine voice rang in her ears:

'You may be too bright for your own good, Miss Gray. You're not here to solve this crime. That's my job.'

She found Miss Costello in her small back kitchen, folding her linen ready for ironing. She was happy for Cordelia to take away the cutting and said so without bothering to look at it or to take her attention from her pillowcases. Cordelia asked whether she could recommend a firm of local solicitors. This request did evoke a swift upward glance from the shrewd eyes; but still she asked no questions. Escorting her guest to the door she merely said:

'My own advisers are in London, but I have heard that Blake, Franton and Fairbrother are considered reliable. You will find them on the Esplanade about fifty yards east from the Victoria memorial. You would be wise to hurry. Little useful activity, professional or otherwise, goes on in Speymouth after five o'clock.'

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Miss Costello was right. By the time Cordelia arrived, panting, at the polished Georgian door of Messrs Blake, Franton and Fair-brother it was shut firmly against any further clients for that day. The lower rooms were in darkness, and although there was a light in the second storey, a name-plate on the side of the door showed that this part of the house was a separate flat. Even if it hadn't been, she could hardly disturb a strange solicitor in his private house for advice on what was, on the face of it, hardly an urgent matter. Perhaps there was a firm which remained open until six; but how to find it? There was always the Yellow Pages, if the Post Office provided this directory in the provinces. She was ashamed to discover that, Londoner as she was, this was a fact she didn't know. And even if she could find a directory which gave the names of local solicitors, there would be the difficulty of locating the offices without a town map. She seemed to have come on this excursion singularly ill-equipped. As she stood irresolute a young man came up bearing a carton of vegetables and pressed the bell of the flat. He said: 'Closed are they?'

'Yes, as you see. I wanted a solicitor in a hurry. It's rather urgent.'

'Yeah, that's the thing about solicitors. If you have to have 'em it's usually urgent. You could try Beswick. He's got an office in Gentleman's Walk. About thirty yards down the street and turn left. He's about half-way up on the right.'

Cordelia thanked him and ran. Gentleman's Walk was easily found, a narrow cobbled street of elegant early eighteenth-century houses. A brass name-plate, polished to the point of being almost indecipherable, identified James Beswick, Solicitor. Cordelia was relieved to see that a light still shone behind the translucent glass and the door opened to her touch.

Seated at the desk was a fat, rather untidy woman with immense scarlet-rimmed spectacles, wearing a tightly belted suit in a brightly patterned cretonne of overblown roses and intertwined vine leaves which gave her the look of a newly upholstered sofa. She said:

'Sorry, we're shut. Call or ring tomorrow, ten o'clock onwards.'

'But the door was open.'

'Literally, but not figuratively. I should have locked it five minutes ago.'

'But since I'm here… it's very urgent. It won't take more than a few minutes, I promise.'

A voice from an upper room called out: 'Who is it, Miss Magnus?' 'A client. A girl. She says it's very urgent.' 'Is she comely?'

Miss Magnus jerked her spectacles to the end of her nose and looked at Cordelia over the rims. Then she shouted up the stairs:

'What's that got to do with it? She's clean, she's sober and she says it's urgent. And she's here.'

'Send her up.'

The footsteps receded. Cordelia, suddenly assailed by doubts, asked:

'He is a lawyer, isn't he? A good one?'

'Oh yes, he's that all right. Nobody's ever said that he isn't a good lawyer.'

The emphasis on the last word was ominous. Miss Magnus nodded at the staircase.

'You heard him. First floor to the left. He's feeding his tropical fish.'

The man who turned to her from the window was tall and gangling with a lean, creased, humorous face and half-spectacles worn low on his long nose. He was sprinkling seed from a packet into an immense fish tank, not shaking it from the packet but pinching small quantities between his fingers and dropping the seed in a careful pattern on the surface of the water. There was a tumble of red and bright blue as the fish swirled together and snapped at the food. He pointed as one of the fish streaked to the surface in a blaze of polished bronze.

'Look at him. Isn't he a beauty? That's the dawn tetra, an expensive little fellow from British Guiana. But perhaps you prefer the glowlight tetra. There he is, lurking under the shells.'

Cordelia said:

'He's very beautiful, but I don't much enjoy tropical fish in tanks.'

'Is it the fish or the tanks or the conjunction you object to? They're perfectly happy I assure you, at least one assumes so. Their small world has been artistically and scientifically devised for their comfort, and they get their food regularly. They sow not neither do they reap. Ah, there's a beauty! Look at that flash of gold and green.'

Cordelia said:

'I wanted some urgent information. It isn't about my affairs, it's just a general inquiry. You do give that kind of advice?'

'Well, it isn't usual. I'm not sure that it's wise. Solicitors are rather like doctors. You can't really generalize or deal in hypotheses; each case is unique. You have to know all the circumstances if you're really going to help. That's an interesting analogy, come to think of it; and I'll go further. If your doctor tells you to go abroad at once you can always settle for sunny Torquay instead. If your solicitor suggests you go abroad, you'd be wise to make for Heathrow immediately. I hope you're not in that precarious situation.'

'No, but it's about going abroad that I've come to consult you. I want to know about tax avoidance.'

'Do you mean tax avoidance, which is legal, or tax evasion, which isn't?'

'The first. Suppose I came into a very large sum of money, all of it in one tax year. Could I avoid paying tax if I went abroad for twelve months?'

'That depends what you mean by "came into a large sum of money". Are you talking about an inheritance, a gift, a football pool win, a sale of property or shares or what? You're not contemplating a bank raid, are you?'

'I mean earned income. Money I received by writing a successful play or a novel, or painting a picture or acting in a film.'

'Well if you were sensible you would arrange your contracts so that the money wasn't all received during the one financial year. That would be a matter for your accountant rather than for me.'

'But suppose I didn't expect it to be so successful?'

'Then you could avoid paying tax on it by becoming non-resident for the whole of the subsequent financial year. Money earned in that way is taxed retrospectively as you probably know.'

'Could I come home for a holiday or weekend?' 'No. Not even for a day.' 'Suppose I needed to? I might be homesick.' 'I should strongly advise you not to. Tax exiles can't afford the luxury of homesickness.' 'But if I did come back?' He sighed.

'If you really want an authoritative answer I would have to do some delving to see if there is any case law. And as I say, it's more a question for a tax accountant than for me. My present view, for what it's worth, is that you would become liable for tax on the income received during the whole of the preceding year.'

'And if I concealed the fact of my return from the Inland Revenue?'

'Then you could be prosecuted for attempted fraud. Probably they wouldn't bother with that if the amount wasn't large, but they would see that they got the tax due. I mean, they're in the business of getting their hands on tax properly due.'

'How much would that be?'

'Well the present top rate on earned income is sixty per cent.' 'And in 1977?'

'Ah, in those unregenerate days it was rather more. Eighty per cent or more on an income of over twenty-four thousand of taxable income. Something like that.'

'So they might ruin me?'

'Bankrupt you, you mean. Indeed they might if you were so ill advised as to spend all your previous year's income in advance in the confident expectation that it wouldn't be taxable. Death and taxation catch up with us all.'

'Thank you. You've been very kind. Can I pay now? If it's more than two pounds I'm afraid I'll have to give you a cheque. I have a cheque card.'

'Well, it hasn't taken very long, has it? And I think Miss Magnus has balanced the petty cash and locked away the box. Suppose you have this consultation on me?'

'I don't think that would be right. I ought to pay for your time.'

'Then put a pound in the doggy-box and we'll call it quits. When you've written your bestseller you can come back and I'll give you some proper advice and charge you highly for it.'

The doggy-box was on his desk, the brightly painted model of a lugubrious spaniel holding between his paws a collecting-tin bearing the name of a well-known animal charity. Cordelia folded in a couple of pound notes with the mental promise that she would charge only one to Sir George's account.

And then she remembered. There probably wouldn't be any account. Perhaps she would return to the office poorer than when she had left. Sir George had reassured her that she would be paid, but how could she charge him for so tragic a failure; it would be too like blood money. And how on earth would her bill be worded? It was strange how many small complications the huge complication of murder threw up. She thought: even in the midst of death we are in life, and the petty concerns of life don't go away.

She reached the harbour with two minutes to spare. She was surprised and a little disconcerted to find that the launch wasn't waiting, but told herself that Oldfield must have been kept by some job on the island; she was, after all, a little ahead of time. She sat on the bollard to wait, glad of the chance to rest although her mind, stimulated by the excitements of the day, soon drove her to action. She got up and began restlessly pacing the harbour wall. Below her a sluggish tide sucked at the verdigrised stones and a swag of seaweed spread its gnarled and drowned hands under the darkening surface. Daylight was fading and the warmth died with the light. One by one the houses climbing the hill lit their glowing oblongs behind drawn curtains and the winding streets became festive with sparkling necklaces of light. The late shoppers and holidaymakers had gone home and she heard only the occasional echo of a solitary footfall on the harbour wall. The little town, as if regretting its hours of unseasonable frivolity, was settling into a chill autumnal calm. The smells of summer were forgotten and a rank watery smell rose from the harbour.

She looked at her watch. She saw that it was six thirty, and the time was immediately confirmed by the striking of a distant church clock. She walked to the harbour mouth and gazed towards the island. There was no sign of the launch and the sea was empty except for two or three late returning boats gliding with slackened sails towards their moorings.

Still she paced and waited. Seven o'clock. Seven-fifteen. The evening sky, layered in mauve and purple, flamed into darkness, and the moon, pale as a tissue; shed a trembling path of light over the sea. In the distance, Courcy Island crouched like an animal against the paler hue of the sky. Night had distanced it. It was hard now to believe that only two miles of water separated that black and ominous shore from the lights, the gathered domesticity of the town. Looking out at it she shivered. Ambrose's story came back into her mind with the primitive atavistic force of a childhood nightmare. She could understand why so many local fishermen down the ages had thought the island accursed. Almost she could picture that desperate sailor, fighting the onset of the Plague and the fury of the sea, wild-eyed and exultant on his. way to his dreadful vengeance.

It was after seven thirty now. Whether by accident or design, Oldfield wasn't going to come. But at least she could leave the quay to ring the island and inquire without the fear of missing him. She remembered seeing two telephone boxes near the Victoria statue. Both were free, and when she had shut herself into the first she was glad to find that it hadn't been vandalized. It was irritating that she hadn't made a note of the castle number and for a moment she feared that Ambrose's obsession with privacy might have caused him to be ex-directory. But the number was listed, although under Courcy Island not his name. She dialled and could hear the ringing tone. Then the receiver was lifted, but no one replied to her voice. She thought that she could detect the sound of breathing but told herself that this must be imagination. She said again:

'It's Cordelia Gray here. I'm ringing from Speymouth. I was expecting the launch at six o'clock.' Still there was no reply. She spoke again, more loudly, but there was nothing but silence and the impression, eerie but unmistakable, that there was someone there, but someone who had lifted the receiver with no intention of speaking. She replaced the handpiece and dialled again. This time she got the engaged signal. The receiver had been taken off the rest.

She made her way back to the harbour though now with little hope that the launch would be in sight. And then she saw that there were lights and signs of activity on one of the moored vessels. Standing on the edge of the quay she looked down at a shabby but sturdy wooden boat with a crudely constructed cabin amidships, brown sails, and an outboard motor. The port and starboard lamps were lit and there was a drag-net heaped in the stern. It looked as if the sailor was preparing for a night's fishing. And he must, she thought, have a small galley. The salty, mouth-watering tang of fried bacon rose from the cabin above the fainter pervasive smell of tar and fish.-As she gazed down, a stocky and bearded young man squeezed through the cabin door and looked up, first at the sky and then at her. He was wearing a patched jersey and sea boots and was biting into a thick sandwich. With his cheerful ruddy face and shock of black hair he looked like an amiable buccaneer. On impulse she called down to him.

'If you're setting out, could you land me on Courcy Island? I'm staying there and the launch hasn't come for me. It's terribly important that I get back tonight.'

He moved along the boat, still munching the wedge of greasy bread, and looked up at her with eyes which were shrewd but not unfriendly. He said:

'They say there's someone murdered there. A woman, isn't it?'

'Yes, the actress, Clarissa Lisle. I was staying there when it happened. I'm still supposed to be staying there. They should have sent the launch for me at six. I must get back tonight.'

'A murdered woman. That's nothing new for Courcy Island. I'll be fishing off the south-east point. I'll take you if you're sure you want to go.'

Neither his voice nor his face betrayed any particular curiosity. She said quickly:

'I'm quite sure. I'll pay for the petrol of course. That's only fair.'

'No need. The wind's free. There'll be enough of it out in the bay. You can crew if you like.'

'I'm not sure that I know how. But I'll pull on the right rope when you tell me.'

He transferred the sandwich to his left hand, wiped the right on his jersey and held it out to help her aboard. She said:

'How long do you think it will take us?'

'The tide's running against us. Best part of forty minutes. Maybe more.'

He disappeared into the cabin and she waited seated in the bow, willing herself to patience. A minute later he reappeared and handed her a sandwich, two rashers of bacon, greasy and strong smelling, wedged between thick slices of crusty bread. Until she bit into it, almost disconnecting her jaw in the process, Cordelia hadn't realized just how hungry she was. She thanked him. He said, with a trace of boyish satisfaction at the evident success of his catering arrangements:

'There'll be cocoa once we get under way.'

He clambered along the outside of the cabin towards the stern. A minute later the engine shuddered and the small boat began to creep from the quay.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

It was almost impossible to believe that she had first seen Courcy Castle only three days earlier. In that short span of time she seemed to have lived through long, action-packed years, to have become a different person. Surely it had been some excitable expectant child who had gasped in wonder at her first sight of those sunlit walls, those patterned battlements, that high, luminous tower. But now, as the little boat turned the headland, she almost gasped again. The castle was ablaze with light. Every window shone, and from the tower, scored with pencil-slim lines of light, the high window threw a strong beam like a warning beacon over the sea. The castle seemed buoyant with light, lifted above the rocks to float in motionless serenity under an indigo sky, obliterating the nearer stars with brightness. Only the moon held her place, wan as a circle of rice paper, moving behind a thin veil of cloud.

She stood on the quay until the boat had drawn away. For a moment she was tempted to call out to the boy to stay, at least within call. But she told herself that she was being ridiculous and fanciful. She wouldn't be alone with Ambrose. Even if Ivo were too sick to be much support, Roma, Simon and Sir George would be there. And even if they weren't, why should she be afraid? She would be facing someone with a motive. But motive alone didn't make a murderer. And she agreed in her heart with Roma: Ambrose hadn't the nerve, the ruthlessness, the capacity for hatred which drove a man to the ultimate crime.

Light lay across the terrace like a sheet of silver. She trod it as if on air, as if she, too, were buoyant, moving silently towards the open french windows of the drawing-room. And then Ambrose appeared and stood watching her approach, a dark figure silhouetted against the light. He was wearing a dinner-jacket and holding a glass of red wine in his left hand. The picture had the clarity and distinction of a painting. She found herself admiring the artist's technique; the careful positioning of the body, the artful blob of red in the glass cunningly and deftly painted in to emphasize the dark vertical lines of the figure, the splash of white at the shirt front, the dominant eyes which gave a focus and meaning to the whole composition. This was his kingdom, his castle. He was in command. He had illuminated it as if to celebrate and exult in his mastery. But when she came up to him his voice was light and casual. He might have been welcoming her home after an afternoon's shopping on the mainland. But wasn't that precisely what he thought he was doing?

'Good evening, Cordelia. Have you eaten? I didn't wait dinner, such as it is. I cooked myself some soup and a herb omelette. Would you care for one?'

Cordelia moved into the drawing-room. Here only the wall lights and one table lamp were lit, making a cosy circle of light by the fire. The corners of the room were dark and long shadows moved like fingers over the carpet and the walls. The fire must have been lit for some time. A single large log was burning steadily. She slipped off her shoulder-bag and asked:

'Where is everyone?'

'Ivo's in bed, not at all well, I'm afraid. He'll be going home tomorrow if he's fit for the journey. Roma has left. She was anxious to get back to London. Sir George had one of his mysterious calls to a meeting at Southampton and she took the launch with him. They won't be returning, although they'll both be in Speymouth tomorrow for the inquest. Simon said that he wasn't hungry. He's gone to bed.'

So they were alone after all, alone except for the sick Ivo and a boy. She asked, hoping that her voice didn't betray her dismay:

'Why wasn't the launch at Speymouth? Oldfield was supposed to meet me at six.'

'He or I must have misunderstood. He'll be back with Shearwater, but not until the morning. He's visiting his daughter in Bournemouth for the night.'

'I did ring, but whoever answered put down the receiver.'

'I'm afraid that's been my stock response to the telephone today. Too many calls, too many reporters.'

They stood together in front of the fire. She took the newspaper photograph from her bag and held it out to him.

'I went to Speymouth to find this.'

He didn't touch it or even glance at it.

'I did wonder. I congratulate you. I didn't think you'd succeed.'

'Because you'd already cut it out of the newspaper archives?' He said calmly:

'Yes, I destroyed it about a year ago. It seemed a sensible precaution.'

'I found another.' 'So I see.'

Suddenly he said gently:

'You look tired, Cordelia, hadn't you better sit down? May I get you some claret or brandy?' 'I'd like a glass of claret, please.'

She had to keep her mind clear, but the thought of the wine was irresistible. Her mouth was so dry that she could hardly frame her words. He fetched a glass for her from the dining-room, poured her wine and refilled his own glass, then sat with the decanter close at hand. They settled themselves one each side of the fireplace. It seemed to Cordelia that no chair had ever been more welcoming or as comfortable, no wine had ever tasted so good. He began to speak as calmly and unemotionally as if they were sitting together after dinner discussing the ordinary events of an unremarkable day.

'I came back to visit my uncle. I was his heir and he wanted to see me. I don't think he understood that I couldn't return and still have a tax-free year. That wasn't the way his mind worked. It would never have occurred to him that a man could spend a year of his life doing what he didn't want to do, living where he didn't want to live, because of money. I wish you'd known him. You would have liked each other. It wasn't difficult getting here unnoticed. I flew from Paris to Dublin and took an Aer Lingus flight to Heathrow. Then I travelled by rail to Speymouth and rang the castle for my uncle's servant William Mogg to meet me after dark with the launch. They'd lived together here for nearly forty years. I asked Mogg not to tell anyone that he'd seen me, but it wasn't necessary. He never spoke of his master's business. Three months after my uncle died he turned his face to the wall and followed him. So you see, there wasn't really any risk. He asked me to come. I came.'

'And if you hadn't, perhaps he would have altered his will.'

'Unkind, Cordelia. You probably won't believe me, but I wasn't influenced by that disagreeable possibility. I didn't even believe that it was a possibility. I liked him. I seldom saw him – he didn't encourage visits even from his heir – but when I did pay my annual homage there was something between us which both of us recognized. Not love. I think he only loved William Mogg and I'm not sure that I know what the word means. But whatever it was I valued it. And I valued him. He had toughness, obstinacy, courage. He was his own man. He lay in that immense bedroom like some ancient chieftain gazing out over the sea and fearing nothing: nothing, nothing. And then he asked me to get for him something he fancied, a last taste of Blue Stilton. He can't have tasted it for thirty years. He and William Mogg practically lived off the island, making their own butter and cheese. God knows what put that need into his mind. He could have asked Mogg to get it for him. But he didn't, he asked me.'

'So that's why you went to Speymouth?'

'That's why. If I hadn't done that simple act of filial kindness Clarissa wouldn't have seen that press photograph, wouldn't have forced me into staging The Duchess of Malfi, would still be alive. Odd, isn't it? It makes nonsense of any theory of the beneficent governance of human life. But then I learned that lesson when I was eight and my mother died because she was one minute late for the plane home and the one she caught crashed. It was a matter, you see, of whether the Paris traffic lights were red or green. We live by chance and we die by chance. With Clarissa if you look back far enough, it was a matter of eight ounces, of Blue Stilton. Evil coming out of good if those two words mean something to you.'

Ivo had asked her much the same question. But this time she wasn't expected to answer. He went on:

'A man should have the courage to live by his beliefs. If you accept, as I do absolutely, that this life is all that we have, that we die as animals, that everything about us is finally lost irrevocably, that we go into the night without hope, then that belief must influence how you live your life.'

'Millions of people live with that knowledge and still live good and kindly and useful lives.'

'Because goodness and usefulness and kindness are expedient. I have my share of them. It is necessary for comfort to be at least a little liked. And perhaps some of the virtuous unbelievers still retain a vestigial hope or fear that there could be an after-life, a measure of reward or punishment, a rebirth. There isn't, Cordelia. There isn't. There's nothing but darkness, and we go into it without hope.'

Remembering how he had sent Clarissa into her darkness, she gazed appalled at the gently smiling face with its look of spurious sorrow, as if the full knowledge of what he had done had only now come home to her.

'You smashed in her face! Not once, time and time again! You could make yourself do that!'

'It wasn't agreeable. And if it's any consolation to you, I had to close my eyes. And it seemed to go on for so long. The sensation was horribly specific, softness cushioning the brittleness of bones. And so many bones. I could feel them splintering, like smashing a tin of toffee in childhood. Our old cook used to let me make it. Smashing it when it had cooled was the best part. And when I opened my eyes and made myself gaze, Clarissa wasn't there. Of course, she hadn't been there before, but once her face was gone I couldn't even remember what she had looked like. More than anyone I know, Clarissa was her face. That demolished, I knew afresh what I'd always known, the ridiculous presumption of supposing that she had a soul.'

Cordelia told herself: I won't be sick. I won't. And I must stay calm. I mustn't panic.

His voice came to her faintly but very clear:

'When I was sixteen and first came to this island as a schoolboy I knew for the first time what I wanted of life. Not power, not success, not sex, with men or women. That has always been to me an expense of spirit in a waste of shame. It wasn't even money, except as it contributed to my passion. I wanted a place. This place. I wanted a house. This house. I wanted this view, this sea, this island. My uncle wanted to die on it. I wanted to live on it. It's the only real passion I've ever known. And I wasn't going to let a nymphomaniac second-rate actress take it from me.'

'And so you killed her?'

He refilled her glass and his own, then looked at her. She had the feeling that he was measuring something, her probable response, his need to confide, perhaps even how much time remained to them. He smiled, and the smile was one of genuine amusement which almost broke into a laugh.

'My dear Cordelia! Do you really believe that you're sitting here, sipping Chateau Margaux with a murderer! I congratulate you on your sang-froid. No, I didn't kill her. I thought you understood that. I haven't that brand of courage or ruthlessness. No, she was dead when I battered in her face. Someone had been there before me. She couldn't feel it, you see. Nothing matters, nothing exists as long as you can't feel it. It. wasn't living flesh that I beat into a pulp. It wasn't Clarissa.'

But, of course. What had made her so blind? She had reasoned all this out before. Clarissa must have been dead when he raised the marble limb and brought it down, the limb of a dead princess who, by chance, had borne the same name as that other child who, more than a century later, had died uncomforted by her mother in a London hospital bed. He said:

'There was no upward spurt of blood. How could there be? She was already dead. It isn't so very difficult to strike when the kill has been made. No blood, no pain, no guilt. All I did was to cover up for the murderer. Admittedly my motive was mainly self-interest. I needed to find and destroy that vital scrap of newsprint. I knew that it would be somewhere in the room. That was one of her little tricks, to keep it near her, to take it out of her handbag occasionally and pretend to read the review. But you should credit me with some disinterested concern for the killer. It pleased me to concoct for him a way of escape if he had the guts to take it. After all, I did owe him something.'

'She could have taken photocopies of the photograph.'

'Perhaps, although it wasn't likely. And what would it matter if she had? They'd be found with her effects at home, trivia to be thrown away with the detritus of her essentially trivial life, the half-used jars of face cream, the dead love-letters, the hoarded theatre programmes. And even if George Ralston had found it and realized its significance – an unlikely eventuality – he wouldn't have done anything. George wouldn't have seen it as his business to do the work of the Inland Revenue. I came back here for one day and one night to be with a dying man. Would you, or anyone you know, use that knowledge to inform on me?'

'No.'

'And will you now?'

'I must. It's different now. I have to tell, not the tax people, the police. I have to.'

'Oh, no you don't, Cordelia! No you don't! Don't try to fool yourself that you no longer have the responsibility of choice.'

She didn't answer. He leaned forward and refilled her glass.

'It wasn't the possibility of other copies that worried me. What I couldn't risk was the police finding that one copy, and in her room. And I knew that, if it were there to find, then they'd find it. They'd be looking for a motive. Everything in that room would be collected, docketed, scrutinized, examined. There was a chance, of course, that they'd take the cutting at its face value, a critic's notice kept for purely sentimental reasons. But why that particular notice, a not very important play in a provincial theatre? It's never safe to rely on the stupidity of the police.'

She said with great sadness: 'So it was Simon. Poor Simon! Where is he now?'

'In his room. Perfectly safe, I assure you. Don't you want to know what happened?'

'But he couldn't have planned it! Not Simon. He couldn't have meant it.'

'Planned it, no. Meant it? Who's to say what he meant? She's just as dead, isn't she, whatever he meant? What he told me was that she invited him to her room. He was to say that he was going for a swim, put on his swimming-trunks under his jeans and shirt, wait until thirty minutes after she'd gone to rest, then knock three times at the door. She'd let him in. She said there was something she wanted to talk to him about. There was, of course. Herself. Whatever else did Clarissa ever want to talk about? He, poor deluded fool, thought she was going to tell him that he could go to the Royal College, that she'd pay for his musical education.'

'But why send for Simon? Why him?'

'Ah, that I doubt whether we shall ever know. But I can make a guess. Clarissa liked to make love before a performance. Perhaps it gave her confidence, perhaps it was a necessary release of tension, perhaps she only knew of one way to stop herself thinking.'

'But Simon! That boy! She couldn't have wanted him!'

'Perhaps not. Perhaps, this time, she only wanted to talk, wanted companionship. And, with all respect to you, my dear Cordelia, she had never looked to a woman for that. But she may have thought that she was doing him a service in more ways than one. Clarissa is totally incapable of believing that a man exists – a normal man anyway – who wouldn't take her if he could get her. And to do her justice, my sex hasn't done much to disabuse her of the idea. And what better time for Simon to begin his privileged education than on a warm afternoon after, I pride myself, an excellent luncheon and when she needed a new sensation, a divertissement to take her mind off the performance ahead? And who else was there? George, poor chivalrous booby, would lie to the death to protect her reputation, but my guess is that he hasn't touched her since he discovered that he's a cuckold. I'm no use to her. And Whittingham? Well, Ivo has had his turn. And can you imagine her wanting him even if he had the strength? It would be like handling the dry skin of death, infecting your tongue with the taste of death, smelling corruption in your nostrils. Given dear Clarissa's peculiar needs, who was there but Simon?' 'But it's horrible!'

'Only because you're young, pretty and intolerant. It would have done no harm with a different boy and at a different time. He might even have thanked her. But Simon Lessing was looking for a different kind of education. Besides, he's a romantic. What she saw in his face wasn't desire, it was disgust. Of course, I could be wrong. She may not have thought it out very clearly. Clarissa seldom did. But she asked him to come to her. And as with me and my uncle, he came.'

She said:

'What happened? How did you find out?'

'I lied to Grogan about the time I left my room. I changed at once and quickly so that just after twenty minutes to two I was passing Clarissa's door. At that moment Simon looked out. The encounter was completely fortuitous. We stared at each other. His face was ghastly – ashen-white, the eyes glazed. I thought he was going to collapse. I pushed him back into the bedroom and locked the door. He was wearing only his swimming-trunks and I saw his shirt and jeans in a heap on the floor. And Clarissa was lying sprawled on the bed. She was dead.'

'How could you be sure? Why didn't you get help?'

'My dear Cordelia, I may have led a sheltered life but I know death when I see it. I did check. I felt for a pulse. None. I drew the corner of my handkerchief across the eyeball, a disagreeable procedure. No response. He had brought the jewel box crashing down on her head and smashed the skull. The box was actually lying there on her forehead. Oddly enough, there was very little bleeding, a small smudge on his forearm where the blood had spurted upwards, a thin trickle running from her left nostril. It had almost dried when I saw her and yet she had only been dead for ten minutes. It looked like a crooked gash, a disfigurement above the gaping mouth. That's one last humiliation which none of us can do anything about, looking ridiculous in death. How she would have hated it! But then you know. You saw her.' Cordelia said:

'You forget. I saw her later. I saw her when you'd finished with her. She didn't look ridiculous then.'

'Poor Cordelia! I'm sorry. I would have spared you that if I could. But I thought it would look suspicious if I went up early to call her myself. That's something I've learnt from popular fiction. Never be the one to find the body.'

'But why? Did he say why?'

'Not very coherently. And I was more concerned to get him away than to discuss the psychological complications of the encounter. But neither of them had got what they wanted. She must have seen the shame and the disgust in his eyes. And he saw the loss of all his hopes in hers. She taunted him with his sexual failure. She told him that he was as useless to her as his father had been. I think it was at that moment when she lay there half-naked on the bed smiling at him, mocking him and his dead father together, destroying all his hopes, that his control snapped. He seized the jewel casket, the only weapon to hand, and brought it down.'

'And after that?'

'Can't you guess? I told him precisely what he must do. I schooled him in his story to the police. He was to say that he'd gone to swim after lunch as he told us all that he would. He'd walked along the beach until about an hour after the end of the meal and had then entered the water. He had started off back to the castle at about a quarter to three to dress for the play. I made sure that he had it by heart. I took him into Clarissa's bathroom and washed off the small spot of blood. Then I dried the basin with toilet paper and flushed it down the WC. I found the newspaper cutting. It didn't take long. Her handbag or the jewel box were the two obvious places. Then I took him next door and instructed him how to get down the fire escape from your bathroom window being careful not to touch any of the rungs with his hands. He was like a dutiful child, obedient, extraordinarily calm. I watched while he managed the fire escape, carrying the box under his arm, then as he went to the edge of the cliff and hurled it out to sea as I'd instructed him. And if the police do succeed in dredging it up, they'll find that the valuable jewels are missing. I took them out and flung them into another part of the sea. Forgive me if I don't demonstrate my confidence in you by saying precisely where. But it would never have done if all that the police found missing in the casket was one reputed sheet of newsprint. Then he dived and I watched him strike out strongly towards the west cove.'

'But someone else was watching too; Munter from the tower room window, the only window which overlooks the fire escape.'

'I know. He managed to make that plain to us in his drunken ramblings when Simon and I were helping him to his room. It wouldn't have mattered. Munter was absolutely safe. I told Simon not to let it worry him. Munter would have taken any secret of mine to the grave.'

Cordelia said:

'He took it to the grave conveniently early. And could you really trust a drunkard?'

'I could trust Munter, drunk or sober. And I didn't kill him. And nor, as far as I know, did Simon. That death, at least, was accidental.'

'What did you do next?'

'I had to work quickly. But the haste and the risk were remarkably stimulating. My plotting of this real-life mystery was almost as ingenious as it was in Autopsy. I cleaned the make-up from Clarissa's face so that the police wouldn't suspect that she'd invited a visitor to her room. Then I set out to destroy the evidence of how precisely she was killed and to substitute a weapon which Simon couldn't have brought with him because he didn't know it existed, a weapon which would deceive the police into thinking that the murder was connected with the threatening quotations. I didn't tell Simon what I proposed and I didn't touch the body until he'd left. His ignorance was his greatest safeguard. He never saw Clarissa's shattered face.'

'And you had the limb with you, I suppose, in the inside pocket of your cloak?'

'I had both of them ready, the marble and the note. I was intending to put them in the casket which Clarissa would open in the second scene of Act Three. It would have had to be done under cover of the cloak and at the last minute, requiring some sleight of hand. But I think I might have managed it. And I assure you the result would have been spectacular. I doubt whether she would have got through the scene.'

'And is that why you took the job of assistant stage manager and occupied yourself with the props?'

'That's why. It was natural enough. People assumed that I wanted to keep an eye on my belongings.'

'And after you'd destroyed Clarissa's face, I suppose you took Simon's clothes to the cove, also hiding them under your cloak.'

'How well you understand duplicity, Cordelia. I should have liked to have left them further down the shore but there wasn't time. The small cove beyond the terrace was as far as I could manage. And then I entered the theatre by the arcade and checked the props with Munter. I should mention that I didn't have to worry unduly about fingerprints when I was in Clarissa's room. This is my house. The furniture and the objects, including the marble, belong to me. It was perfectly reasonable that they should bear my prints. But I did wonder about my palm print on the communicating door. That could have shown that I was the last person to touch it. That's why I took good care to open it after we found the body.'

'And the threatening quotations, you sent those too? You took over when Tolly stopped?'

'So you know about Tolly? I think I've underestimated you, Cordelia. Yes, it wasn't difficult. Poor Tolly took to religion as an opiate for grief, and I continued the good work but in a rather more artistic form. It was only then that Clarissa called the police. It wasn't a development I welcomed so I suggested a little ploy to her that effectively scotched their interest. Clarissa really was an extraordinarily stupid woman. She had instinct but absolutely no intelligence. My success depended on two things about Clarissa, her stupidity and her terror of death. So when Tolly's little notes with their remarkably apt biblical reference to millstones around necks ceased, I initiated my own brand of unpleasantness with the occasional help of Munter._; The object was; of course, to destroy her as an actress and give me back my privacy, my peaceable island. It was only as an actress that Clarissa had any power over me. She would never return to Courcy if its theatre was the scene of her final humiliation. Once her confidence and her career were effectively and totally destroyed, I should be free. To do her justice she wasn't a common blackmailer. She didn't need to be. She first saw that newspaper cutting in 1977. Clarissa liked to pamper her ego with discreditable secrets about her friends and this was one she hugged to herself for three years before she needed to make use of it. It was my bad luck that the restoration of the theatre and the crisis in her career should coincide. Suddenly there was something she wanted of me. And she had the means to get it. I assure you, that blackmail was carried out with the greatest delicacy and discretion.'

Suddenly he leaned towards her and said:

'Look, Cordelia, it isn't going to be possible to shield him for much longer. He's beginning to drink. You must have seen it. And he's making mistakes. That gaffe which Roma noticed, for example. How could he have known what the jewel box was like if he hadn't seen or handled it? And there will be others. I like the boy and he's not without talent. I've done all I can to save him. Clarissa destroyed his father and I didn't see why she should add the son to her list of victims. But I was wrong about him. He hasn't the guts to see this through. And Grogan is no fool.'

'Where is he now?'

'I told you. In his room as far as I know.'

She looked into his face, at the smooth womanish skin burnished by the light of the fire, the eyes like black coals, the perpetually half-smiling mouth. She felt the persuasive force flowing towards her – rooting her into the comfort of her chair. And then as if the claret had mysteriously cleared her mind, she knew exactly what he was doing. The careful explanations, the wine, the almost companionable chat, the seductive comfort folded like a shawl around her tiredness, what were they but a ploy to waste time, to keep her at his side? Even the place had conspired with him against her; the cheerful domesticity of the fire, the sense of unreality induced by the long restless shadows, the windows wide to the disorientating blackness of the night and the ceaseless, sleep-inducing susurration of the sea.

She snatched up her shoulder-bag and ran from' the room, through the echoing hall, up the wide staircase. She flung open the door of Simon's bedroom and switched on the light. The bed was made, the room empty. She fled like a wild creature from room to empty room. Only in one did she see a human face. In the soft glow of his bedside lamp, Ivo was lying on his back staring at the ceiling. As she came up to him he must have sensed her desperation. But he smiled sadly and gave a small rueful shake of the head. There was no help here.

There was still the tower to search, that and the theatre. But perhaps he wasn't any longer in the castle. The whole island was open to him, cliffs and uplands, meadows and woodlands, the black unsearchable island holding like a shell in its dark intricacies the everlasting murmur of the sea. But there was still, the business room and the kitchen quarters, unlikely as it was that he had taken refuge there. She sped down the tiled passage and flung herself at the business room door. And then she stood, arrested. The second display cabinet, the one which held the small mementoes of Victorian crime and horror had been violated. The glass had been smashed. And staring down she saw that something was missing: the handcuffs. And then she knew where she would find Simon.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

She flung her shoulder-bag on the desk of the business room, taking with her only her torch. There was only one other thing she wished to have, the leather belt. But it was no longer round her waist. Somewhere and somehow during the day's activities she had lost it. She had a memory of hurriedly putting it on in the women's cloakroom of a chain store where she had stopped on her way to Benison Row. In her anxiety to find Miss Costello she must have buckled it insecurely. As she ran across the lawn and into the darkness of the wood she wished that she still felt the reassuring strength of this private talisman clasped round her waist.

The Church loomed before her, numinous and secret in the moonlight. No lights shone from the open door but the faint gleam from the east window was enough to light her to the crypt even without the aid of her torch. And that door, too, was open with the key in the lock. Ambrose must have told him where it could be found. The strong dusty smell of the crypt came up to meet her. She didn't pause to find the switch but followed the shifting pool of torchlight, past the rows of domed skulls, the grinning mouths, until it shone on the heavy iron-bound door which led to the secret passage. This too was open.

She dared not run; the passage was too twisting, the ground too uneven. She remembered that the passage lights were on a time switch and pressed each button as she passed, knowing that in a few moments the lights would go out behind her, that she was moving from brightness into the dark. The way seemed interminable. Surely that small party, only two days earlier, hadn't travelled as far as this? She had a moment of panic, fearing that she might have found and taken a hidden turning and be lost in a maze of tunnels. But then she saw the second flight of steps and there gleamed before her the low-roofed cavern above the Devil's Kettle. The single bulb suspended in its protective grille was shining steadily. The trapdoor was up, the lid resting against the wall of the cave. Cordelia knelt and gazed down into Simon's face. It strained up at her, the eyes wide and staring, the whites showing, like the eyes of a terrified dog. His left arm was stretched above his head, the wrist handcuffed to the top rail. His hand drooped from the bar of the handcuff, not the strong hand she remembered coming down on the piano keys, but tender and pale as the hand of a child. And the steadily rising water, flapping like black oil against the cave walls and glazed with light from the cavern above, was already up to his shoulders.

She climbed down beside him. The cold cut her thighs like a knife. She said: 'Where's the key?' 'I dropped it.'

'Dropped it or threw it? Simon, I have to know where.' 'I just dropped it.'

Of course. He would have no need to hurl it far. Handcuffed and helpless as he was, he couldn't retrieve it now however close it lay and however tempted or desperate he might be. She prayed that the bottom of the cave would be rock not sand. She had to find the key. There was no other way. Her mind had already done its rapid calculation. Five minutes to get back to the castle, another five to return. And where would she find a toolbox, a file sufficiently strong to cut through the metal? Even if there were someone in the castle able and willing to help her, there still wasn't time. If she left him now she would be leaving him to drown.

He whispered:

'Ambrose told me I'd be in prison for the rest of my life. That or Broadmoor.' 'He lied.'

'I couldn't stand it, Cordelia! I couldn't stand it!'

'You won't have to. Manslaughter isn't murder. You didn't mean to kill her. And you aren't mad.'

But how clearly the words of Ambrose fell into her mind. 'Who's to say what he meant? She's just as dead, isn't she, whatever he meant?'

Any additional light was welcome. She switched on her torch, resting it on the top rung. Then she gulped in a lungful of air and lowered herself carefully under the gently heaving surface. It was important not to disturb the sea bed more than she could help. The water was icy cold and so black that she could see nothing. But she felt with her hands, scraping them along the bottom, feeling the gritty sand, the spurs of sharp unyielding rock. A swathe of seaweed wound itself round her arm like a soft detaining hand. But her slowly creeping fingers found nothing that could have been the key.

She came up for air and gasped:

'Show me exactly where you dropped it.'

He whispered through his bloodless, chattering lips:

'About here. I held my right hand out like this. Then I let it fall.'

She cursed her folly. She should have taken more trouble to discover the exact place before disturbing the sand. Now she might have lost it forever. She had to move gently and slowly. She had to stay calm and take her time. But there wasn't any time. Already the water was up to their necks.

She lowered herself again trying methodically to cover the area he had indicated, letting her fingers creep like crabs over the surface of sand. Twice she had to come up for air and see briefly the horror and the despair in those staring eyes. But on the third attempt her hand found the stub of metal and she brought up the key.

Her fingers were so cold that they felt lifeless. She could hardly grasp the key and was terrified that she might drop it, that she might not be able to fit it into the lock. Watching her shaking hands he said:

'I'm not worth it. I killed Munter, too. I couldn't sleep and I was there, in the rose garden. I was there when he fell in. I could have saved him. But I ran away so that I wouldn't have to look. I pretended that I hadn't seen, that I hadn't been near.'

'Don't think about that now. We've got to get you out of here, get you warm again.'

The key was in the lock at last. She was fearful that it might not work, that it might not even be the right key. But it turned easily enough. The bar of the handcuff loosened. He was free.

And then it happened. The trapdoor crashed down in an explosion of sound physical as a blow cleaving their skulls. The noise seemed to thunder through the island, shaking the iron ladder under their rigid hands, lifting the water at their throats and bursting it against the walls of the cave in a tidal wave of concentrated fury. It seemed that the cave itself must split open to let in the roaring sea. The lighted torch, dislodged from the top rung of the ladder, curved in a shining arc before Cordelia's horrified eyes, gleamed for a second under the swirling water, then died. The darkness was absolute. And then, even before the echo of that crash had rumbled into silence, Cordelia's ears caught a different sound, the hideous rasp of metal against metal, once and then repeated, a noise so dreadful in its implication that she threw back her sea-drenched head and almost howled her protest into the blackness.

'Oh no! Please God, no!'

Someone – and she knew who it must be – had kicked down the trapdoor. Someone's hand had shot home the two bolts. The killing ground had been sealed. Above them was unyielding wood, surrounding them the rock face, at their throats the sea.

She raised herself and pressed with all her strength against the wood. She bent her head and strained against it with.her shoulders. But it didn't move. She knew that it wouldn't. She was aware of Simon dragging himself up beside her, of his palms beating ineffectually against it. She couldn't see him. The darkness was thick and heavy as a blanket, an almost palpable weight against her chest. She was only aware of his terrified moans, long drawn out and tremulous as the waiting sea, of the rank smell of his fear, of the harsh indrawing of his breath, of a thudding heart which could have been his or hers. She reached out for him with her hands. They moved in what was meant to be comfort over his wet face, knowing only by the warmth which of the drops were sea water and which were tears. She felt his trembling hands on her face, her eyes, her mouth. He said:

'Is this death?'

'Perhaps. But there's still a chance. We can swim for it.' 'I'd rather stay here and have you close to me. I don't want to die alone.'

'It's better to die trying. And I won't try without you.' He whispered: 'I'll try. When?'

'Soon. While there's still air enough. You go first. I'll be behind you.'

It was better for him that way. The first one through would have an easier passage, unhampered by the leader's thrusting feet. And if he gave up there was the hope that she might have the strength to push him through. For a second she wondered how she would cope if the passage narrowed and his inert body blocked her escape. But she put the thought away from her. He was now less strong than she; weakened by cold and terror. He must go first. The water was now so high that only a fragile ribbon of light marked the exit. Its beam lay pale as milk on the dark surface. With the next wave that, too, would go and they would be trapped in utter darkness with nothing to point the way out. She tugged off her waterlogged jersey. They let go of the ladder, joined hands, and paddled to the middle of the cave where the roof was highest, then turned on their backs and gulped in their long last lungfuls of air. The rock face almost scraped Cordelia's forehead. Water, cool and sweet, fell on her tongue like the last taste of life. She whispered, 'Now!' and he let go of her hand without hesitation and slid under the surface. She took her final gulp of air, twisted and dived.

She knew that she was swimming for her life, and that was almost all she knew. It had been a moment for action not for thought and she was unprepared for the darkness, the icy terror, the strength of the inflowing tide. She could hear nothing but a pounding in her ears, feel nothing but the pain above her heart and the black tide against which she fought like a desperate and cornered beast. The sea was death and she struggled against it with all she could muster of life and youth and hope. Time had no reality. It could have been minutes, even hours, that passage through hell, yet it must have been counted in seconds. She wasn't aware of the thrashing body in front of her. She had forgotten Simon, forgotten Ambrose, forgotten even the fear of dying in the struggle not to die. And then, when the pain was too great, her lungs bursting, she saw the water above her lighten, become translucent, gender, warm as blood and she thrust herself upward to the air, the open sea and the stars.

So this was what it was like to be born: the pressure, the thrusting, the wet darkness, the terror and the warm gush of blood. And then there was light. She wondered that the moon could shed so warm a light, gentle and balmy as a summer day. And the sea, too, was warm. She turned on her back and floated, arms wide spread, letting it bear her where it would. The stars were companionable. She was glad they were there. She laughed aloud at them in her joy. And it wasn't in the least surprising to see Sister Perpetua there bending over her in her white coif. She said:

'Here I am, Sister. Here I am.'

How strange that Sister should be shaking her head, gently but firmly, that the coiffed whiteness should fade and that there should be only the moon, the stars and the wide sea. And then she knew who and where she was. The struggle still wasn't over. She had to find the strength to fight this lassitude, this overwhelming happiness and peace. Death which had failed to seize her by force was creeping up on her by stealth.

And then she saw the sailing boat gliding towards her on the moonlit stream. At first she thought that it was a sea phantom born of her exhaustion and no more tangible than the white-coiffed face of Sister Perpetua. But it grew in form and solidity and, as she turned towards it, she recognized its shape and the tousled head of its owner. It was the boat which had brought her back to the island. She could hear it now, the swish of the waves under the keel, the faint creaking of wood and the hiss of the air in its sails. And now the stocky figure was standing black against the sky to fold the canvas in his arms and she heard the splutter of the engine. He was manoeuvring to draw alongside. He had to drag her aboard. The boat lurched, then steadied. She was aware of a sharp pain tugging at her arms. And then she was lying on the deck and he was kneeling beside her. He seemed unsurprised to see her. He asked no questions, only pulling off his jersey and folding it round her. When she could speak she gasped:

'Lucky for me you were still here.'

He nodded towards the mast and she saw, buckled round it like a pennant, the narrow strip of leather. 'I was coming to bring you that.' 'You were bringing me back my belt!'

She didn't know why it was so funny, why she had to fight the impulse to break into wild hysterical laughter. He said easily:

'Oh well, I had a fancy to land on the island by moonlight and Ambrose Gorringe is none too keen on trespassers. I had it in mind to leave the belt on the quay. I reckoned you'd find it soon enough in the morning.'

The moment of incipient hysteria had passed. She struggled upright and gazed back at the island, at the dark mass of the castle, impregnable as rock, all its lights extinguished. And then the moon moved from behind a cloud and suddenly it glowed with magic, each separate brick visible yet insubstantial, the tower a silver fantasy. She gazed enchanted at its beauty. And then her numbed brain remembered. Would he be watching for her, there on his citadel, binoculars raised, eyes scanning the sea for her bobbing head? She could picture how it might have been; her exhausted body dragging itself ashore through the squelch of the shingle and the drag of the receding waves, her bleared eyes looking up only to meet his implacable eyes, his strength confronting her weakness. She wondered if he could have brought himself to kill in cold blood. She thought that it would have been difficult for him. Perhaps it would have been impossible. How much easier to kick shut the trapdoor, to shoot the bolts and leave the sea to do your work for you. She remembered Roma's words, 'Even his horror is second-hand.' But how could he have let her live, knowing what she did? She said: 'You saved my life.'

'Saved you a bit of a swim, that's all. You'd have made it. You're close enough to the shore.'

He didn't ask why, almost naked, she should be swimming at such an hour. Nothing seemed to surprise or disconcert him. And it was only then that she remembered Simon. She said urgently:

'There are two of us. There was a boy with me. We've got to find him. He'll be here somewhere. He's a very strong swimmer.'

But the sea stretched in a calm, moonlit emptiness. She made him wait and search for an hour, tacking slowly up and down the shore line with the sails furled, the engine gently purring. She lay slumped against the gunwale and stared desperately, watching for any movement on the sea's calm face. But at last she accepted what she had known from the beginning. Simon had been a strong swimmer. But weakened by cold and terror and perhaps by some despair which went beyond them, he hadn't been strong enough. She was too tired now to feel grief. She was hardly aware even of disappointment. And then she saw that they were making slowly for the quay. She said quickly:

'Not to the island, to Speymouth.'

'You'll be wanting a doctor, then?'

'Not a doctor, the police.'

Still he asked no questions, but put the boat about. After a few minutes, with warmth and energy flowing back into her limbs, she tried to get up and give him a hand with the ropes. But she seemed to have no strength in her arms. He said:

'Better go into the cabin and get some rest.'

'I'd rather stay here on deck if that's all right.'

'You'll not be in my way.'

He fetched a pillow and a heavy coat from the cabin and tucked her up beside the mast. Looking up at the pattern of unregarding stars, hearing the flap of canvas as the boom swung over and soothed by the swish of the waves under the slicing hull, Cordelia wished that the journey could go on forever, that this respite of peace and beauty between the horror passed and the trauma to come might never end.

And so in a companionable silence they sailed together towards the harbour, feeling the peace of the night flowing between them. Cordelia must have slept. She was dimly aware of the boat gently bumping the quay, of being carried ashore, of his hands under her breasts, of the strong sea-smell of his jersey, of a heart beating strongly against her own.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

The next twelve hours remained in Cordelia's memory only as a confused impression of time passing but disorientated, of a limbo in which individual pictures and people stood out with startling and unnatural clarity as if a clicking camera had spasmodically recorded them, fixing them instantaneously and for ever in all their capricious banality.

A huge teddy bear on the desk at the police station, humped against the wall at the end of the counter, squint-eyed, with a tag round its neck. A cup of strong sweet tea slopping into the saucer. Two sodden biscuits disintegrating into mush. Why should they produce so clear an image? Chief Inspector Grogan in a blue jersey with frayed cuffs wiping egg off his mouth, then looking down at his handkerchief as if sharing her wonder that he should be eating so late. Herself huddled in the back of a police car and feeling the rough tickle of a blanket on her face and arms. The foyer of a small hotel, smelling of lavender furniture polish with a lurid print of the death of Nelson above the desk. A cheerful-faced woman, whom the police seemed to know, half supporting her up the stairs. A small back bedroom with a brass bedstead and a picture of Mickey Mouse on the lampshade. Waking in the morning to find her jeans and shirt neatly folded on the bedside chair and turning them over in her hands as if they belonged to someone else; thinking that the police must have gone back to the island the night before and how odd they hadn't taken her with them. One old man silently sharing the breakfast room with her and two women police officers, paper napkin tucked into his collar, a vivid red birthmark covering half his face. The police launch butting its way across the bay against a freshening wind with herself, like a prisoner under escort, wedged between Sergeant Buckley and a policewoman in uniform. A seagull hovering above them with its strong curved beak, then dropping to settle on the prow like a figurehead. And then a picture which jerked all the unrealities into focus, brought back all the horror of the previous day and clamped it round her heart like a vice; the solitary figure of Ambrose waiting for them on the quay. And among all these disjointed images there was the memory of questions, endless repetitive questions, of a ring of watching faces, of mouths opening and shutting like automata. Afterwards she could recall every word of the dialogue although the place had slipped for ever from her mind, whether it had been the police station, the hotel, the launch, the island. Perhaps it had been all of these places and the questions had been asked by more than one voice. She seemed to be describing events that had happened to someone else, but to someone she knew very well. It was all clear in the mind of that other girl, although it had happened so long ago, years ago so it seemed, when Simon had been alive.

'Are you sure that when you first arrived at the trapdoor it was up?'

'Yes.'

'And the door itself resting back against the wall of the passage?'

'It must have been if the trapdoor was open.' 'If? But you said it was open. You're sure you didn't open it yourself?' 'Quite sure.'

'How long were you with Simon Lessing in the cave before you heard it crash down?'

'I can't remember. Long enough to ask about the key to the handcuffs, to dive and find it, to set him free. Less than eight minutes perhaps.'

'Are you sure that the trapdoor was bolted? Did you both try to lift it?'

'I tried at first, then he joined me. But I knew it wasn't any good. I heard the scrape of the bolts.'

'Is that why you didn't try very hard, because you knew that it wasn't any good?'

'I did try hard. I pressed my shoulders against it. I suppose it was a natural reaction, to try. But I knew it wasn't any use. I heard the bolts being shot home.'

'You heard that small sound against the rush of the incoming tide?'

'There wasn't very much noise in the cave. The tide spouted in quietly like water into a kettle. That's what was so frightening.'

'You were frightened and you were cold. Are you sure you would have had the strength to push open the door if it had fallen accidentally?'

'It didn't fall accidentally. How could it? And I heard the bolts.'

'One or two?'

'Two. The scrape of metal against metal. Twice.' 'You realize what that means? You understand the importance of what you're saying?' 'Of course.'

They made her go back with them to the Devil's Kettle. It was neither kind nor merciful; but then, they weren't in the business of being kind or merciful. There were bright lights trained on the trapdoor, a man kneeling and dusting it for prints with the careful delicate strokes of a painter. Then they raised it, not resting it against the rock face but balancing it upright on its hinges. They stood back and, after no more than a couple of seconds, it crashed down. She shivered like a puppy, remembering another such crash. They asked her to raise it. It was heavier than she had expected. And underneath was the iron ladder leading down to death, the ray of bright daylight shining from a crescent exit, the slap of dark, strong-smelling water against the rock. They even made her go down, then shut the trapdoor gently over her. As they had instructed, she pushed her shoulders against it and was able without much strength to force it open. One of the officers climbed down into the cave and they closed the trapdoor and gently shot back the bolts. She knew that they were testing how much she could have heard. Then they asked her to balance the trapdoor on its hinges and she tried but couldn't. They asked her to try again, and when she failed they said nothing. She wondered if they thought that she wasn't trying. And all the time she saw, in her mind's eye, Simon's drowned body with its gaping mouth and glazed eyes, turning and_: twisting, sucked to and fro like a dead fish in the ebbing tide.

And then she was sitting in a corner of the terrace, alone except for the unspeaking, unsmiling woman police officer, waiting beside the police launch which would take her away from the island for ever. Her typewriter and hand baggage were at her feet. There was still a wind but the sun had come out. She could feel its comforting warmth on her back, and was grateful. She had thought that, since yesterday, she would never be warm again.

A shadow fell across the stones. Ambrose had come up silently to stand beside her. The waiting policewoman was out of earshot but he spoke as if she were not there, as if they were totally alone. He said:

'I missed you last night. I was worried about you. The police tell me that they found a hotel for you. I hope that it was comfortable.'

'Comfortable enough. I can't remember much about it.'

'You've told them everything, of course. Well that's obvious from the mixture of coolness, speculation and slight embarrassment with which they've regarded me since they made their untimely if not unexpected visit late last night.'

'Yes, I've told them.'

'I can almost smell their exhilaration. It's understandable. If you aren't lying or mistaken or mad, then they're on to a very good thing. Promotion gleams like the holy grail. They haven't arrested me, as you see. The situation is unusual, requiring tact and care. They'll take their time. At the moment I imagine that they're still testing the trapdoor, trying to decide whether it could have crashed down accidentally, whether you really could have heard the bolts shoot home. After all, when they returned here last night, in a state I might say of some excitement, they found the trapdoor closed but not bolted. And I don't think they'll get any identifiable prints from the bolts, do you?'

Suddenly she felt an immense and overpowering anger, almost cosmic in its intensity as if one fragile female body could hold all the concentrated outrage of the world's pitiable victims robbed of their unvalued lives. She cried:

'You killed him, and you tried to kill me. Me! Not even in self-defence. Not even out of hatred. My life counted for less than your comfort, your possessions, your private world. My life!'

He said with perfect calmness:

'If that's what you believe, then a certain resentment is reasonable. But you see, Cordelia, what I'm saying to the police and to you is that it didn't happen. It isn't true. No one tried to kill you. No one shot back those bolts. When you reached the trapdoor you found it closed. You raised it just wide enough to slide through and climb down to Simon, but you didn't prop it up completely. You closed that door after you; either that or you partly raised it and it accidentally fell. You were terrified, you were cold and you were exhausted. You hadn't the strength to shift it.'

'And what about the motive, the photograph in the Chronicle?’

'What photograph? It was unwise of you to leave it in your shoulder-bag on the business room table. A natural oversight in your anxiety about Simon but highly convenient for me. Don't tell me that you haven't yet discovered that it's missing.'

'The police are checking with the woman who gave it to me. They'll know that I did have a press cutting. Then they'll begin searching for a duplicate.'

'Which they'll be lucky to find. And even if they do and the copy, after four years, is as clear as the one you so carelessly lost, I shall still have my defence. Obviously I have a double somewhere in England. Or he could have been a foreign visitor. Let's say that I have a double somewhere in the world. Is that so unusual? Finding any real proof that I was in the United Kingdom in 1977 will get more difficult with every month that passes. In a year or so I should have felt safe even from Clarissa. And even if they can prove I was here that doesn't make me a murderer or a murderer's accomplice. Simon Lessing's death was suicide and it was he, not I, who killed Clarissa. He confessed the truth to me before he disappeared. He fractured her skull, beat her face to pulp in his hatred and disgust, then made his escape through the bathroom window. And last night, unable any longer to face the truth of what he'd done or its consequences, he tried to kill himself. Despite your heroic attempt to save him, he succeeded. It was fortunate that he didn't take you with him. I had no hand in any of it. That, Cordelia, is my story and nothing you choose to fabricate can disprove it.'

'Why should I want to fabricate? Why should I lie?'

'That's what the police asked me. I had to reply that the imagination of young women is notoriously fertile and that you had, after all, been through an appalling experience… I added that you are the proprietress of a detective agency which – forgive me, I'm judging from externals – isn't exactly prospering. You'd have to spend a fortune to get the kind of publicity that this case will bring you if it ever comes to trial.'

'Hardly the kind of publicity anyone would want. Failure.'

'Oh, I wouldn't be too depressed about that. You showed admirable courage and intelligence. Above the call of duty is how poor George Ralston would put it. I think that George will feel that he's had value for money.'

He added:

'If you persist in going on with this it will be my word against yours. Simon's dead. Nothing can touch him further. It isn't going to be comfortable for either of us.'

Did he think that she hadn't thought of that, of the long months of waiting, the interrogations, the trauma of the trial, the speculative eyes, the verdict which could brand her as a liar, or worse, a publicity-crazed hysteric? She said:

'I know. But then I'm not much used to comfort.'

So – he was going to make a fight for it. Even as he watched her rescue last night he must have been planning, scheming, perfecting his lies. He would use every ounce of his skill, his reputation, his knowledge, his intelligence. He would hold on to his private kingdom until his last breath. She glanced up at him, at the half smile, the calm, almost exultant confidence. Already he was rejoicing in the release from boredom, buoyant with the euphoria of success. He would buy the best advice, the most prestigious lawyers. But essentially it would be his fight and he wouldn't yield an inch now or later.

And if he succeeded, how would he live with the memory of what he had done? Easily enough. As easily as Clarissa had lived with the memory of Viccy's death, Sir George with his guilt over Carl Blythe. You didn't need to believe in the sacrament of penance to find expedients for coping with guilt. She had hers; he would contrive his. And was it so very remarkable, what had happened to him? Somewhere, every minute of every day, a man or woman was suddenly faced with an overwhelming temptation. It had gone ill with Ambrose Gorringe. But what had he been able to draw upon at the core of his being which could give him the strength to resist? Perhaps if you opted out long enough from human concerns, from human life with all its messiness, you opted out also from human pity.

She said:

'Please leave me. I want you to go away.' But he didn't move. After a moment she heard him say, quietly and gently:

'I'm sorry, Cordelia. I'm sorry.'

And then, as if aware for the first time of that silent uniformed Watcher he added:

'Your first visit to Courcy Island hasn't been as happy for you as I hoped. I wish it could have been otherwise. Please forgive me.'

She knew that this was the only admission that he would ever make. It had no validity in law. It would never be given in evidence. But she believed, almost despite herself, that it had been sincere.

She watched him as he walked briskly towards his castle. At the doorway Chief Inspector Grogan appeared and moved out to meet him. Without speaking they went inside together.

And still she sat and waited. A uniformed officer, painfully young and with the face of a Donatello angel, came across to her. He blushed and said:

'There's a telephone call for you, Miss Gray. In the library.'

Miss Maudsley was trying hard not to sound fussed but her voice was close to panic.

'Oh, Miss Gray, I do hope it's all right to call you. The young man who answered said that it was. He was so helpful. But I wondered when you'll be coming home. There's a new case just in. It's terribly urgent, a lost Siamese kitten, a seal point. It belongs to a child who is just out of hospital after her leukaemia treatment and she's only had it a week. It was a coming-home present. She's dreadfully distressed. Bevis is at another audition. If I go there's no one to look rafter the office. And Mrs Sutcliffe has just rung. Her Pekinese, Nanki-Poo, is lost again. She wants someone to go round at once.'

Cordelia said:

'Put a notice on the door to say that we'll be open at nine o'clock tomorrow. Then lock up and start looking for the kitten. Ring Mrs Sutcliffe and tell her I'll call round this evening about Nanki-Poo. I'm just on my way to the inquest, but Chief Inspector Grogan will ask for an adjournment. It shouldn't take long. And then I'll catch the mid-afternoon train.'

Putting down the receiver, she thought; and why not? The police would know where to find her. She wasn't yet free of Courcy Island. Perhaps she never would be. But she had a job waiting for her. It was a job that needed doing, one that she was good at. She knew that it couldn't satisfy her for ever but she didn't despise its simplicities, almost she welcomed them. Animals didn't torment themselves with the fear of death, or torment you with the horror of their dying. They didn't burden you with their psychological problems. They didn't surround themselves with possessions, nor live in the past. They didn't scream with pain because of the loss of love. They didn't expect you to die for them. They didn't try to murder you.

She walked through the drawing-room and out to the terrace. Grogan and Buckley were waiting for her, standing motionless, Grogan at the prow of the police launch, Buckley at the stern. In their still intensity they looked like unweaponed knights standing guardian over some fabled vessel, waiting to bear their king to Avalon. She paused and regarded them, feeling the concentrated gaze of their unwavering eyes, aware that the moment held a significance which all three recognized but which none of them would ever put into words. They were struggling with their own dilemma. How far could they rely on her sanity, her honesty, her memory, her nerve? How far dare they trust their reputations to her fortitude when the going got rough? How would she acquit herself if the case ever came to trial and she found herself standing in that loneliest of places, the witness box of the Crown Court? But she felt distanced from their preoccupations as if nothing that they could do or think or plan had any relevance to her. It would all pass as they and she would pass. Time would take their story and fold it with the half-forgotten legends of the island: Carl Blythe's lonely death, Lillie Langtry sweeping down the great staircase, the crumbling skulls of Courcy. Suddenly she felt inviolate. The police would have to make their own decisions. She had already made hers, without hesitation and without a struggle. She would tell the truth; and she would survive. Nothing could touch her. She hitched her bag more firmly on her shoulder and moved resolutely towards the launch. For one sunlit moment it was as if Courcy Island and all that had happened during that fateful weekend was as unconcerned with her life, her future, her steadily beating heart as was the blue uncaring sea.