'If I'm in the middle of a conspiracy, then I know who is its weakest member.'

Hugo Tilling said:

'You're telling us that Ronald Callender has employed you to find out why Mark died?' 'Is that so extraordinary?'

'I find it incredible. He took no particular interest in his son when he was alive, why begin now he's dead?' 'How do you know he took no particular interest?' 'It's just an idea I had.' Cordelia said:

'Well, he's interested now even if it's only the scientist's urge to discover truth.'

'Then he'd better stick to his microbiology, discovering how to make plastic soluble in salt water, or whatever. Human beings aren't susceptible to his kind of treatment.'

Davie Stevens said with casual unconcern: 'I wonder that you can stomach that arrogant fascist.' The gibe plucked at too many chords of memory. Wilfully obtuse, Cordelia said:

'I didn't inquire what political party Sir Ronald favours.' Hugo laughed.

'Davie doesn't mean that. By fascist Davie means that Ronald Callender holds certain untenable opinions. For example, that all men may not be created equal, that universal suffrage may not necessarily add to the general happiness of mankind, that the tyrannies of the left aren't noticeably more liberal or supportable than the tyrannies of the right, that black men killing black men is small improvement on white men killing black men in so far as the victims are concerned and that capitalism may not be responsible for all the ills that flesh is heir to from drug addiction to poor syntax. I don't suggest that Ronald Callender holds all or indeed any of these reprehensible opinions. But Davie thinks that he does.'

Davie threw a book at Hugo and said without rancour: 'Shut up! You talk like the Daily Telegraph. And you're boring our visitor.'

Sophie Tilling asked suddenly:

'Was it Sir Ronald who suggested that you should question us?'

'He said that you were Mark's friends; he saw you at the inquest and funeral.' Hugo laughed:

'For God's sake, is that his idea of friendship?'

Cordelia said:

'But you were there?'

'We went to the inquest – all of us except Isabelle, who, we thought, would have been decorative but unreliable. It was rather dull. There was a great deal of irrelevant medical evidence about the excellent state of Mark's heart, lungs and digestive system. As far as I can see, he would have gone on living for ever if he hadn't put a belt round his neck.'

'And the funeral – were you there too?'

'We were, at the Cambridge Crematorium. A very subdued affair. There were only six of us present in addition to the undertaker's men; we three, Ronald Callender, that secretary/housekeeper of his and an old nanny-type dressed in black. She cast rather a gloom over the proceedings, I thought. Actually she looked so exactly like an old family retainer that I suspect she was a policewoman in disguise.'

'Why should she be? Did she look like one?'

'No, but then you don't look like a private eye.'

'You've no idea who she was?'

'No, we weren't introduced; it wasn't a chummy kind of funeral. Now I recall it, not one of us spoke a single word to any of the others. Sir Ronald wore a mask of public grief, the King mourning the Crown Prince.'

'And Miss Learning?'

'The Queen's Consort; she should have had a black veil over her face.'

'I thought that her suffering was real enough,' said Sophie.

'You can't tell. No one can. Define suffering. Define real.'

Suddenly Davie Stevens spoke, rolling over on to his stomach like a playful dog.

'Miss Learning looked pretty sick to me. Incidentally, the old lady was called Pilbeam; anyway, that was the name on the wreath.'

Sophie laughed:

'That awful cross of roses with the black-edged card? I might have guessed it came from her; but how do you know?'

'I looked, honey. The undertaker's men took the wreath off the coffin and propped it against the wall so I took a quick butcher's. The card read "With sincere sympathy from Nanny Pilbeam".'

Sophie said:

'So you did, I remember now. How beautifully feudal! Poor old nanny, it must have cost her a packet.'

'Did Mark ever talk about a Nanny Pilbeam?' Cordelia asked.

They glanced at each other quickly. Isabelle shook her head. Sophie said 'Not to me.'

Hugo Tilling replied:

'He never talked about her, but I think I did see her once before the funeral. She called at college about six weeks ago – on Mark's twenty-first birthday actually, and asked to see him. I was in the Porter's Lodge at the time and Robbins asked me if Mark was in college. She went up to his room and they were there together for about an hour. I saw her leaving, but he never mentioned her to me either then or later.'

And soon afterwards, thought Cordelia, he gave up university. Could there be a connection? It was only a tenuous lead, but she would have to follow it.

She asked out of a curiosity that seemed both perverse and irrelevant.

'Were there any other flowers?'

It was Sophie who replied:

'A simple bunch of unwired garden flowers on the coffin. No card. Miss Learning, I suppose. It was hardly Sir Ronald's style.' Cordelia said:

'You were his friends. Please tell me about him.'

They looked at each other as if deciding who should speak. Their embarrassment was almost palpable. Sophie Tilling was picking at small blades of grass and rolling them in her hands. Without looking up, she said:

'Mark was a very private person. I'm not sure how far any of us knew him. He was quiet, gentle, self-contained, unambitious. He was intelligent without being clever. He was very kind; he cared about people, but without inflicting them with his concern. He had little self-esteem but it never seemed to worry him. I don't think there is anything else we can say about him.'

Suddenly Isabelle spoke in a voice so low that Cordelia could hardly catch it. She said:

'He was sweet.'

Hugo said with a sudden angry impatience:

'He was sweet and he is dead. There you have it. We can't tell you any more about Mark Callender than that… We none of us saw him after he chucked college. He didn't consult us before he left, and he didn't consult us before he killed himself. He was, as my sister has told you, a very private person. I suggest that you leave him his privacy.'

'Look,' said Cordelia, 'you went to the inquest, you went to the funeral. If you had stopped seeing him, if you were so unconcerned about him, why did you bother?'

. 'Sophie went out of affection. Davie went because Sophie did. I went out of curiosity and respect; you mustn't be seduced by my air of casual flippancy into thinking that I haven't a heart.' Cordelia said obstinately:

'Someone visited him at the cottage on the evening he died. Someone had coffee with him. I intend to find out who that person was.'

Was it her fancy that this news surprised them? Sophie Tilling looked as if she were about to ask a question when her brother quickly broke in:

'It wasn't any of us. On the night Mark died we were all in the second row of the dress circle of the Arts Theatre watching Pinter. I don't know that I can prove it. I doubt whether the booking clerk has kept the chart for that particular night, but I booked the seats and she may remember me. If you insist on being tediously meticulous, I can probably introduce you to a friend who knew of my intention to take a party to the play; to another who saw at least some of us in the bar in the interval; and to another with whom I subsequently discussed the performance. None of this will prove anything; my friends are an accommodating bunch. It would be simpler for you to accept that I am telling the truth. Why should I lie? We were all four at the Arts Theatre on the night of 26th May.'

Davie Stevens said gently:

'Why not tell that arrogant bastard Pa Callender to go to hell and leave his son in peace, then find yourself a nice simple case of larceny?'