One of the women, a blonde, pert-faced girl dressed as a parlour-maid in a frilled apron and goffered cap with long streamers said:

'But what about the play?'

It was a question born of shock which Cordelia thought she would probably remember with shame all her life. Someone gasped, and she blushed scarlet. Ambrose said curtly:

'The performance is cancelled.'

Then he turned on his heel and left. Cordelia followed. She said:

'What about the search parties?'

'I'll leave that to Ralston and Cottringham to sort out. I've told the cast to stay together. I can't cope with trying to enforce police instructions against the determination of the bereaved husband to demonstrate his competence. Where, do you suppose, are the rest of the party?'

He sounded almost peevish. Cordelia said:

'I suppose Simon is swimming. Roma was in the library, but she's probably dressing by now. I imagine that Ivo is in his room, resting.'

'See them, will you, and break the news. I'll go and find Simon. Then we'd better stay together until the police arrive. I suppose it would be courteous if I kept company with my guests in the theatre but I'm not in the mood to cope with a gaggle of agitated women all hurling questions at me.' Cordelia said:

'The less they're told until the police arrive, the better.' He glanced at her with his sharp bright eyes. 'I see. You mean we should keep quiet about the actual cause of death?'

'We don't know the actual cause of death. But yes, I think we should say as little as possible to anyone.'

'But surely the cause of death was obvious. Her face had been battered in.'

'That may have been done after death. There was less blood than one would expect.'

'There was more than enough blood for me. You're remarkably knowledgeable for a secretary-companion.'

'I'm not a secretary-companion. I'm a private detective. There's no point in carrying on the charade any longer. Anyway, I know that you'd already guessed. And if you're going to say that I've been useless, I know that too.'

'My dear Cordelia, what more could you have done? No one could have expected murder. Stop blaming yourself. We're going to be stuck here together at least until the inquest, and it will be boring enough being grilled by the police without having you sunk in lugubrious self-reproach. It doesn't suit you.'

They had reached the door which led from the arcade into the castle. Glancing round, they saw Simon in the distance, towel slung round his shoulders, making his way down the long grass slope which led upwards from the rose garden between the avenue of beeches to the crown of the island. Without speaking, Ambrose went to meet him. Cordelia stood in the shadow of the doorway and watched. Ambrose didn't hurry; his walk was little more than a leisurely stroll. The two figures came together and stood in the sun, their heads bent, their shadows staining the bright grass. They didn't touch. After a moment, still distanced, they began walking slowly towards the castle. Cordelia passed into the great hall. Coming down the staircase was Ivo with Roma at his side. He was in his dinner-jacket, Roma was still wearing her trouser-suit. She called down to Cordelia:

'Where is everyone? The place is dead as a morgue. I've just been telling Ivo I've no intention of changing, and I'm not coming to the play. You two can do what you like but I'm damned if I'll climb into an evening dress in the middle of a warm afternoon just to watch a bunch of amateurs make fools of themselves and pander to Clarissa's megalomania. You all indulge her nonsense as if you're terrified of her. Someone should put a stop to Clarissa.'

Cordelia said:

'Someone has.'

They froze on the stairway, gazing down at her. She said:

'Clarissa's dead. Murdered.'

And then her control broke. She gave a gasp and felt the hot tears coursing down her face. Ivo ran down to her and she felt his arms, thin and strong as steel rods, pulling her towards him. It was the first human contact, the first sympathetic gesture which anyone had made since the shock of finding Clarissa's body, and the temptation to give way and cry like a child against his shoulder was almost irresistible. But she gulped back her tears, fighting for control, while he held her gently without speaking. Looking up over his shoulder she saw, through her tears, Roma's face hanging above her, a streaked amorphous pattern of white and pink. Then she blinked and the features came into focus: the mouth, so like Clarissa's, hanging loose, the eyes staring wide, the whole face blazing with an emotion which could have been terror or triumph.

She wasn't sure how long they stayed there, she locked in Ivo's arms, Roma staring down at them. Then she heard footsteps behind her. She broke free murmuring over and over again, 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.' Ambrose spoke:

'Simon's gone to his room. He's very shocked and he wants to be alone. He'll be down as soon as he feels ready.'

Ivo asked:

'What happened. How did she die?'

Ambrose hesitated and Roma cried out:

'You've got to tell us! I insist that you tell us!'

Ambrose looked at Cordelia. He gave a shrug of resigned apology. 'Sorry, but I'm not prepared to do the work of the police. They have a right to know.' He looked up at Roma. 'She was battered to death. Her face has been smashed to pulp. It looks as if the weapon used was the limb of the dead princess. I haven't told Simon how she was killed and I think it better that he doesn't know.'

Roma sank down on the stairs and grasped the banister. She said:

'Your marble? The killer took your marble? But why? How did he know it was there?' Ambrose said:

'He, or she, took it from the display cabinet some time before seven o'clock this morning. And I'm afraid that the police are only too likely to take the view that he knew it was there because, yesterday before luncheon, I myself showed it to him.'

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Ten minutes later Roma, Ivo and Cordelia stood at the drawing-room window and looked down over the terrace to the landing stage. All three of them were now outwardly calm. The first shock had been replaced by a restlessness, almost an unhealthy, prurient excitement which they recognized in themselves and each other and which was as shaming as it was unexpected. They had all resisted the temptation to take alcohol, perhaps feeling that it would be unwise to face the police with its smell on their breath. But Munter had served strong coffee in the drawing-room and it had been almost as effective.

Now they watched as the two heavily loaded launches rocked dangerously at the quayside, the passengers in their evening clothes crowding to one side like a gaudily clad cargo of aristocratic refugees fleeing from some republican holocaust. Ambrose was talking to them, with Munter standing at his shoulder like a second line of defence. There was a great deal of gesticulating. Even at this distance, Ambrose's pose, the slightly bent head, the spread hands, conveyed regret, distress and some embarrassment. But he was standing firm. The sound of chattering came to them, faint but high like the squeaking of distant starlings. Cordelia said to Ivo:

'They look restless. I expect they want to stretch their legs.' 'Want to pee I expect, poor dears.'

'There's someone standing up on the gunwale taking photographs. If he's not careful, he'll go overboard.'

. 'That's Marcus Fleming. He's supposed to be taking the pictures to illustrate my article. Oh well, he'll be able to phone a scoop of sorts to London if they don't capsize with excitement before they reach shore.'

'The fat lady seems very determined, the one in mauve.'

'That's Lady Cottringham, the formidable dowager. Ambrose had better watch her. If she gets one foot on the quay there'll be no holding her. She'll dash in to give poor Clarissa the once-over, subject us all to third-degree and solve the crime before the police get here. Ah, victory for Ambrose! The launches are pulling away.'