Cordelia didn't speak. The walk had been at Roma's request. It was for her to say what was on her mind. But she felt curiously peaceful and at ease with her companion, as if none of their differences could weigh against the fact of their common femininity. She watched as Roma picked up a beech twig and began methodically shredding it of leaves. Without looking at Cordelia, she said:

'You're supposed to be an expert in these things. When do you suppose we can get away? I've got a shop to look after, my partner can't manage indefinitely on his own. The police can't keep us here, surely? The investigation could take months.'

Cordelia said:

'They can't legally hold us at all unless they arrest us. Some of us will have to attend the inquest. But I should think you could leave tomorrow if you wanted to.'

'And what about George? He'll need some help. Is he going to sort out her things, jewellery, clothes, make-up, or does he expect me to?'

'Hadn't you better ask him?'

'We can't even get into her bedroom. The police still have it sealed. And she's brought drawers of stuff with her. She always did, even for a weekend. And then there'll be all the clothes in the Bayswater flat and at Brighton, suits, dresses, her furs. He can hardly dump it all on Oxfam.'

Cordelia said:

'They'd be surprised, certainly. But I expect they'd find a good use for it all. They could sell the clothes in their gift shops.' She would have found this female chat about Clarissa's wardrobe bizarre if she hadn't realized that Roma's concern about her cousin's clothes masked a deeper concern: Clarissa's money. Again there was silence. Then Roma said gruffly:

'Did you know that I'd asked Clarissa for a loan just before she was killed and that she'd turned me down?'

'Yes. I was there when she told Sir George.'

'And you haven't told the police?' 'No.'

'That was decent of you, considering that I haven't been particularly pleasant to you.'

'What has that to do with it? If they want that kind of information they can get it from the person concerned, you.'

'Well, they haven't got it so far. I lied. I'm not proud of it and I'm not even sure why. Panic, I suppose, and a feeling that it would suit them to pin the murder on me rather than on George or Ambrose. One's a baronet and war hero and the other's rich.'

'I don't think they want to pin it on anyone except the guilty person. I don't take to either of them, Grogan or Buckley. But I think they're honest.'

Roma said:

'It's odd. I've never much liked or trusted the police, but I always took it for granted that, faced with a crime as serious as murder, I'd co-operate with them up to the hilt. I want Clarissa's murderer caught, of course I do. So why do I feel so defensive? Why do I act as if Grogan and Buckley are in league against me? And it's humiliating to find oneself lying, lying and terrified, and ashamed.'

'I know. I feel the same.'

'It looks as if George hasn't told them about our quarrel either. Nor has Tolly, apparently. Clarissa sent her out while we were talking, but she must have guessed. What do you think she has in mind, blackmail?'

Cordelia said:

'I'm sure not. But I think she knows. She was in the bathroom while I was there, and she probably overheard. Clarissa was pretty vehement.'

'She was vehement with me, vehement and offensive. If I were capable of killing her, I'd have done it then.'

They were silent for a moment, then she said:

'What I can't get used to is the way we all carefully avoid discussing who it was killed her. We don't even confide what we've told Grogan. Since the murder, we've behaved to each other like strangers, telling nothing, asking nothing. Don't you find it strange?'

'Not really. We're stuck here together. Life will be intolerable if we start hurling accusations or recriminations at each other or divide into cliques.'

'I suppose so. But I don't think I can go on, not knowing, not even talking about it,, pretending to make polite conversation when we're all thinking about the same, thing, carefully avoiding each other's eyes, wondering, locking our doors at night. Did you lock yours?'

'Yes. I wasn't sure why. I don't think for one moment that there's a homicidal maniac on the island. Clarissa was always the intended victim. She wasn't killed by mistake. But I did lock my door.'

'Against whom? Who do you think did it?' Cordelia said:

'One of us who slept in the castle on Friday night.' 'I know that. But which one?' 'I don't know. Do you?'

Roma's twig was a thin denuded wand. She threw it away, found another and began again the work of methodical destruction.

'I should like it to be Ambrose if anyone, but I can't believe it. Wasn't it George Orwell who wrote that murder, the unique crime, should arise only from strong emotions? Ambrose never felt a strong emotion in his life. And he hasn't the courage or the ruthlessness. He isn't capable of that much hatred. He likes to play with the toys of violence; a tag end of executioner's rope, a bloodstained nightdress, a pair of Victorian handcuffs. With Ambrose even the horror comes second-hand, disinfected by time and charm and quaintness. And it can't be Simon. He never even saw the marble limb and, anyway, he'd have confessed by now. He's a weakling like his father. He wouldn't have the psychological strength to stand up to Grogan for five minutes if the going got rough. And Ivo? Well, Ivo's dying. He's nearly served his life sentence. He may feel that he's out of the reach of the law. But where's his motive? I suppose George is the main suspect, but I don't believe that either. He's a professional soldier, a professional killer if you like. But he wouldn't do it in that way, not to a woman. It could be the Munters, singly or together, or even Tolly, but I can't think why. That leaves you and me. And it wasn't me. And, if it's any comfort to you, I don't think it was you either.' Cordelia said:

'Tell me about Clarissa. You spent a lot of your holidays with her as a child, didn't you?'

'Oh God, those awful Augusts! They had a house on the river at Maidenhead and spent most of the summer there. Her mother thought that Clarissa ought to have young company and my parents were glad to have me fed and boarded free. Oddly enough, we got on quite well together then, united I suppose by our fear of her father. When he came down from London she lived in terror.'

'I thought that she adored him, that he was an over-indulgent, devoted papa.'

'Is that what she told you? How typical of Clarissa! She couldn't even be honest about her own childhood. No, he was a brute. I don't mean he physically ill-treated us. In some ways that would have been more endurable than sarcasm, a cold adult anger, contempt. I didn't understand him then, of course. Now I think I do. He didn't really like women. He married to get himself a son – he had the egotism that can't imagine a world in which he hasn't at least a vicarious immortality – and he found himself with a daughter, an invalid wife who'd no intention of breeding again and a job in which divorce wasn't an option. And Clarissa wasn't even pretty when she was a child. And his coolness arid her fear killed any spontaneity, any affection, even any intelligence which she might have shown. No wonder she spent the rest of her life obsessively looking for love. But then don't we all?'

Cordelia said:

'After I was told something about her, something she'd done, I thought that she was a monster. But perhaps no one is, not entirely, not when you know the truth about them-.''

'She was a monster all right. But when I think of Uncle Roderick, I can understand why. Hadn't we better be getting back? Grogan will suspect us of conspiracy. We can probably scramble down to the beach from here and walk back by the sea.'

They trudged back along the edge of the surf. Roma, her hands sunk in her jacket pockets, walked ahead, splashing through the small receding waves, seeming oblivious of the wet trouser bottoms flapping against her ankles, of her sodden shoes. The way back was longer and slower than the walk through the copse, but at last they turned the headland of a small bay and the castle was suddenly before them. They stopped and watched. A young man in bathing-trunks and carrying a rough wooden box was climbing down the fire escape from the window of Cordelia's first bedroom. He climbed carefully, hooking his arms round the rungs, being careful not to touch them with his hands. Then he glanced round, walked to the edge of the rocks and with a sudden violent gesture flung the box out to sea. Then he stood poised for a moment, arms raised, and dived. About thirty yards from the end of the terrace rocked a boat, a different boat from the police launch. A diver, sleek and glittering in his black suit, rested on the gunwale. As soon as the box hit the water he twisted his body and dropped backward out of sight. Roma said: