'If Tolly were actually planning to murder Clarissa she'd hardly warn you in advance. She was probably trying to tell you that, you couldn't rely on Clarissa, that she might change her mind about you, that she might not always be there.'

'I think she did know. I think she guessed. Ought I to tell the Chief Inspector? I mean, it is evidence isn't it? Suppose he found out that I'd been keeping something back?'

'Have you told anyone?'

'No. Only you.'

'You must do what you think is right.'

'But I don't know what's right! What would you do if you were in my place?'

'I wouldn't tell. But then I have a reason. If you feel that it's right to tell, then tell. If it's any comfort to you, I don't think the police will arrest Tolly on that evidence alone and they haven't any other, at least as far as I know.'

'But she'd know that I must have told them! What would she think of me? I don't think I could face her after that.'

'You might not have to. I don't suppose she'll stay on now that Clarissa's dead.'

'So you would tell if you were me?'

Cordelia's patience snapped. It had been a long day ending in the trauma of Munter's dramatic appearance and she was weary in spirit as well as body. And it was difficult to sympathize with Simon's obsessive self-concern.

'I've told you. I wouldn't tell. But I'm not you. It's your responsibility and you can't force it on anyone else. Surely there's something you're capable of deciding for yourself.'

She regretted the unkindness almost as soon as the words were out of her mouth. She turned her eyes from his scarlet face and stricken, dog-like eyes and said:

'I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I suppose we're all on edge. Wasn't there a third thing you wanted to ask?'

He whispered, his mouth trembling:

'No. There's nothing else. Thank you.' He got up and closed the piano. He added quietly and with some attempt at dignity:

'If anyone asks about me, I've gone to bed.'

Unexpectedly, Cordelia found that she, too, was close to tears. Torn between irritation and pity and despising her own weakness she decided to follow Simon's example. The day had gone on long enough. She went out on the terrace to say goodnight. The three black-clad figures were standing apart, silhouetted against the iridescence of the sea, motionless as bronze statues. At her approach they simultaneously turned and she could feel the concentrated gaze of three pairs of eyes. No one moved or spoke. The moment of moonlit silence seemed to her protracted, almost ominous, and as she said her goodnights the thought that for the past twenty-four hours she had tried to suppress surfaced in all its stark and frightening logic. 'We are here together, ten of us on this small and lonely island. And one of us is a murderer.'

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Cordelia fell asleep almost as soon as she had closed her book and put out the bedside light. But her awakening was as sudden. She lay for a moment confused and then put out her hand and found the switch. Her wrist-watch, curled on the bedside table, showed her that it was just after three thirty, far too early, surely, for her to have woken naturally. She thought that her sleep had been pierced by some sound, perhaps the shriek of a night bird. The moonlight streamed through the half-drawn curtains cutting a swathe of light over the ceiling and walls. The silence was absolute except for the pulse of the plangent sea, louder now than in the stir of the daylight hours. Her mind, still drugged with sleep, took hold of the tag end of a dream. She had been back in Kingly Street and Miss Maudsley had been showing her with pride a newly rescued kitten. As is the way of dreams, she found it unsurprising that the kitten should be sleeping in a carved cradle with a red canopy and side curtains, a miniature of Clarissa's bed, or that, when she peered into the cot and pulled aside the shawl she should see, not a kitten but a baby and should know that this was Miss Maudsley's illegitimate child and that she must be very tactful and not betray that she knew. She smiled at the memory, put out the light and tried to relax into sleep.

But this time it was elusive. Once woken, she was restless. Her mind busied itself again with the mystery and horror of Clarissa's death. Image succeeded image, unsought but insistent, disconnected in time but horribly clear; Clarissa's satin-clad body gleaming pale under the crimson canopy; Clarissa gazing down into the swirl of water at the Devil's Kettle; Clarissa's slim figure passing to and fro on the terrace, pale as a ghost; Clarissa standing on the pier and stretching her arms bat-winged in welcome; Clarissa removing her make-up, turning on Cordelia one naked and diminished eye in a freakish, strange discordant gaze which seemed now to hold a look of sad reproach.

Her mind held that last picture as if unwilling to let it fade. Something about it was significant, something that she ought to have known or remembered. And then the realization came. She saw again the dressing-table, the balls of cotton wool smeared with make-up, the smaller pads shifting across the mahogany, blackened with mascara. Clarissa had used a special lotion to cleanse her eyes. But those pads hadn't been on the dressing-table when her body was discovered. Perhaps she hadn't troubled to remove her eye make-up. Was that something which the forensic pathologist would be able to detect even beneath that shattered and swollen flesh? But why should she take off her powder and foundation and leave her eyes under a weight of shadow and mascara, particularly as she proposed to rest them under the moistened pads. But wasn't there another possibility, that she had kept on all her make-up because she was expecting a visitor and that it had been the visitor who had wiped her face clean before smashing it to pulp? And that implied a man. A man was surely the most likely secret visitor. Clarissa was too obsessed with her appearance to meet even a woman with a naked face. But wouldn't a woman be more likely to realize that she must use the special pads to remove the eye make-up? Tolly would have known it certainly. But Roma? Roma's eyes were devoid of mascara and in the urgency and terror of the moment she would be unlikely to make a close inventory of the bottles on the dressing-table. A man was still the most likely to make such a mistake, except perhaps Ivo with his knowledge of theatrical make-up. But the strangest part of it all was surely Tolly's silence. The police must have questioned her about the make-up, must have asked her if everything on the dressing-table looked normal. And that meant that Tolly had held her tongue. Why and for whom?

It was impossible now to will herself to sleep. But she must have dozed at last if only fitfully for it was nearly four when she next awoke. She was too hot. The bedclothes lay heavily on her like a weight of failure and she knew that there would be no more sleep that night. The sea was louder than ever, the air itself seeming to throb. She had a vision of the tide rising inexorably over the terrace, sweeping into the dining-room, floating the heavy table and the carved chairs, rising to cover the Orpens and the stuccoed ceiling, creeping up the stairs until the whole island was covered except for the slender tower rising like a lighthouse above the waves. She lay rigidly, longing for the first flush of day.

It would be Monday, a working day in Speymouth. She would be able to get away from the island, if only for a few hours, visiting the local newspaper office, trying to trace the cutting about Clarissa's Jubilee performance. She had to do something positive however unlikely it was to prove successful and significant. It would be good to feel free, free of Ambrose's ironic, half-secret smile, Simon's misery, Ivo's gaunt fortitude; free most of all from the eyes of the police. She had no doubt that they would be back. But, short of arresting her, there was nothing they could do to prevent her spending a day on shore.