'But you asked, presumably? You betrayed some natural curiosity?'

'I asked him what had happened, how she had died. He said that no one could be sure until after the post-mortem.'

'He's right. There's nothing you need to know except the fact that she is dead, and that it must have been homicide. And now, Mr Lessing, what can you tell us about the arm of the dead princess?'

Buckley thought that Sir George gave an exclamation of protest; but he still didn't interrupt. The boy looked from face to face as if the police had gone mad. No one spoke. Then he said:

'You mean, in the Church? We visited the crypt to see the skulls this morning. But Mr Gorringe didn't say anything about a dead princess.'

'It wasn't in the Church.'

'You mean, it's a mummified arm? I don't understand.'

'It's a marble hand, a limb to be accurate. A baby's limb. Someone has taken it from Mr Gorringe's display case, the one outside this door, and we'd rather like to know who and when.'

'I don't think I've seen it, sir. I'm sorry.'

Grogan had completed his kitchen garden and was separating it from the lawn by a trellis and archway. He looked up at Lessing and said:

'My officers and I will be back here tomorrow. We'll probably be around for a day or two. If there's anything that occurs to you, anything that you remember which is the least unusual or likely to help, however small and unimportant it seems, I want you to get in touch. Understand?'

'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.'

Grogan nodded and the boy got to his feet, glanced for the last time at the still back of Sir George and went out. Buckley almost expected him to turn at the door and ask whether he'd got the job.

Sir George turned at last:

'He's due back at school on Monday morning before midday. Special leave. I take it he can go.' Grogan said:

'It would be helpful to us, sir, if he could stay until the Tuesday morning. It's just a question of convenience. If anything does occur to him or to us it would be helpful to be able to clear it up quickly. But obviously he can go early on Monday if you think it important.'

Sir George hesitated.

'Don't suppose a day will make much odds. Better for him, though, to be away from here, back at work. I'll get in touch with the school tomorrow or Monday. He'll need leave later for the funeral, but I suppose it's too early yet to think about that.'

'I'm afraid so, sir.'

Sir George was almost at the door when Grogan called softly: 'There's one other thing, sir, which I have to ask. Your relationship with your wife. Would you say that yours was a happy marriage?'

The slim upright figure paused for a second, hand on the doorknob. Then Sir George turned to face them. His face was twitching violently, like that of a man afflicted with a nervous spasm. Then he controlled himself.

'I find that question offensive, Chief Inspector.'

Grogan's voice was still gentle, dangerously gentle.

'In a murder investigation, we sometimes have to ask questions which people find offensive.'

'It's meaningless unless you ask both parties. Too late for that now. Not sure that my wife had the capacity for happiness.'

'And you, sir?'

He answered with great simplicity. 'I loved her.'

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

After he had gone, Grogan said with sudden vehemence:

'Let's pack up and get out of this place. It's getting claustrophobic. What time is the launch expected with Roper and Badgett?'

Buckley looked at his watch.

'It should be here within fifteen minutes.'

Detective Constables Roper and Badgett were to be on duty in the business room, but for one night only. Their presence was almost a formality. No one at the castle had asked for police protection, nor did Grogan believe that they were in need of it. He had few enough officers without wasting manpower. The whole of the island including the secret passage to the Devil's Kettle had been searched; if anyone still believed in the theory of the casual intruder it was apparent that he wasn't now on Courcy. Tomorrow the police inquiries on the island would be complete and the investigation moved to an incident room at the Speymouth station. It was likely, thought Buckley, to be a tedious and less than comfortable vigil for Roper and Badgett. Ambrose Gorringe had offered a bedroom and had said that the two officers should ring for Munter if there was anything they needed. But Grogan's instructions had been clear.

'You'll bring your own flasks and sandwiches, lads, and ring for no one. You'll be beholden to Mr Gorringe for nothing but his light and heating and the water that flushes his bog.'

He pulled the bellcord. It seemed to Buckley that Munter took his time in coming. Grogan said:

'Will you tell Mr Gorringe that we're now leaving.'

'Yes, sir: The police launch isn't yet sighted, sir.'

'I'm aware of that. We shall wait for it on the quay.'

When the man had gone, he said irritably:

'What does he think we propose to do? Walk on water?'

Ambrose Gorringe arrived within minutes to see them off his premises with formal courtesy. They might, thought Buckley, have been a couple of dinner guests, if not particularly welcome or agreeable ones. He said nothing about the event that had brought them to Courcy and made no inquiries about the progress of the investigation. Clarissa Lisle's murder might have been an embarrassing mishap in an otherwise not unsuccessful day…

It was good to be in the air again. The night was extraordinarily balmy for mid-September and there still seemed to rise from the stones of the terrace a genial warmth like the last breath of a summer day. Briefcases in hand, they strolled together along the eastern arm of the quay. Turning to retrace their steps, they could see in the distance a stream of light from the dining-room windows and dark figures moving to and fro on the terrace, joining then parting, pausing and then walking on as if taking part in a stately pavane. It looked to Buckley as if they had plates in their hands. Probably making do with the cold left-over party food he thought, and some irrelevant quotation about baked funeral meats came into mind. He didn't blame them for not wanting to sit together round a table, faced with one empty chair.

He and Grogan settled themselves under the canopy of the bandstand to wait for the first lights of the launch. The peace of the night was seductive. Here on the southern shore where the mainland couldn't be seen it was easy to imagine that the island was totally isolated in a waste of sea, that they were waiting and watching for the masts of some overdue relief ship, and that the figures gliding on the terrace were the ghosts of long-dead settlers, that the castle itself was a shell, hall and library and drawing-room open to the sky, the great staircase rising into nothingness, ferns and weeds pushing their way between the broken tiles. He wasn't normally imaginative, but now he deliberately indulged his tiredness, letting his mind elaborate the fantasy while he sat gently massaging his right wrist.

Grogan's voice broke harshly into the reverie. Neither the peace nor the beauty had touched him. His thoughts were still on the case. Buckley told himself that he should have known there would be no respite. He remembered the overheard comment of a detective inspector: 'Red Rufus treats a murder investigation like a love affair. Gets obsessed with his suspects. Moves into their lives. Lives and breathes with the case, edgy and restless and frustrated, until it climaxes at the arrest.' Buckley wondered if that was one of the reasons for his failed marriage. It must be disconcerting to live with a man who, for most of the night as well as the day, simply wasn't there. And when he spoke his voice was as vigorous as if the inquiry had just begun.