'There isn't much to tell. We had a late breakfast and then Miss Lisle suggested we see the Church. There's a crypt with some ancient skulls and a secret passage to the sea. We explored both and Gorringe entertained us with old legends about the skulls and a reputed drowning of a wartime internee in the cave at the end of the passage. I was tired and didn't listen very closely. Then back to luncheon at twelve. Miss Lisle went to rest immediately afterwards. I was in my room by quarter past one and stayed there resting and reading until it was time to dress. Miss Lisle had insisted that we change before the play. I met Roma Lisle at the head of the staircase as she came down from her room and we were together when Gorringe appeared with Miss Gray and told us that Clarissa was dead.'

'And during the morning, the visit to the Church and the cave, how did Miss Lisle seem to you?'

'I think I would say, Chief Inspector, that Miss Lisle was her usual self.'

Lastly Grogan spilled out from the folder the sheaves of messages. One of them fluttered to the floor. He bent and picked it up, then handed it to Whittingham'.

'What can you tell us about these, sir?'

'Only that I knew she was getting them. She didn't tell me, but one does tend to pick up bits of theatre gossip. But I don't think it was generally known. And here, again, I seem to be the natural suspect. Whoever sent these knew Miss Lisle and knew his Shakespeare. But I don't think I would have added the coffin and the skull. An unnecessarily crude touch, don't you think?'

'And that is all that you want to tell us, sir?'

'It's all that I can tell you, Chief Inspector.'

CHAPTER THIRTY

It was nearly seven o'clock before they got round to seeing the boy. He had changed into a formal suit and looked, thought Buckley, as if he were attending his stepmother's funeral instead of an interview with the police. He guessed that there was no more than eight years' difference in their ages, but it could have been twenty. Lessing looked as neatly pressed and nervous as a child. But he had himself well under control. Buckley felt that there was something vaguely familiar about his entrance, the care with which he seated himself, the serious expectant gaze which he fixed on Grogan's face. And then he remembered. This was how he had looked and behaved at his final interview to join the police. He had been advised then by his headmaster. 'Wear your best suit, but no fountain pen or fancy handkerchief peeping coyly out of the jacket pocket. Look them straight in the eye, but not so fixedly that you embarrass them. Be slightly more deferential than you feel; they're the ones with the job on offer. If you don't know an answer, say so, don't waffle. And don't worry if you're nervous, they prefer that to over-confidence, but show that you've got the guts to cope with nervousness. Call them "sir" or "madam" and thank them briefly before you leave. And for God's sake, boy, sit up straight.'

And as the interview progressed beyond the first easy questions designed, Buckley could almost believe, to put the candidate at his ease, he sensed something else, that Lessing was beginning to feel as he had done; if you followed the advice, the ordeal wasn't so bad after all. Only his hands betrayed him. They were broad and unpleasantly white with thick stubbed fingers, but narrow – almost girlish – nails cut very short and so pink that they looked painted. He held his hands in his lap and from time to time he would stretch and pull at the fingers as if he were routinely performing some prescribed strengthening exercise.

Sir George Ralston remained standing with his back to them looking out of the window through the partly drawn curtains. Buckley wondered whether the intention was to demonstrate that he wasn't influencing the boy by word or glance. But the pose looked perverse, the more so as there was nothing in that still darkness which he could possibly see. Buckley had never known such silence. It had a positive quality; not the absence of noise but a silence which sharpened perception and gave importance and dignity to every word and action. He wished, not for the first time, that they were at headquarters with the sound of passing feet, of doors closing, of distant voices calling, all the comfortable background noises of ordinary life. Here it wasn't only the suspects who were under judgement.

This time Grogan's doodle looked innocuous, even charming. He seemed to be redesigning his kitchen garden. Neat rows of chubby cabbages, climbing runner beans and fern-topped carrots grew under his hand. He said:

'So after your mother died you went to live with her brother and his family and you were there when Lady Ralston came to visit you in the summer of 1978 and decided to adopt you?'

'There was no formal adoption. My uncle was my guardian and he agreed that Clarissa would be… well, a kind of foster mother, I suppose. She took over the whole responsibility for me.'

'And you welcomed that arrangement?'

'Very much, sir. Life with my uncle and aunt wasn't really congenial to me.'

And that was an odd word for the boy to use, thought Buckley. It made it sound as if they'd taken the Mirror instead of The Times and he hadn't been able to get his after-dinner port.

'And you were happy with Sir George and his wife?' Grogan couldn't resist the small note of sarcasm. He added:

'Life was congenial to you?'

'Very, sir.'

'Your stepmother – is that how you thought of her, as a stepmother?'

The boy blushed and glanced sideways at the silent figure of Sir George. He moistened his lips and said: 'Yes, sir. I suppose so.'

'Your stepmother has been receiving some rather unpleasant communications during the last year or so. What do-you know about that?'

'Nothing, sir. She didn't tell me.' He added, 'We don't… we didn't see a great deal of each other. I'm at school and she was often at the Brighton flat during the holidays.'

Grogan pulled one of the messages from his file and pushed it over the desk.

'That's a sample. Recognize it?'

'No, sir. It's a quotation, isn't it? Is it Shakespeare?'

'You tell me, lad. You're the one at Melhurst. But you've never seen one of these before?' 'No, never.'

'Right then. Suppose you tell us exactly what you did between one o'clock today and two forty-five.'

Lessing looked down at his hands, seemed to become aware of his nervous methodical stretching, and grasped both sides of his chair as if to prevent himself from springing to his feet. But he gave his account lucidly and with growing confidence. He had decided to swim before the play and had gone straight to his room after lunch where he had put on his swimming-trunks under his jeans and shirt. He had taken his jersey and towel and made his way across the lawn to the shore. He had walked on the beach for about an hour because Clarissa had warned him not to swim too soon after his meal. He had then returned to the small cove just beyond the terrace and had entered the water at about two o'clock or shortly after, leaving his clothes, towel and wrist-watch on the shore. He had seen no one either during his walk or his swim, but Sir George had told him that he had watched him coming ashore through his binoculars when he himself was returning to the castle after his bird-watching. Here he again glanced round at his stepfather as if inviting corroboration and again got no response. Grogan said:

'So Sir George Ralston has told us. And what then?'

'Well, nothing really, sir. I was on my way back to the castle when Mr Gorringe saw me and came to meet me. He told me about Clarissa.'

The last few words were almost a whisper. Grogan bent his ruddy head forward and asked softly: 'And what exactly did he tell you?' 'That she was dead, sir. Murdered.' 'And did he explain how?' Again the whisper. 'No, sir.'