'Thank you. You've been very kind. Can I pay now? If it's more than two pounds I'm afraid I'll have to give you a cheque. I have a cheque card.'

'Well, it hasn't taken very long, has it? And I think Miss Magnus has balanced the petty cash and locked away the box. Suppose you have this consultation on me?'

'I don't think that would be right. I ought to pay for your time.'

'Then put a pound in the doggy-box and we'll call it quits. When you've written your bestseller you can come back and I'll give you some proper advice and charge you highly for it.'

The doggy-box was on his desk, the brightly painted model of a lugubrious spaniel holding between his paws a collecting-tin bearing the name of a well-known animal charity. Cordelia folded in a couple of pound notes with the mental promise that she would charge only one to Sir George's account.

And then she remembered. There probably wouldn't be any account. Perhaps she would return to the office poorer than when she had left. Sir George had reassured her that she would be paid, but how could she charge him for so tragic a failure; it would be too like blood money. And how on earth would her bill be worded? It was strange how many small complications the huge complication of murder threw up. She thought: even in the midst of death we are in life, and the petty concerns of life don't go away.

She reached the harbour with two minutes to spare. She was surprised and a little disconcerted to find that the launch wasn't waiting, but told herself that Oldfield must have been kept by some job on the island; she was, after all, a little ahead of time. She sat on the bollard to wait, glad of the chance to rest although her mind, stimulated by the excitements of the day, soon drove her to action. She got up and began restlessly pacing the harbour wall. Below her a sluggish tide sucked at the verdigrised stones and a swag of seaweed spread its gnarled and drowned hands under the darkening surface. Daylight was fading and the warmth died with the light. One by one the houses climbing the hill lit their glowing oblongs behind drawn curtains and the winding streets became festive with sparkling necklaces of light. The late shoppers and holidaymakers had gone home and she heard only the occasional echo of a solitary footfall on the harbour wall. The little town, as if regretting its hours of unseasonable frivolity, was settling into a chill autumnal calm. The smells of summer were forgotten and a rank watery smell rose from the harbour.

She looked at her watch. She saw that it was six thirty, and the time was immediately confirmed by the striking of a distant church clock. She walked to the harbour mouth and gazed towards the island. There was no sign of the launch and the sea was empty except for two or three late returning boats gliding with slackened sails towards their moorings.

Still she paced and waited. Seven o'clock. Seven-fifteen. The evening sky, layered in mauve and purple, flamed into darkness, and the moon, pale as a tissue; shed a trembling path of light over the sea. In the distance, Courcy Island crouched like an animal against the paler hue of the sky. Night had distanced it. It was hard now to believe that only two miles of water separated that black and ominous shore from the lights, the gathered domesticity of the town. Looking out at it she shivered. Ambrose's story came back into her mind with the primitive atavistic force of a childhood nightmare. She could understand why so many local fishermen down the ages had thought the island accursed. Almost she could picture that desperate sailor, fighting the onset of the Plague and the fury of the sea, wild-eyed and exultant on his. way to his dreadful vengeance.

It was after seven thirty now. Whether by accident or design, Oldfield wasn't going to come. But at least she could leave the quay to ring the island and inquire without the fear of missing him. She remembered seeing two telephone boxes near the Victoria statue. Both were free, and when she had shut herself into the first she was glad to find that it hadn't been vandalized. It was irritating that she hadn't made a note of the castle number and for a moment she feared that Ambrose's obsession with privacy might have caused him to be ex-directory. But the number was listed, although under Courcy Island not his name. She dialled and could hear the ringing tone. Then the receiver was lifted, but no one replied to her voice. She thought that she could detect the sound of breathing but told herself that this must be imagination. She said again:

'It's Cordelia Gray here. I'm ringing from Speymouth. I was expecting the launch at six o'clock.' Still there was no reply. She spoke again, more loudly, but there was nothing but silence and the impression, eerie but unmistakable, that there was someone there, but someone who had lifted the receiver with no intention of speaking. She replaced the handpiece and dialled again. This time she got the engaged signal. The receiver had been taken off the rest.

She made her way back to the harbour though now with little hope that the launch would be in sight. And then she saw that there were lights and signs of activity on one of the moored vessels. Standing on the edge of the quay she looked down at a shabby but sturdy wooden boat with a crudely constructed cabin amidships, brown sails, and an outboard motor. The port and starboard lamps were lit and there was a drag-net heaped in the stern. It looked as if the sailor was preparing for a night's fishing. And he must, she thought, have a small galley. The salty, mouth-watering tang of fried bacon rose from the cabin above the fainter pervasive smell of tar and fish.-As she gazed down, a stocky and bearded young man squeezed through the cabin door and looked up, first at the sky and then at her. He was wearing a patched jersey and sea boots and was biting into a thick sandwich. With his cheerful ruddy face and shock of black hair he looked like an amiable buccaneer. On impulse she called down to him.

'If you're setting out, could you land me on Courcy Island? I'm staying there and the launch hasn't come for me. It's terribly important that I get back tonight.'

He moved along the boat, still munching the wedge of greasy bread, and looked up at her with eyes which were shrewd but not unfriendly. He said:

'They say there's someone murdered there. A woman, isn't it?'

'Yes, the actress, Clarissa Lisle. I was staying there when it happened. I'm still supposed to be staying there. They should have sent the launch for me at six. I must get back tonight.'

'A murdered woman. That's nothing new for Courcy Island. I'll be fishing off the south-east point. I'll take you if you're sure you want to go.'

Neither his voice nor his face betrayed any particular curiosity. She said quickly:

'I'm quite sure. I'll pay for the petrol of course. That's only fair.'

'No need. The wind's free. There'll be enough of it out in the bay. You can crew if you like.'

'I'm not sure that I know how. But I'll pull on the right rope when you tell me.'

He transferred the sandwich to his left hand, wiped the right on his jersey and held it out to help her aboard. She said:

'How long do you think it will take us?'

'The tide's running against us. Best part of forty minutes. Maybe more.'

He disappeared into the cabin and she waited seated in the bow, willing herself to patience. A minute later he reappeared and handed her a sandwich, two rashers of bacon, greasy and strong smelling, wedged between thick slices of crusty bread. Until she bit into it, almost disconnecting her jaw in the process, Cordelia hadn't realized just how hungry she was. She thanked him. He said, with a trace of boyish satisfaction at the evident success of his catering arrangements:

'There'll be cocoa once we get under way.'