He clambered along the outside of the cabin towards the stern. A minute later the engine shuddered and the small boat began to creep from the quay.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

It was almost impossible to believe that she had first seen Courcy Castle only three days earlier. In that short span of time she seemed to have lived through long, action-packed years, to have become a different person. Surely it had been some excitable expectant child who had gasped in wonder at her first sight of those sunlit walls, those patterned battlements, that high, luminous tower. But now, as the little boat turned the headland, she almost gasped again. The castle was ablaze with light. Every window shone, and from the tower, scored with pencil-slim lines of light, the high window threw a strong beam like a warning beacon over the sea. The castle seemed buoyant with light, lifted above the rocks to float in motionless serenity under an indigo sky, obliterating the nearer stars with brightness. Only the moon held her place, wan as a circle of rice paper, moving behind a thin veil of cloud.

She stood on the quay until the boat had drawn away. For a moment she was tempted to call out to the boy to stay, at least within call. But she told herself that she was being ridiculous and fanciful. She wouldn't be alone with Ambrose. Even if Ivo were too sick to be much support, Roma, Simon and Sir George would be there. And even if they weren't, why should she be afraid? She would be facing someone with a motive. But motive alone didn't make a murderer. And she agreed in her heart with Roma: Ambrose hadn't the nerve, the ruthlessness, the capacity for hatred which drove a man to the ultimate crime.

Light lay across the terrace like a sheet of silver. She trod it as if on air, as if she, too, were buoyant, moving silently towards the open french windows of the drawing-room. And then Ambrose appeared and stood watching her approach, a dark figure silhouetted against the light. He was wearing a dinner-jacket and holding a glass of red wine in his left hand. The picture had the clarity and distinction of a painting. She found herself admiring the artist's technique; the careful positioning of the body, the artful blob of red in the glass cunningly and deftly painted in to emphasize the dark vertical lines of the figure, the splash of white at the shirt front, the dominant eyes which gave a focus and meaning to the whole composition. This was his kingdom, his castle. He was in command. He had illuminated it as if to celebrate and exult in his mastery. But when she came up to him his voice was light and casual. He might have been welcoming her home after an afternoon's shopping on the mainland. But wasn't that precisely what he thought he was doing?

'Good evening, Cordelia. Have you eaten? I didn't wait dinner, such as it is. I cooked myself some soup and a herb omelette. Would you care for one?'

Cordelia moved into the drawing-room. Here only the wall lights and one table lamp were lit, making a cosy circle of light by the fire. The corners of the room were dark and long shadows moved like fingers over the carpet and the walls. The fire must have been lit for some time. A single large log was burning steadily. She slipped off her shoulder-bag and asked:

'Where is everyone?'

'Ivo's in bed, not at all well, I'm afraid. He'll be going home tomorrow if he's fit for the journey. Roma has left. She was anxious to get back to London. Sir George had one of his mysterious calls to a meeting at Southampton and she took the launch with him. They won't be returning, although they'll both be in Speymouth tomorrow for the inquest. Simon said that he wasn't hungry. He's gone to bed.'

So they were alone after all, alone except for the sick Ivo and a boy. She asked, hoping that her voice didn't betray her dismay:

'Why wasn't the launch at Speymouth? Oldfield was supposed to meet me at six.'

'He or I must have misunderstood. He'll be back with Shearwater, but not until the morning. He's visiting his daughter in Bournemouth for the night.'

'I did ring, but whoever answered put down the receiver.'

'I'm afraid that's been my stock response to the telephone today. Too many calls, too many reporters.'

They stood together in front of the fire. She took the newspaper photograph from her bag and held it out to him.

'I went to Speymouth to find this.'

He didn't touch it or even glance at it.

'I did wonder. I congratulate you. I didn't think you'd succeed.'

'Because you'd already cut it out of the newspaper archives?' He said calmly:

'Yes, I destroyed it about a year ago. It seemed a sensible precaution.'

'I found another.' 'So I see.'

Suddenly he said gently:

'You look tired, Cordelia, hadn't you better sit down? May I get you some claret or brandy?' 'I'd like a glass of claret, please.'

She had to keep her mind clear, but the thought of the wine was irresistible. Her mouth was so dry that she could hardly frame her words. He fetched a glass for her from the dining-room, poured her wine and refilled his own glass, then sat with the decanter close at hand. They settled themselves one each side of the fireplace. It seemed to Cordelia that no chair had ever been more welcoming or as comfortable, no wine had ever tasted so good. He began to speak as calmly and unemotionally as if they were sitting together after dinner discussing the ordinary events of an unremarkable day.

'I came back to visit my uncle. I was his heir and he wanted to see me. I don't think he understood that I couldn't return and still have a tax-free year. That wasn't the way his mind worked. It would never have occurred to him that a man could spend a year of his life doing what he didn't want to do, living where he didn't want to live, because of money. I wish you'd known him. You would have liked each other. It wasn't difficult getting here unnoticed. I flew from Paris to Dublin and took an Aer Lingus flight to Heathrow. Then I travelled by rail to Speymouth and rang the castle for my uncle's servant William Mogg to meet me after dark with the launch. They'd lived together here for nearly forty years. I asked Mogg not to tell anyone that he'd seen me, but it wasn't necessary. He never spoke of his master's business. Three months after my uncle died he turned his face to the wall and followed him. So you see, there wasn't really any risk. He asked me to come. I came.'

'And if you hadn't, perhaps he would have altered his will.'

'Unkind, Cordelia. You probably won't believe me, but I wasn't influenced by that disagreeable possibility. I didn't even believe that it was a possibility. I liked him. I seldom saw him – he didn't encourage visits even from his heir – but when I did pay my annual homage there was something between us which both of us recognized. Not love. I think he only loved William Mogg and I'm not sure that I know what the word means. But whatever it was I valued it. And I valued him. He had toughness, obstinacy, courage. He was his own man. He lay in that immense bedroom like some ancient chieftain gazing out over the sea and fearing nothing: nothing, nothing. And then he asked me to get for him something he fancied, a last taste of Blue Stilton. He can't have tasted it for thirty years. He and William Mogg practically lived off the island, making their own butter and cheese. God knows what put that need into his mind. He could have asked Mogg to get it for him. But he didn't, he asked me.'

'So that's why you went to Speymouth?'

'That's why. If I hadn't done that simple act of filial kindness Clarissa wouldn't have seen that press photograph, wouldn't have forced me into staging The Duchess of Malfi, would still be alive. Odd, isn't it? It makes nonsense of any theory of the beneficent governance of human life. But then I learned that lesson when I was eight and my mother died because she was one minute late for the plane home and the one she caught crashed. It was a matter, you see, of whether the Paris traffic lights were red or green. We live by chance and we die by chance. With Clarissa if you look back far enough, it was a matter of eight ounces, of Blue Stilton. Evil coming out of good if those two words mean something to you.'