'Yes, I'm alone. Alex is at Larksoken. Come in, Meg.'

Meg took off and hung up her coat and headscarf in the hall and followed Alice to the kitchen. She had obviously been occupied in correcting her proofs. Now she reseated herself at her desk, swivelled round and looked gravely at Meg as she took her usual fireside chair. For a few moments neither spoke. Alice was wearing a long brown skirt of fine wool with a blouse high-buttoned to the chin and over it a sleeveless, pleated shift in narrow stripes of brown and fawn which reached almost to the floor. It gave her a hieratic dignity, an almost sacerdotal look of composed authority which was yet one of total comfort and ease. A small fire of logs was burning in the hearth, filling the room with a pungent autumnal smell, and the wind, muted by thick sixteenth-century walls, sighed and moaned companionably in the chimney. From time to time it gushed down and the logs flared into hissing life. The clothes, the firelight, the smell of burning wood overlaying the subtler smell of herbs and warm bread were familiar to Meg from their many quiet evenings together and they were dear to her. But tonight was dreadfully different. After tonight the kitchen might never be home to her again.

She asked: 'Am I interrupting?'

'Obviously, but that doesn't mean that I don't welcome interruption.'

Meg bent to extract a large brown envelope from her shoulder bag.

'I've brought back the first fifty pages of proofs. I've done what you asked, read the text and checked for printing errors only.'

Alice took the envelope and, without glancing at it, placed it on the desk. She said: 'That's what I wanted. I'm so obsessed with the accuracy of the recipes that errors in the text sometimes slip through. I hope it wasn't too much of a chore.'

'No, I enjoyed it, Alice. It reminded me of Elizabeth David.'

'Not too much, I hope. She's so marvellous that I'm always afraid of being over-influenced by her.'

There was a silence. Meg thought: We're talking as if the dialogue has been scripted for us, not as strangers exactly, but as people who are careful of their words because the space between them is loaded with dangerous thoughts. How well do I really know her? What has she ever told me about herself? Just a few details of her life with her father, snatches of information, a few phrases dropped into our conversations like a falling match, briefly illuminating the contours of a vast unexplored terrain. I've confided almost everything about myself, my childhood, the racial trouble at the school, Martin's death. But has it ever been an equal friendship? She knows more about me than any other living creature. All I really know about Alice is that she's a good cook.

She was aware of her friend's steady, almost quizzical look. Alice said: 'But you didn't fight your way in this wind just to bring back fifty pages of proofs.'

'I have to talk to you.'

'You are talking to me.'

Meg held Alice's own unflinching gaze. She said: 'Those two girls, Caroline and Amy, people are saying that they killed Hilary Robarts. Is that what you believe?'

'No. Why do you ask?'

'Nor do I believe it. Do you suppose the police will try to pin it on them?'

Alice's voice was cool. 'I shouldn't think so. Isn't that rather a dramatic idea? And why should they? Chief Inspector Rickards strikes me as an honest and conscientious officer, if not particularly intelligent.'

'Well, it's convenient for them, isn't it? Two suspects dead. The case closed. No more deaths.'

'Were they suspects? You seem to be more in Rickards's confidence than I am.'

'They didn't have alibis. The man at Larksoken Caroline was supposed to be engaged to – Jonathan Reeves, isn't it? – apparently he's confessed that they weren't together that night. Caroline forced him to lie. Most of the staff at Larksoken know that now. And it's all over the village, of course. George Jago rang to tell me.'

'So they didn't have alibis. Nor did other people – you, for example. Not having an alibi isn't proof of guilt. Nor did I, incidentally. I was at home all that evening but I doubt whether I could prove it.'

And this at last was the moment which had filled Meg's thoughts since the murder, the moment of truth which she had dreaded. She said through dry unyielding lips: 'But you weren't at home, were you? You told Chief Inspector Rickards that you were when I was here sitting in this kitchen on the Monday morning, but it wasn't true.'

There was a moment's silence. Then Alice said calmly: 'Is that what you've come to say?'

'I know that it can be explained. It's ridiculous even to ask. It's just that I've had it on my mind for so long. And you are my friend. A friend should be able to ask. There should be honesty, confidence, trust.'

'Ask what? Do you have to talk like a marriage guidance counsellor?'

'Ask why you told the police you were here at nine. You weren't. I was. After the Copleys left I had a sudden need to see you. I tried the telephone but got only the answer-phone. I didn't leave a message; there was no point. I walked down. The cottage was empty. The light was on in the sitting room and the kitchen and the door was locked. I called out for you. The record player was on, very loud. The cottage was filled with triumphant music. But there was no one here.'

Alice sat in silence for a moment. Then she said calmly: 'I went for a walk to enjoy the moonlight. I didn't expect a casual caller. There are never casual callers except you, and I thought that you were in Norwich. But I took the obvious precaution against an intruder, I locked the door. How did you get in?'

'With your key. You can't have forgotten, Alice. You gave me a key a year ago. I've had it ever since.'

Alice looked at her and Meg saw in her face the dawning of memory, chagrin, even, before she turned briefly away, the beginning of a rueful smile. She said: 'But I had forgotten; completely. How extraordinary! It might not have worried me, even if I had remembered. After all, I thought you were in Norwich. But I didn't remember. We've got so many keys to the cottage, some here, some in London. But you never reminded me that you had one.'

'I did once, early on, and you told me to keep it. Like a fool I thought that the key meant something: trust, friendship, a sign that Martyr's Cottage was always open to me. You told me that I might one day need to use it.'

And now Alice did laugh aloud. She said: 'And you did need to use it. How ironic. But it isn't like you to come in uninvited, not while I wasn't here. You never have before.'

'But I didn't know you weren't here. The lights were on and I rang and I could hear the music. When I rang the third time and you still didn't come I was afraid that you might be ill, unable to summon help. So I unlocked the door. I walked into a surge of wonderful sound. I recognized it, Mozart's Symphony in G minor. It was Martin's favourite. What an extraordinary tape to choose.'

'I didn't choose it. I just turned on the player. What do you think I should have chosen? A requiem mass to mark the passing of a soul I don't believe in?'

Meg went on as if she hadn't heard: 'I walked through to the kitchen. The light was on here too. It was the first time I'd been in this room on my own. And suddenly I felt like a stranger. I felt that nothing in it had anything to do with me. I felt that I had no right here. That's why I went away without leaving you any message.'

Alice said sadly: 'You were quite right. You had no right here. And you needed to see me so badly that you walked alone over the headland before you knew that the Whistler was dead?'

'I didn't walk in fear. The headland is so deserted. There's nowhere anyone can lurk, and I knew when I reached Martyr's Cottage I'd be with you.'

'No, you're not easily frightened are you? Are you frightened now?'