Ivo had asked her much the same question. But this time she wasn't expected to answer. He went on:

'A man should have the courage to live by his beliefs. If you accept, as I do absolutely, that this life is all that we have, that we die as animals, that everything about us is finally lost irrevocably, that we go into the night without hope, then that belief must influence how you live your life.'

'Millions of people live with that knowledge and still live good and kindly and useful lives.'

'Because goodness and usefulness and kindness are expedient. I have my share of them. It is necessary for comfort to be at least a little liked. And perhaps some of the virtuous unbelievers still retain a vestigial hope or fear that there could be an after-life, a measure of reward or punishment, a rebirth. There isn't, Cordelia. There isn't. There's nothing but darkness, and we go into it without hope.'

Remembering how he had sent Clarissa into her darkness, she gazed appalled at the gently smiling face with its look of spurious sorrow, as if the full knowledge of what he had done had only now come home to her.

'You smashed in her face! Not once, time and time again! You could make yourself do that!'

'It wasn't agreeable. And if it's any consolation to you, I had to close my eyes. And it seemed to go on for so long. The sensation was horribly specific, softness cushioning the brittleness of bones. And so many bones. I could feel them splintering, like smashing a tin of toffee in childhood. Our old cook used to let me make it. Smashing it when it had cooled was the best part. And when I opened my eyes and made myself gaze, Clarissa wasn't there. Of course, she hadn't been there before, but once her face was gone I couldn't even remember what she had looked like. More than anyone I know, Clarissa was her face. That demolished, I knew afresh what I'd always known, the ridiculous presumption of supposing that she had a soul.'

Cordelia told herself: I won't be sick. I won't. And I must stay calm. I mustn't panic.

His voice came to her faintly but very clear:

'When I was sixteen and first came to this island as a schoolboy I knew for the first time what I wanted of life. Not power, not success, not sex, with men or women. That has always been to me an expense of spirit in a waste of shame. It wasn't even money, except as it contributed to my passion. I wanted a place. This place. I wanted a house. This house. I wanted this view, this sea, this island. My uncle wanted to die on it. I wanted to live on it. It's the only real passion I've ever known. And I wasn't going to let a nymphomaniac second-rate actress take it from me.'

'And so you killed her?'

He refilled her glass and his own, then looked at her. She had the feeling that he was measuring something, her probable response, his need to confide, perhaps even how much time remained to them. He smiled, and the smile was one of genuine amusement which almost broke into a laugh.

'My dear Cordelia! Do you really believe that you're sitting here, sipping Chateau Margaux with a murderer! I congratulate you on your sang-froid. No, I didn't kill her. I thought you understood that. I haven't that brand of courage or ruthlessness. No, she was dead when I battered in her face. Someone had been there before me. She couldn't feel it, you see. Nothing matters, nothing exists as long as you can't feel it. It. wasn't living flesh that I beat into a pulp. It wasn't Clarissa.'

But, of course. What had made her so blind? She had reasoned all this out before. Clarissa must have been dead when he raised the marble limb and brought it down, the limb of a dead princess who, by chance, had borne the same name as that other child who, more than a century later, had died uncomforted by her mother in a London hospital bed. He said:

'There was no upward spurt of blood. How could there be? She was already dead. It isn't so very difficult to strike when the kill has been made. No blood, no pain, no guilt. All I did was to cover up for the murderer. Admittedly my motive was mainly self-interest. I needed to find and destroy that vital scrap of newsprint. I knew that it would be somewhere in the room. That was one of her little tricks, to keep it near her, to take it out of her handbag occasionally and pretend to read the review. But you should credit me with some disinterested concern for the killer. It pleased me to concoct for him a way of escape if he had the guts to take it. After all, I did owe him something.'

'She could have taken photocopies of the photograph.'

'Perhaps, although it wasn't likely. And what would it matter if she had? They'd be found with her effects at home, trivia to be thrown away with the detritus of her essentially trivial life, the half-used jars of face cream, the dead love-letters, the hoarded theatre programmes. And even if George Ralston had found it and realized its significance – an unlikely eventuality – he wouldn't have done anything. George wouldn't have seen it as his business to do the work of the Inland Revenue. I came back here for one day and one night to be with a dying man. Would you, or anyone you know, use that knowledge to inform on me?'

'No.'

'And will you now?'

'I must. It's different now. I have to tell, not the tax people, the police. I have to.'

'Oh, no you don't, Cordelia! No you don't! Don't try to fool yourself that you no longer have the responsibility of choice.'

She didn't answer. He leaned forward and refilled her glass.

'It wasn't the possibility of other copies that worried me. What I couldn't risk was the police finding that one copy, and in her room. And I knew that, if it were there to find, then they'd find it. They'd be looking for a motive. Everything in that room would be collected, docketed, scrutinized, examined. There was a chance, of course, that they'd take the cutting at its face value, a critic's notice kept for purely sentimental reasons. But why that particular notice, a not very important play in a provincial theatre? It's never safe to rely on the stupidity of the police.'

She said with great sadness: 'So it was Simon. Poor Simon! Where is he now?'

'In his room. Perfectly safe, I assure you. Don't you want to know what happened?'

'But he couldn't have planned it! Not Simon. He couldn't have meant it.'

'Planned it, no. Meant it? Who's to say what he meant? She's just as dead, isn't she, whatever he meant? What he told me was that she invited him to her room. He was to say that he was going for a swim, put on his swimming-trunks under his jeans and shirt, wait until thirty minutes after she'd gone to rest, then knock three times at the door. She'd let him in. She said there was something she wanted to talk to him about. There was, of course. Herself. Whatever else did Clarissa ever want to talk about? He, poor deluded fool, thought she was going to tell him that he could go to the Royal College, that she'd pay for his musical education.'

'But why send for Simon? Why him?'

'Ah, that I doubt whether we shall ever know. But I can make a guess. Clarissa liked to make love before a performance. Perhaps it gave her confidence, perhaps it was a necessary release of tension, perhaps she only knew of one way to stop herself thinking.'

'But Simon! That boy! She couldn't have wanted him!'

'Perhaps not. Perhaps, this time, she only wanted to talk, wanted companionship. And, with all respect to you, my dear Cordelia, she had never looked to a woman for that. But she may have thought that she was doing him a service in more ways than one. Clarissa is totally incapable of believing that a man exists – a normal man anyway – who wouldn't take her if he could get her. And to do her justice, my sex hasn't done much to disabuse her of the idea. And what better time for Simon to begin his privileged education than on a warm afternoon after, I pride myself, an excellent luncheon and when she needed a new sensation, a divertissement to take her mind off the performance ahead? And who else was there? George, poor chivalrous booby, would lie to the death to protect her reputation, but my guess is that he hasn't touched her since he discovered that he's a cuckold. I'm no use to her. And Whittingham? Well, Ivo has had his turn. And can you imagine her wanting him even if he had the strength? It would be like handling the dry skin of death, infecting your tongue with the taste of death, smelling corruption in your nostrils. Given dear Clarissa's peculiar needs, who was there but Simon?' 'But it's horrible!'