'My late sister's press cuttings are in her room upstairs. She was a dedicated monarchist' – here Cordelia thought she detected a nuance of indulgent contempt – 'and there was scarcely a royal occasion during the last fifty years which escaped her attention. But her main interest was, of course, in the House of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha. I shall leave you to search on your own if I may. I am unlikely to be able to help you. But please don't hesitate to call if you feel that I could.'

It was interesting but not altogether surprising, thought Cordelia, that Miss Costello hadn't troubled to inquire what she was seeking. Perhaps she regarded such a question as vulgar curiosity or, more likely, feared that it might only provoke one more intrusion of the disagreeable into her ordered life.

She showed Cordelia into the front bedroom. Here Miss Lucy's obsession was immediately apparent. The walls were almost covered with photographs of royalty, some of them half effaced with scribbled signatures. On a long shelf over the bed was closely ranged a collection of Coronation mugs while a glass-fronted display cabinet was filled with other memorabilia, crested and decorated teapots, cups and saucers and engraved glass. The whole of the wall facing the window was fitted with shelves holding a collection of scrapbooks. Here was the famous collection.

Each of the books was marked on the spine with the dates covered and Cordelia was able, without difficulty, to find July 1977. The local press photographers had done justice to Speymouth's big day. There was hardly an aspect of the Royal visit which had gone unrecorded. There were pictures of the Royal arrival, the Mayor in his chain, the curtseying Mayoress, the children with their miniature Union Jacks, the Queen smiling from the Royal car, hand raised in the distinctive Royal wave, the Duke at her side. But there was no cutting which precisely fitted Cordelia's memory of the shape and size of the missing piece. She sank back on her heels, the book open before her, and felt for a moment almost sick with disappointment. The microdots of grinning, anticipatory self-satisfied faces mocked her failure. The chance of success had been slight, but she was chagrined to realize how much hope she had invested in it. And then she saw that hope was not yet lost. On the bottom shelf was stacked a row of stout manilla envelopes each with the year written on it in Miss Lucy's upright hand. Opening the top one she saw that it also contained press cuttings, perhaps duplicates sent to Miss Lucy by friends anxious to help with her collection, or cuttings she had rejected as unworthy of inclusion but hadn't liked to throw away. The envelope for 1977 was plumper than its fellows as befitted Jubilee year. She tipped out the medley of cuttings, most already fading with age, and spread them around her.

And, almost immediately, she found it, the remembered oblong shape, the heading 'Clarissa Lisle triumphs in Rattigan revival', the third column cut down the middle. She turned it over. She didn't know what she had expected but her first reaction was one of disappointment. The whole of the reverse was taken up with a perfectly ordinary press photograph. It had been shot across the Esplanade and showed the opposite pavement thronged with smiling faces, a row of children squatting on the kerb their flags at the ready, their more adventurous elders perched on window ledges or clinging to lamp posts. At the back of the crowd two stout women with Union Jacks round their hats stood on the steps of a house holding up a sagging banner with the words, 'Welcome to Speymouth'. Royalty hadn't yet arrived but the picture conveyed the sense of happy expectation. Cordelia's first irrelevant thought was to wonder why Miss Costello had rejected it. But then, there had been so many pictures to choose from, many in which the Queen was actually shown. But what possible interest could this not particularly distinguished photograph, this record of local patriotism, have for Clarissa Lisle? She looked at it more closely. And then her heart leaped. To the right of the photograph was the slightly blurred figure of a man. He was just stepping out into the road, obviously intent, on some private business, oblivious of all the excitement around him, his preoccupied face staring past the camera. And there could be no doubt about it. The man was Ambrose Gorringe.

Ambrose in Speymouth in July 1977. But that had been the year of his tax exile. Surely he had had to stay overseas for the whole of the financial year; she could remember reading somewhere that even to set foot in the United Kingdom would vitiate the non-resident status. But suppose he had sneaked back – and this picture proved that he must have done – wouldn't that make him liable for all the tax he had avoided, all the money he must have spent on restoring the castle, acquiring his pictures and porcelain, beautifying his private island? She would have to find an expert, discover what the legal position was. There would be firms of solicitors in Speymouth. She could consult a lawyer, put a general question on tax law; there would be no need to be specific. But she had to know and there wasn't much time. She glanced at her watch. Already it was ten minutes to five. The launch would be waiting for her at six o'clock. It was essential to get some kind of confirmation before she returned to the island.

As she gathered up the unwanted cuttings and replaced them in the envelope and went downstairs to find Miss Costello her mind was busy with this new knowledge. If Clarissa had realized the significance of that press photograph, why hadn't anyone else? But then, why should they? Ambrose hadn't lived on the island in 1977. He had probably visited it only rarely; it was unlikely that his face would be known locally. Those who knew him best lived in London and were unlikely ever to see the Speymouth Chronicle. And he had written his bestseller under a pseudonym. Even if someone living locally did recognize the picture, he was unlikely to realize that this was A. K. Ambrose, the author of Autopsy, who was supposed to be spending a year in tax exile. It was hardly the kind of thing one advertised. No, it had been his appallingly bad luck that Clarissa had been playing in Speymouth that week and had wanted to read her notice. And Clarissa had extorted her price for silence. Oh, it would have been subtly managed; there would have been nothing crude or blatant about this blackmail. Clarissa would have laid down her terms with charm, even a tinge of amused regret. But the price would have been demanded, and it had been paid. So much was clear to her now: why Ambrose had tolerated the disruption of his life by the Players, why Clarissa made use of the castle as if she were its chatelaine. Cordelia told herself that none of this proved that Ambrose was a murderer; only that he had a motive. And she held the proof of it in her hand.

Afterwards it was to strike her as strange that never for one moment did she consider taking the cutting at once to the police. First she must get confirmation; then she must confront Ambrose. It was as if this murder investigation had nothing to do with the police. It was a matter between herself and Sir George who had employed her, or perhaps, between herself and the woman she had failed to protect. And Chief Inspector Grogan's arrogant masculine voice rang in her ears:

'You may be too bright for your own good, Miss Gray. You're not here to solve this crime. That's my job.'

She found Miss Costello in her small back kitchen, folding her linen ready for ironing. She was happy for Cordelia to take away the cutting and said so without bothering to look at it or to take her attention from her pillowcases. Cordelia asked whether she could recommend a firm of local solicitors. This request did evoke a swift upward glance from the shrewd eyes; but still she asked no questions. Escorting her guest to the door she merely said: