'Oh, talent! That's common enough. One doesn't invest six thousand pounds or so in mere talent. The thing is, has he the guts to succeed? George thinks not, but that he may as well be given his chance.'

'Sir George knows him better than I do.'

Clarissa said sharply:

'But it isn't George's money is it? I'll consult Ambrose, but not until after the play. I can't worry about anything until then. He'll probably damn the poor boy. Ambrose is such a perfectionist. But he does know something about music. He'd be a better judge than George. If only Simon had taken up a stringed instrument, he might eventually try for a place in an orchestra. But the piano! Still, I suppose he could always work as an accompanist.'

Cordelia wondered whether she should point out that the job of a professional accompanist, so far from being an easy option, required a formidable combination of technical ability and musicality, but she reminded herself that she hadn't been employed to advise on Simon's career. And this talk of Simon was wasting time. She said:

'I think we should discuss the messages and our plans_; for the weekend, especially tomorrow. We ought to have spoken earlier.'

'I know, but there hasn't really been time what with the rehearsal and Ambrose showing off his castle. Anyway, you know what you're here for. If there are any more messages, I don't want to receive them. I don't want to be shown them… I don't want to be told about them. It's vital that I get through tomorrow. If I can only get back my confidence as an actress, I can face almost anything.'

'Even the knowledge of who is doing this to you?'

'Even that.'

Cordelia asked:

'How many of the people here know about the messages?'

Clarissa had finished cleaning her face and now began removing the varnish from her nails. The smell of acetone overlaid the smell of scent and make-up.

'Tolly knows. I haven't any secrets from Tolly. Anyway she was with me in my dressing-room when some of them were brought in by the doorman, the ones sent by post to the theatre. I expect Ivo knows; there's nothing happens in the West End that he doesn't get to hear about. And Ambrose. He was with me in my dressing-room at the Duke of Clarence when one was pushed under the door. By the time he'd picked it up for me and I'd opened it, whoever it was had gone. The corridor was empty. But anyone could have got in. Backstage at the Clarence is like a warren and Albert Betts used to drink and wasn't always on the door when he should have been. They've sacked him now, but he was still working there when the note was delivered. And my husband knows, of course. Simon doesn't, unless Tolly has told him. I can't think why she should.'

'And your cousin?'

'Roma doesn't know and, if she did, she. wouldn't care.' 'Tell me about Miss Lisle.'

^There's not much to tell and what there is, is boring. We're first cousins, but George has told you that. It's quite a common story. My father made a sensible marriage and his younger brother ran off with a barmaid, left the Army, drank and made a general mess of his life, then expected Daddy to help out. And he did, at least as far as Roma was concerned. She was always staying with us when I was a child, particularly after Uncle died. Poor Little Orphan Annie. Glum, badly dressed and perpetually miserable. Even Daddy couldn't stand her for long. He was the most marvellous person, I adored him. But she was such a bore, and so plain, worse than she is now. Daddy was one of those people who really couldn't bear ugliness, particularly in women. He loved gaiety, wit, beauty. He just couldn't make himself look at a plain face.'

Cordelia thought that Daddy, who sounded like a self-satisfied humbug, must have spent most of his life with his eyes shut, depending, of course, on his standard of ugliness. Clarissa added:

'And she wasn't a bit grateful.'

'Should she have been?'

Clarissa seemed to feel that the question deserved serious thought, or as much as she could spare from the business of filing her nails.

'Oh, I think so. He didn't have to take her in. And she could hardly expect him to treat her the same as me, his own child.' 'He could have tried.'

'But that's not reasonable, and you know it. You wouldn't behave like that so why expect him to. You really must guard against becoming just a bit of a prig. Men don't like it.'

Cordelia said:

'I don't much like it myself. Someone once told me that it's the result of having an atheist father, a convent education and a nonconformist conscience.'

There was silence between them, not uncompanionable. Then Cordelia said on impulse:

'These notes – could Miss Tolgarth have anything to do with them?'

'Tolly! Of course not. Whatever put that idea into your head? She's devoted to me. You mustn't be put off by her manner. She's always been like that. But we've been together since I was a child. Tolly adores me. If you can't see that you're not much of a detective. Besides, she can't type. The messages are typed in case you hadn't noticed.' Cordelia said gravely:

'You should have told me about her child. If I'm to help I need to know anything that might be relevant.' She waited, apprehensive, for Clarissa's response. But the hands, busy with their self-ministrations, didn't falter.

'But that isn't relevant. It was all a mistake. Tolly knows that. Everyone knows it. I suppose Ivo told you. That's typical of his malice and disloyalty. Can't you see that he's sick? He's dying! And he's eaten up with jealousy. He always has been. Jealousy and malice.'

Cordelia wondered whether she could have asked the question more tactfully, whether it had been wise to ask it at all. Ivo hadn't asked her not to betray their conversation but presumably he had hoped for discretion. And the weekend promised to be difficult enough without setting two of the guests at each other's throats. Direct lying had never been easy for her. She said cautiously:

'No one has been disloyal. Obviously I did some tactful research before I arrived here. These things do get talked about. I have a friend in the theatre.' Well that was true enough anyway even if poor Bevis was more often out than in. But Clarissa was uninterested in putative theatrical friends.

'I'd like to know what right Ivo has to criticize me. Do you realize how many careers he's ruined by his cruelty? Yes, cruelty! I've seen actors – actors mind you – in tears after one of his reviews. If he could have resisted the impulse to be clever he might have been one of the great British critics. He could have been a second Agate or a Tynan. And what is he now? Dying on his feet. He's no right to come here looking as he does. It's like having a death's head at table. It's indecent.'

It was interesting, thought Cordelia, the way in which death had replaced sex as the great unmentionable, to be denied in prospect, endured in a decent privacy, preferably behind the drawn curtains of a hospital bed, and followed by discreet, embarrassed, uncomforted mourning. There was this to be said about the Convent of the Holy Child; the views of the Sisters on death had been explicit, firmly held and not altogether reassuring; but at least they hadn't regarded it as in poor taste. She said:

'Those first messages, the ones that came when you were playing Lady Macbeth, the ones you threw away. Were they the same as the later ones, typed on white paper?'

'Yes, I suppose so. It was a long time ago.'

'But you can't have forgotten?'

'They must have been the same, mustn't they? What does it matter? I don't want to talk about it now.'

'It's the only chance we may get. I haven't been able to see you alone today and tomorrow isn't going to be any easier.'

Clarissa was on her feet now, pacing between the dressing-table and the bed.