And nor, for that matter, would I.

"I can See you're both shocked," the superintendent said unemotionally. "It's dearly impossible to talk here, so I suggest you might come to the police station." He spoke carefully, giving us at least theoretically the freedom of refusing.

"What about the house?" I said. "It's open to the four winds. Apart from this great hole, all the windows are broken everywhere else. There's a lot of stuff still inside… silver… my father's papers in his office… some of the furniture."

"We will keep a patrol here," he said. "If you'll give the instructions, we'll suggest someone to board up the windows, and we'll contact a construction firm with a tarpaulin large enough for the roof."

"Send me the bill," Malcolm said limply.

"The firms concerned will no doubt present their accounts."

"Thanks anyway," I said.

The superintendent nodded.

A funeral for Quantum, I thought. Coffin windows, pall roof. Lowering the remains into the ground would probably follow. Even if any of the fabric of the house should prove sound enough, would Malcolm have the stamina to rebuild, and live there, and remember?

He stood up, the blanket clutched around him, looking infinitely older than his Years, a sag of defeat in the cheeks. Slowly, in deference to the shaky state of his legs, Malcolm, the superintendent and I made our way along past the kitchen and out into the front drive. The ambulances had departed, also one of the fire-engines, but the rope across the gateway had been overwhelmed, and the front garden was full of people, one young constable still trying vainly to hold them back. A bunch in front of the rest started running in our direction as soon as we appeared, and with a feeling of unreality I saw they were Ferdinand, Gervase, Alicia, Berenice, Vivien, Donald, Helen… I lost count.

"Malcolm," Gervase said loudly, coming to a halt in front of us, so that we too had to stop. "You're alive!"

A tiny flicker of humour appeared in Malcolm's eyes at this most obvious of statements, but he had no chance of answering as the others set up a clamour of questions.

Vivien said, "I heard from the village that Quantum had blown up and you were both dead." Her strained voice held a complaint about having been given erroneous news.

"So did I," Alicia said. "Three people telephoned… so I came at once, after I'd told Gervase and the others, of course." She looked deeply shocked, but then they all did, mirroring no doubt what they could see on my own face but also suffering from the double upset of misinformation.

"Then when we all get here," Vivien said, "we find you aren't dead." She sounded as if that too were wrong.

"What did happen?" Ferdinand asked. "Just look at Quantum!"

Berenice said, "Where were you both, then, when it exploded?"

"We thought you were dead," Donald said, looking bewildered.

More figures pushed through the crowd, horror opening their mouths. Lucy, Edwin and Serena, running, stumbling, looking alternately from the wounded house to me and Malcolm.

Lucy was crying, "You're alive, you're alive!" Tears ran down her cheeks. "Vivien said you were dead."

"I was told they were dead," Vivien said defensively. Dim-witted… Joyce's judgement came back.

Serena was swaying, pale as pale. Ferdinand put an arm round her and hugged her. "It's all right, girl, they're not dead after all. The old house's a bit knocked about, eh?" He squeezed her affectionately.

"I don't feel well," she said faintly. "What happened?"

"Too soon to say for certain," Gervase said assertively. "But I'd say one can't rule out a bomb."

They repudiated the word, shaking their heads, covering their ears. Bombs were for wars, for wicked schemes in aero planes for bus stations in far places, for cold-hearted terrorists… for other people. Bombs weren't for a family house outside a Berkshire village, a house surrounded by quiet green fields, lived in by an ordinary family.

Except that we weren't an ordinary family. Ordinary families didn't have fifth wives murdered while planting geraniums. I looked around at the familiar faces and couldn't see on any of them either malice or dismay that Malcolm had escaped. They were all beginning to recover from the shock of the wrongly reported death and also beginning to realise how much damage had been done to the house. Gervase grew angry. "Whoever did this shall pay for it!" He sounded pompous more than effective.

"Where's Thomas?" I asked.

Berenice shrugged waspishly. "Dear Thomas went out early on one of his useless job-hunting missions. I've no idea where he was going. Vivien telephoned after he'd left."

Edwin said, "Is the house insured against bombs, Malcolm?"

Malcolm looked at him with dislike and didn't answer.

Gervase said masterfully, "You'd better come home with me, Malcolm. Ursula will look after you."

None of the others liked that. They all instantly made counter- proposals. The superintendent, who had been listening with attentive eyes, said at this point that plans to take Malcolm home would have to be shelved for a few hours.

"Oh, really?" Gervase stared down his nose. "And who are you?"

"Detective Superintendent Yale, sir."

Gervase raised his eyebrows but didn't back down. "Malcolm's done nothing wrong."

"I want to talk to the superintendent myself," Malcolm said. "I want him to find out who tried to destroy my house."

"Surely it was an accident," Serena said, very upset.

Ferdinand still had his arm round her. "Face facts, girl." He hesitated, looking at me. "Vivien and Alicia told everyone you were both living here again… so how come you escaped being hurt?"

"Yes," Berenice said. "That's what I asked."

"We went to London for a night out and stayed there," I said.

"Very lucky," Donald said heartily, and Helen, who stood at his elbow and hadn't spoken so far at all, nodded a shade too enthusiastically and said, "Yes, yes."

"But if we'd been in the office," I said, "we would have been all right."

They looked along the front of the house to the far corner where the office windows were broken but the walls still stood.

"You wouldn't be in the office at four-thirty in the morning,"Alicia said crossly. "Why should you be?"

Malcolm was growing tired of them. Not one had hugged him, kissed him, or made warm gestures over his survival. Lucy's tears, if they were genuine, had come nearest. The family obviously could have accommodated his death easily, murmuring regrets at his graveside, maybe even meaning them, but looking forward also with well-hidden pleasure to a safely affluent future. Malcolm dead could spend no more. Malcolm dead would free them to spend instead.

"Let's go," he said to the superintendent, "I'm cold."

An unwelcome thought struck me. "Did any of you," I asked the family, "tell Joyce… about the house?"

Donald cleared his throat. "Yes, I… er… broke it to her."

His meaning was clear. "You told her we were dead?"

"Vivien said you were dead," he said, sounding as defensive as she had. "She said I should tell Joyce, so I did."

"My God," I said to the superintendent, "Joyce is my mother. I'll have to phone her at once."

I turned instinctively back to the house, but the superintendent stopped me, saying the telephones weren't working.

He, I and Malcolm began to move towards the gates, but we had gone only halfway when Joyce herself pushed through the crowd and ran forward, frantically, fearfully distraught.

She stopped when she saw us. Her face went white and she swayed as Serena had done, and I sprinted three or four long strides and caught her upright before she fell.

"It's all right," I said, holding her. "It's all right. We're alive."

"Malcolm…"

"Yes, we're both fine."

"Oh, I thought… Donald said… I've been crying all the way here, I couldn't see the road…" She put her face against my jacket and cried again with a few deep gulps, then pushed herself off determinedly and began searching her tailored Pockets for a handkerchief. She found a tissue and blew her nose. "Well, darling," she said, "as you're alive, what the hell's been going on?" She looked behind Malcolm and me and her eyes widened. "The whole bloody tribe come to the wake?" To Malcolm she said, "You've the luck of the devil, you old bugger."