'No one knows, except presumably Tolly, and she isn't saying. The question is, who did Clarissa think he was?' Cordelia glanced at him. 'Not her husband?'

'Poor besotted Lessing? Possible I suppose, but hardly probable. He and Clarissa had only been married a year. Admittedly, she was already giving him hell, but I can't see him choosing that way of revenge. My guess is that it was De Ville. His only requirements are that the woman is comely and willing and not an actress. He's reputed to be impotent with anyone who holds an Equity card, but that may be only his device for keeping his professional and private lives separate.'

'The man who is directing the Webster? The one who's here now? Do you think that Clarissa was in love with him?'

'I don't know what Clarissa means by that word. She may have wanted him if only to prove that she could get him. One thing's certain; if he wouldn't play then she wouldn't easily forget an affair with her own dresser.'

'Why do you think he's here? He's famous, he doesn't have to bother with an amateur production, particularly out of London.'

'Why are any of us here? He may see the island as a future dramatic Glyndebourne, a world-famous centre for experimental drama. This may just be a way of getting his foot in the door. After all, he's not exactly sought-after now. His tricks were much admired in their day, but there are some clever young dogs coming along now. And Ambrose, if he's prepared to spend money, could make something of his Courcy Festival. Not commercially, of course; a theatre which only seats a hundred comfortably can hardly be that, particularly when it could always be cut off by a storm on the first night. But he could have some fun with it once he's got rid of Clarissa.'

'And does he want to get rid of Clarissa?'

'Oh, yes,' said Ivo easily. 'Hadn't you noticed that? She's trying to take him over, him and his theatre and his island. He likes his private kingdom. Clarissa is a particularly persistent invader.'

Cordelia thought of the child, lying alone on her high, aseptic hospital bed behind the drawn curtains. Had she been conscious? Had she known that she was dying? Had she perhaps cried out for her mother? Had she gone frightened and alone into that last goodnight? She said:

'I don't see how Clarissa can live with that memory.'

'I'm not sure that she can. When a person is terrified of dying it could be because with one part of their minds they feel that they deserve it.'

'How do you know she's terrified?'

'Because there are some emotions which even an actress as experienced as Clarissa can't altogether hide.'

He turned to her, saw the expression of her face, upturned to the glitter of shuddering green and gold, and said quietly:

'There are, perhaps, excuses one should make for her. And if not excuses, explanations. She was about to make an important costume change. She couldn't have managed it herself, and there wasn't another dresser available.'

'Did she even try to find one?'

'I don't suppose so. You see, from her point of view, she wasn't in the world of hospitals and sick children. She was Lady Macbeth. She was at Dunsinane Castle. I doubt whether she would have left the theatre to go to her own dying child, not at that moment. It didn't occur to her that someone else might want to.'

Cordelia cried:

'But you can't excuse it! You can't explain it. You don't really believe that a play, any play, any performance is more important than a dying child!'

'I don't suppose for one moment that she really believed the child to be dying, assuming that she gave the matter thought.'

'But is that what you believe? That a performance, any performance, could be more important?'

He smiled:

'Now we're edging towards that old philosophical minefield. If the building's on fire and you can only rescue a syphilitic old tramp or a Velasquez which, or who, gets incinerated?'

'No, we aren't. We're talking about a dying child wanting her mother, balancing that need against a performance of Macbeth. And I get tired of that old burning building analogy. I should throw the Velasquez out of the window and start lugging the tramp to safety. The real moral choice is when you find that he's too heavy. Do you escape alone or keep trying and risk getting incinerated with him?'

'Oh, that's easy. Obviously you escape alone and without leaving the decision too conscientiously to the last possible moment. About the child; no, I don't believe that any performance could be more important, certainly none that Clarissa is capable of giving. Does that satisfy you?'

'I don't understand how Miss Tolgarth can go on working for her. I couldn't.'

'But you will? I confess I'm intrigued about your precise function here. But presumably you won't throw in your hand?'

'But that's different; at least I shall persuade myself that it is. I'm just a temporary employee. But Tolly believed Clarissa when she was told that there was no immediate danger; she trusted her. How can she stay with her now?'

'They've been together almost all their lives. Tolly's mother was Clarissa's nurse. The family with a small f served the Family with a large 'F' for three generations. They're born to be served, she was born to serve them. Perhaps, given the habit of subservience, a dead child here or there doesn't make any difference.'

'But that's horrible! It's ridiculous, and degrading. It's Victorian!'

'Don't you believe it! The instinct for worship is remarkably persistent. What else is religious belief? Tolly's lucky to have her God walking the earth with shoes that need cleaning, clothes that need folding, hair that needs brushing.'

'But she can't want to go on serving. She can't like Clarissa.'

'What has liking to do with it? Though she slay me yet shall I trust her. It's a perfectly common phenomenon. But I admit I do sometimes wonder what would happen if she faced the truth about her own feelings. If any of us did, come to that. It's getting colder, isn't it? Don't you feel it? Perhaps it's time we were getting back.'

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

They hardly spoke on the way back to the castle. For Cordelia, the sunlight had drained out of the day. The beauty of sea and shore passed unregarded by her desolated heart. Ivo was obviously very tired by the time they reached the terrace and said that he would rest in his room; he wouldn't bother with tea. Cordelia told herself that it was her job to stay close to Clarissa however unwelcome that might be to both of them. But it took an effort of will before she could make her way back to the theatre, and it was a relief to find that the rehearsal still wasn't over. She stood for a minute at the back of the auditorium, then made her way to her own room. The communicating door was open and she could see Tolly moving from bathroom to bedroom. But the thought of having to speak to her was intolerable and Cordelia made her escape.

Almost on impulse she opened the door next to her own which gave access to the tower. A circular staircase of elaborately decorated wrought iron curved upwards into semi-darkness lit only by occasional slit windows less than a brick in width. She could see there was a light-switch, but preferred to climb steadily upwards in the gloom in what seemed an endless spiral. But at last she reached the top and found herself in a small, light-filled circular room with six tall windows. The room was unfurnished except for one cane armchair with a curved back and was obviously used to store acquisitions for which Ambrose hadn't yet found a place or which he had inherited from the previous owner; chiefly a collection of Victorian toys. There was a wooden horse on wheels, a Noah's ark with carved animals, three china dolls with bland faces and stuffed limbs, a table of mechanical toys including an organ-grinder with his monkey, a set of cat musicians on a revolving platform, gaudily dressed in satin and each with his instrument, a grenadier toy soldier with his drum, a wooden musical-box.