The gibes might be unoriginal but there was nothing second-hand about the dislike. Buckley said:

'It's a bit old-fashioned isn't it, sir, all that stuff?'

'Don't be naive, Sergeant. It's only unfashionable to talk like that any more, but that doesn't mean that they've changed their thinking or their actions. He could have had his own force by now – probably be chairing ACPO – if he hadn't wanted to stick to detection. That and personal conceit. The rest of you can struggle in the muck for the prizes. I'm the cat who walks alone and all places are alike to me. Kipling.'

'Yes, sir.'

Buckley paused and then asked: 'What about the Commander?'

'He knows the girl, Cordelia Gray. They tangled together in a previous case. Cambridge apparently. No details offered and hone asked for. But he's given her and that Agency a clean bill. Like him or not, he's a good copper, one of the best. If he says that Gray isn't a murderess I'm prepared to take that as evidence of a sort. But he didn't say that she's incapable of lying and I wouldn't have believed him if he had.'

He drove on in a moody silence. But his mind must have been mulling over yesterday's interviews. After a space of ten minutes in which neither of them had spoken, he said:

'There's one thing which struck me as intriguing. You probably noticed it yourself. They all described the visit on Saturday morning to the Church and the crypt. They all mentioned that story about the drowned internee. But it was done a little too casually; the mere mention of an unimportant trifle; just a short excursion we happened to fancy before lunch. As soon as I invited them to dwell on the incident they reacted like a bunch of virgins who'd had an interesting experience in the Marabar caves. I suppose the allusion is wasted on you, Sergeant?’ 'Yes, sir.'

'Don't worry. I'm not degenerating into one of those literary cops. I'll leave that to Dalgliesh. We did A Passage to India as a set book when I was at school. I used to think it. overrated. But no knowledge is wasted in police work as they used to tell me at training school, not even E. M. Forster apparently. Something happened in the Devil's Kettle which none of them is prepared to talk about and I'd like to know what.'

'Miss Gray found one of the messages.'

'So she says. But I wasn't thinking of that. It's probably a long shot, but we'd better find out more about that 1940 drowning. I suppose Southern Command would be the starting point.'

Buckley's thoughts went back to that white, scientifically butchered body, to a nakedness which had been totally unerotic. Arid more than that. For a moment watching those gloved and probing fingers he had felt that no woman's body would ever excite him again. He said:

'There was no rape and no recent intercourse.'

'That hardly surprised us. Her husband hadn't the inclination and Ivo Whittingham hadn't the strength. And her murderer had other things on his mind. We'll call it a day, Sergeant. The Chief Constable wants a word with me first thing tomorrow. No doubt that means that Sir Charles Cottringham has been having

a word or two with him. That man's a nuisance. I wish he'd stick to amateur theatricals and leave real-life drama to the experts.

And then we'll get back to Courcy Island and see if a night's sleep has refreshed their memories.'

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

At last the interminable hours dragged to dinner-time. Cordelia came in from a last and solitary walk with barely time to shower and change, and by the time she went down, Ambrose, Sir George and Ivo were already in the dining-room. They were all seated before Simon appeared. He was wearing a dark suit. He looked at the others, flushed and said, 'I'm sorry. I didn't realize that we were going to change. I won't be long.'

He turned to the door. Ambrose said with a touch of impatience, 'What does it matter? You can dine in your swimming-trunks if it makes you feel more comfortable. No one here cares what you wear.'

Cordelia thought that it wasn't the happiest way of putting it. The unspoken words hung on the air. Clarissa would have cared; but Clarissa wasn't there. Simon's eyes slewed to the empty chair at the top of the table. Then he sidled to a chair beside Cordelia.

Ivo said:

'Where's Roma?'

'She asked for soup and chicken sandwiches in her room. She says she has a headache.'

It seemed to Cordelia that everyone was simultaneously doubting the reality of the headache while mentally congratulating Roma on having hit on so simple an expedient for avoiding this their first formal dinner together since Clarissa's death. The table had been rearranged, perhaps in an attempt to minimize the trauma of that empty chair. The two end places hadn't been laid and Cordelia and Simon sat facing Ambrose, Ivo and Sir George, almost, it seemed, eyeball to eyeball, while an expanse of mahogany stretched gleaming on either side: Cordelia thought that the arrangement made them look like a couple of viva-voce candidates facing a not particularly intimidating panel of examiners, an impression which was strengthened by Simon's suit in which, paradoxically, he looked less cool and more formally overdressed than did the other three in their frills and dinner-jackets.

Neither Munter nor his wife were present. Bowls of vichyssoise were already set at each place and the second course was under covers on the sideboard hotplates. There was a faint smell of fish, an unlikely choice for a Sunday. It was obviously to be a convalescent's dinner, blandly inoffensive, unexciting to the palate or the digestion. It was, thought Cordelia, a nice point of culinary etiquette, the choice of menu for a house party of murder suspects dining together the day after the crime.

Ivo's thoughts must have been running with hers for he said:

'I wonder what Mrs Beeton would reject as the most inappropriate meal for this kind of occasion. My choice would be bortsch followed by steak tartare. I can't decide on the pudding: Nothing too crude, but it needs to be richly indigestible.'

Cordelia said in a low voice:

'Don't you care at all?'

He paused before replying as if her question merited careful thought:

'I don't like to think that she suffered or was in terror even for a moment. But, if you mean do I care that she's no longer alive, then no, I don't really care.'

Ambrose had finished pouring the Graves. He said: 'We'll have to serve ourselves. I told Mrs Munter to take the evening off and get some rest and Munter hasn't shown himself since luncheon. If the police want to interview him again tomorrow they'll be unlucky. It happens about every four months, and invariably if I've had a house party. I'm not sure whether it's a reaction from the excitement, or just his way of discouraging me from too much entertaining. As he's usually considerate enough to wait until my guests have left I can't really complain. He has compensating qualities.'

Sir George said:

'Drunk is he? I thought he might take to the bottle.'

'I fear so. It usually lasts three days. I did wonder whether the violent death of one of my guests would break the pattern, but apparently not. I suppose it's his release from some intolerable internal boredom. The island isn't really congenial to him. He has an almost pathological dislike of water. He can't even swim.'

Ambrose, Ivo and Cordelia had moved to the sideboard. Ambrose lifted a silver lid to reveal thin fillets of sole in a creamy sauce. Ivo asked:

'Why then does he stay?'

'I've never asked him for fear that the same question might occur to him. Money, I suppose. And he likes solitude even if he would prefer it not to be guaranteed by two miles of sea. He has only me to please. An easy job on the whole.'

'And easier now that Clarissa's dead. I take it you won't be going ahead with the drama festival?'