Cordelia said to Hugo:

'You said that Isabelle was morbidly obsessed by this place. Why should she be?'

'Isabelle's very sensitive; she isn't tough like you.'

Cordelia privately thought that all beautiful women were tough – how else could they survive? – and that Isabelle's fibres could compare well for resilience with her own. But nothing would be gained by challenging Hugo's illusions. Beauty was fragile, transitory, vulnerable. Isabelle's sensitivities must be protected. The toughies could look after themselves. She said:

'According to you, she's only been here once before. I know that Mark Callender died in this room, but you hardly expect me to believe that she's grieving over Mark. There's something that both of you know and it would be better if you told me now. If you don't I shall have to report to Sir Ronald Callender that Isabelle, your sister and you are somehow concerned in his son's death and it will be up to him to decide whether to call in the police. I can't see Isabelle standing up to even the mildest police questioning, can you?'

Even to Cordelia it sounded a stilted, sententious little speech, an unsubstantiated accusation backed up by an empty threat. She half expected Hugo to counter it with amused contempt But he looked at her for a minute as if assessing more than the reality of the danger. Then he said quietly:

'Can't you accept my word that Mark died by his own hand and that if you do call in the police it will cause unhappiness and distress to his father, to his friends and be absolutely no help to anyone?'

'No, Hugo, I can't.'

'Then if we do tell you what we know, will you promise that it won't go any further?'

'How can I, any more than I can promise to believe you?'

Suddenly Isabelle cried:

'Oh, tell her, Hugo! What does it matter?'

Cordelia said:

'I think that you must. I don't think you've any choice.'

'So it seems. All right.' He put his coffee mug down in the hearth and looked into the fire.

'I told you that we went – Sophie, Isabelle, Davie and I – to the Arts Theatre on the night Mark died but that, as you've probably guessed, was only three-quarters true. They had only three seats left when I booked so we allocated them to the three people mostly likely to enjoy the play. Isabelle goes to the theatre to be seen rather than to see and is bored by any show with a cast of less than fifty, so she was the one left out. Thus neglected by her current lover, she very reasonably decided to seek consolation with the next.'

Isabelle said with a secret, anticipatory smile:

'Mark was not my lover, Hugo.'

She spoke without rancour or resentment. It was a matter of putting the record straight,

'I know. Mark was a romantic. He never took a girl to bed – or anywhere else that I could see – until he judged that there was an adequate depth of inter-personal communication, or whatever jargon he used, between them.-Actually, that's unfair. It's my father who uses bloody awful meaningless phrases like that. But Mark agreed with the general idea. I doubt whether he could enjoy sex until he'd convinced himself that he and the girl were in love. It was a necessary preliminary – like undressing. I gather that with Isabelle the relationship hadn't reached the necessary depths, hadn't achieved the essential emotional rapport. It was only a matter of time, of course. Where Isabelle was concerned, Mark was as capable of self-deception as the rest of us.'

The high, slightly hesitant voice was edged with jealousy. Isabelle said, slowly and patiently, like a mother explaining to a wilfully obtuse child: 'Mark never made love to me, Hugo.'

'That's what I'm saying. Poor Mark! He exchanged the substance for the shadow and now he has neither.' 'But what happened that night?'

Cordelia spoke to Isabelle, but it was Hugo who replied.

'Isabelle drove here and arrived shortly after half-past seven. The curtains were drawn across the back window, the front one is impenetrable anyway, but the door was open. She came in. Mark was already dead. His body was hanging by the strap from that hook. But he didn't look as he did when Miss Markland found him next morning.'

He turned to Isabelle:

'You tell her.' She hesitated. Hugo bent forward and kissed her lightly on the lips.

'Go on, tell. There are some unpleasantnesses which all Papa's money can't entirely shield from you and this, darling, is one.'

Isabelle turned her head and looked intently into the four corners of the room as if satisfying herself that the three of them were really alone. The irises of her remarkable eyes were purple in the firelight. She leaned towards Cordelia with something of the confiding relish of a village gossip about to relate the latest scandal. Cordelia saw that her panic had left her. Isabelle's agonies were elemental, violent but short lived, easily comforted. She would have kept her secret while Hugo instructed her to keep it, but she was glad of his order of release. Probably her instinct told her that the story, once told, would lose the sting of terror. She said:

'I thought I would call to see Mark and, perhaps, that we would have supper together. Mademoiselle de Conge was not well and Hugo and Sophie were at the theatre and I was bored. I came to the back door because Mark had told me that the front door would not open. I thought that I might see him in the garden, but he was not there, only the garden fork in the ground and his shoes at the door. So I pushed open the door. I did not knock because I thought that I would be a surprise for Mark.'

She hesitated and looked down into the mug of coffee, twisting it between her hands.

'And then?' prompted Cordelia.

'And then I saw him. He was hanging there by the belt from that hook in the ceiling and I knew he was dead. Cordelia, it was horrible! He was dressed like a woman in a black bra and black lace panties. Nothing else. And his face! He had painted his lips, all over his lips, Cordelia, like a clown! It was terrible but it was funny too. I wanted to laugh and scream at the same time. He didn't look like Mark. He didn't look like a human being at all. And on the table there were three pictures. Not nice pictures, Cordelia. Pictures of naked women.'

Her wide eyes stared into Cordelia's, dismayed, uncomprehending. Hugo said:

'Don't look like that, Cordelia. It was horrible for Isabelle at the time and disagreeable to think about now. But it isn't so very uncommon. It does happen. It's probably one of the more innocuous of sexual deviations. He wasn't involving anyone but himself. And he didn't mean to kill himself; that was just bad luck. I imagine that the buckle of the belt slipped and he never had a chance.' Cordelia said:

'I don't believe it.'

'I thought you might not. But it's true, Cordelia. Why not come with us now and ring Sophie? She'll confirm it.'

'I don't need confirmation of Isabelle's story. I already have that. I mean I still don't believe that Mark killed himself.'

As soon as she spoke she knew that it had been a mistake. She shouldn't have revealed her suspicions. But it was too late now and there were questions she had to ask. She saw Hugo's face, his quick impatient frown at her obtuseness, her obstinacy. And then she detected a subtle change of mood; was it irritation, fear, disappointment? She spoke directly to Isabelle.

'You said that the door was open. Did you notice the key?'

'It was in this side of the door. I saw it when I went out.'

'What about the curtains?'

'They were like now, across the window.'

'And where was the lipstick?'

'What lipstick, Cordelia?'

'The one used to paint Mark's lips. It wasn't in the pockets of his jeans or the police would have found it, so where was it? Did you see it on the table?'