But now that success was so close she felt a sudden loss of confidence. All she would discover would be the review by a provincial reporter of a revival which hardly anyone in Speymouth would now remember. Clarissa had said that it was important to her, important enough to keep in the secret drawer of her jewel box. But that, with Clarissa, could have meant anything. Perhaps she had liked the notice, met the reviewer, enjoyed a brief but satisfactory love affair. It could have been as sentimentally unimportant as that. And what possible relevance could it have to her death?

And then she saw that the sheet she wanted wasn't there. She checked twice. No careful turning of the newspaper disclosed pages nine and ten. She bent back the thick wedge of newsprint where it was gripped by the binder. Down the margin of page eleven she thought she could detect a thin impression as if the paper had been faintly scored with a knife or razor blade. She got out her magnifying glass and moved it slowly over the bound edges. Now she could see it clearly, the tell-tale mark, in some places actually cutting the paper, showing where the sheet had been excised. She could detect, too, minute shreds of paper where the edge of page nine was still clasped in the binder. Someone had been here before her.

The girl at the desk was busy with a customer inquiring, but without any visible signs of grief, how she went about inserting a death notice and how much extra a nice bit of verse would cost. She handed over a child's exercise book and pointed out the rounded, laboriously formed letters. Cordelia, always curious about the idiosyncrasies of her fellow humans and for a moment forgetting her own concerns, edged closer and slewed her eyes to read:

The pearly walls were shining, St Peter whispered low,

The golden gate was opened, And in walked Joe.

This piece of extremely dubious theology was received by the girl with a lack of interest which suggested that she had read its like before. She spent the next three minutes attempting to explain what the probable cost would be including the extras if the notice were boxed and surmounted with a wreathed cross, a consultation which was punctuated by long considering silences as they both contemplated samples of the designs on offer. But after ten minutes all was satisfactorily decided and she was then able to turn her attention to Cordelia who said:

'I've found the right edition but the sheet I think I want isn't there. Someone's cut it out.'

'They can't have. It isn't allowed. Those are the archives.'

'Well they have. Is there another copy?'

'I'll have to tell Mr Hasking. They can't go cutting the archives about. Mr Hasking will be in a rare state about that.'

'I'm sure. But I do need to see that page urgently. It's page nine of the edition of 19th July 1977. Haven't you any other back numbers I could look through?'

'Not here. The Chairman might have a set up in London. Cutting the archives! Mr Hasking sets great store by those old copies. That's history, that is, he says.'

Cordelia asked:

'Can you remember who last asked to see them?'

'There was a blonde lady from London last month. Writing a book about seaside piers she said. They blew this one up in 1939 so the Germans couldn't land, then the Council hadn't any money to build it again. That's why it's so stumpy. She said they used to have a music hall on the end when she was a girl and artistes used to come down from London in the season. She knew a lot about piers.'

Cordelia thought that a better equipped or more efficient private detective would have come with photographs of the victim and suspects for possible identification. It would have been useful to know whether the blonde woman who was so knowledgeable about piers looked like Clarissa or Roma. Tolly, unless she had disguised herself, surely an unnecessarily dramatic ploy, was obviously out. She wondered whether Bernie would have thought of photographing the house party unseen, prepared for just such an eventuality. She hadn't herself felt such a tricky procedure was possible or useful. But she did, after all, have the Polaroid in her kit on the island. Perhaps it would be worth a try. She could come back tomorrow. She said:

'And is the pier lady the only one who has recently asked to see the archives?'

'While I've been here. But then, I've only been on the desk a couple of months. Sally could have told you about anyone before that, but she's left to get married. And I'm not always on the desk. I mean someone could've come when I was in the office and Albert was on the desk.'

'Is he here?'

The girl looked at her as if astounded at such ignorance.

'Albert? Of course he isn't. Albert's never here Mondays.'

She looked at Cordelia with sudden suspicion. 'Why d'you want to know who else has been here? I thought you were just after seeing that review.'

'I am. But I was curious who could have cut out that page. As you said, these are important records. And I wouldn't like anyone to think it was I. You're quite sure there isn't a copy anywhere else in the town?'

Without looking round, the elderly man who was still arranging new photographs in the display frame with a deliberation and an eye for artistic effect which suggested that the job could well take the rest of the day, made his suggestion.

'19th July, '77 did you say? That's three days after the Queen's visit. You could try Lucy Costello. She's kept press cuttings on the Royal family for the last fifty years. Isn't likely she'd have missed the Royal visit.'

'But Lucy Costello's dead, Mr Lambert! We had an article about her and her press cuttings the day after they buried her. Three months ago, that was.'

Mr Lambert turned round and spread out his arms in a parody of patient resignation:

'I know Lucy Costello's dead! We all know she's dead! I never said she wasn't dead. But she's got a sister, hasn't she? Miss Emmeline's still alive as far as I know. She'll have the cuttings books. Isn't likely she'd throw them out. They may have buried Miss Lucy but they haven't buried her press cuttings with her, not that I know of. I said to try her. I didn't say speak to her.'

Cordelia asked how she could find Miss Emmeline. Mr Lambert turned away again to his photographs and spoke gruffly, as if regretting his former loquacity:

'Windsor Cottage, Benison Row. Up the High Street, second left. Can't miss it.'

'Is it far? I mean, ought I to take a bus?'

'You'd be lucky. Catch yer death you would waiting for that Number 12. Ten minutes' walk at most. No trouble for a young 'un.'

He selected a picture of a portly gentleman in a mayoral chain, whose sideways glance of salacious bonhomie suggested that the official banquet had more than fulfilled expectations, and positioned it carefully beside a photograph of a well endowed and decidedly underclad bathing beauty, so that his-eyes appeared to. be gazing down her cleavage. Cordelia thought that here was a man who enjoyed his work. She thanked him and the girl for their help and set out to find Miss Emmeline Costello.