“That,” said Miss Emily’s voice, “is a very unhappy creature.”

She had joined Alleyn without attracting his notice.

“Why?” he asked. “What’s the matter with her?”

“No doubt her animal of a husband ill-treats her.”

“She’s a beautiful woman,” Alleyn said. He found himself quoting from — surely? — an inappropriate source, “ ’Look what she does now. See how she rubs her hands!’ ” and Miss Emily replied at once: “ ’It is an accustomed action with her to seem thus washing her hands.”

“Good Heavens!” Alleyn exclaimed. “What do we think we’re talking about?”

Margaret Barrimore raised her head and instinctively they both drew back. Alleyn walked away from the window and then, with a glance at Miss Emily, turned back to it.

“She has controlled herself,” said Miss Emily. “She is gathering her flowers. She is a woman of character, that one.”

In a short time Mrs. Barrimore had filled her basket and returned to the house.

“Was she very friendly,” he asked, “with Miss Cost?”

“No. I believe, on the contrary, there was a certain animosity. On Cost’s part. Not, as far as I could see, upon Mrs. Barrimore’s. Cost,” said Miss Emily, “was, I judged, a spiteful woman. It is a not unusual phenomenon among spinsters of Cost’s years and class. I am glad to say I was not conscious, at her age, of any such emotion. My sister Fanny, in her extravagant fashion, used to say I was devoid of the mating instinct. It may have been so.”

“Were you never in love, Miss Emily?”

“That,” said Miss Emily, “is an entirely different matter.”

“Is it?”

“In any case it is neither here nor there. What do you wish me to do, Rodrigue? Am I to remain in this place?” She examined him. “I think you are disturbed upon this point,” she said.

Alleyn thought: She’s sharp enough to see I’m worried about her, and yet she can’t see why. Or can she?

He said: “It’s a difficult decision. If you go back to London I’m afraid I shall be obliged to keep in touch and bother you with questions and you may have to return. There will be an inquest, of course. I don’t know if you will be called. You may be.”

“With whom does the decision rest?”

“Primarily, with the police.”

“With you, then?”

“Yes. It rests upon our report. Usually the witnesses called at an inquest are the persons who found the body — me, in this instance — together with the investigating officers, the pathologist and anyone who saw or spoke to the deceased shortly before the event. Or anyone else who the police believe can throw light on the circumstances. Do you think,” he asked, “you can do that?”

Miss Emily looked disconcerted. It was the first time, he thought, that he had ever seen her at a loss.

“No,” she said. “I think not.”

“Miss Emily, do you believe that Wally Trehern came back after you had left the enclosure, saw Miss Cost under her umbrella, crept up to the boulder by a roundabout way (there’s plenty of cover) and threw down the rock, thinking he threw it on you?”

“How could that be? How could he get in? The enclosure was locked.”

“He may have had a disk, you know.”

“What would be done to him?”

“Nothing very dreadful. He would probably be sent to an institution.”

She moved about the room with an air of indecision that reminded him, disturbingly, of Mrs. Barrimore. “I can only repeat,” she said at last, “what I know. I saw him. He cried out and then hid himself. That is all.”

“I think we may ask you to say that at the inquest.”

“And in the meantime?”

“In the meantime, perhaps we should compromise. There is, I’m told, a reasonably good hotel in the hills outside Dunlowman. If I can arrange for you to stay there will you do so? The inquest may be held in Dunlowman. It would be less of a fuss for you than returning from London.”

“It’s inadvisable for me to remain here?”

“Very inadvisable.”

“So be it,” said Miss Emily. His relief was tempered by a great uneasiness. He had never known her so tractable before.

“I’ll telephone the hotel,” he said. “And Troy, if I may,” he added with a sigh.

“Had I taken your advice and remained in London, this would not have happened.”

He was hunting through the telephone book. “That,” he said, “is a prime example of utterly fruitless speculation. I am surprised at you, Miss Emily.” He dialled the number. The Manor Court Hotel would have a suite vacant at five o’clock the next day. There would also be a small single room. There had been cancellations. He booked the suite. “You can go over in the morning,” he said, “and lunch there. It’s the best wè can do. Will you stay indoors today, please?”

“I have given up this room.”

“I don’t think there will be any difficulty.”

“People are leaving?”

“I daresay some will do so.”

“Oh,” she said, “I am so troubled, my dear. I am so troubled.”

This, more than anything else she had said, being completely out of character, moved and disturbed him. He sat her down and because she looked unsettled and alien in her travelling toque, carefully removed it. “There,” he said, “and I haven’t disturbed the coiffure. Now, you look more like my favourite old girl.”

“That is no way to address me,” said Miss Emily. “You forget yourself.”

He unbuttoned her gloves and drew them off. “Should I blow in them?” he asked. “Or would that be bourgeois?”

He saw, with dismay, that she was fighting back tears.

There was a tap at the door. Jenny Williams opened it and looked in. “Are you receiving?” she asked and then saw Alleyn. “Sorry,” she said. “I’ll come back later.”

“Come in,” Alleyn said. “She may, mayn’t she, Miss Emily?”

“By all means. Come in, Jennifer.”

Jenny gave Alleyn a look. He said: “We’ve been discussing appropriate action to be taken by Miss Emily,” and told her what he had arranged.

Jenny said: “Can’t the hotel take her today?” And then hurried on: “Wouldn’t you like to be shot of the Island as soon as possible, Miss Pride? It’s been a horrid business, hasn’t it?”

“I’m afraid they’ve nothing until tomorrow,” Alleyn said.

“Well then, wouldn’t London be better, after all? It’s so anticlimaxy to gird up one’s loins and then un-gird them. Miss Pride, if you’d at all like me to, I’d love to go with you for the train journey.”

“You are extremely kind, dear child. Will you excuse me for a moment. I have left my handkerchief in my bedroom, I think.”

Jenny, about to fetch it, caught Alleyn’s eye and stopped short. Alleyn opened the door for Miss Emily and shut it again.

He said quickly: “What’s happened? Talk?”

“She mustn’t go out. Can’t we get her away? Yes. Talk. Beastly, unheard-of, filthy talk. She mustn’t know. God!” said Jenny. “How I hate people!”

“She’s staying indoors all day.”

“Has she any idea what they’ll be saying?”

“I don’t know. She’s upset. She’s gone in there to blow her nose and pull herself together. Look. Would you go with her to Dunlowman? It’ll only be a few days. As a job?”

“Yes, of course. Job be blowed.”

“Well, as her guest. She wouldn’t hear of anything else.”

“All right. If she wants me. She might easily not.”

“Go out on a pretense message for me and come back in five minutes. I’ll fix it.”

“O.K.”

“You’re a darling, Miss Williams.”

Jenny pulled a grimace and went out.

When Miss Emily returned she was in complete control of herself. Alleyn said Jenny had gone down to leave a note for him at the office. He said he’d had an idea. Jenny, he understood from Miss Emily herself, was hard up and had to take holiday jobs to enable her to stay in England. Why not offer her one as companion for as long as the stay in Dunlowman lasted?”

“She would not wish it. She is the guest of the Barrimores and the young man is greatly attached.”

“I think she feels she’d like to get away,” Alleyn lied. “She said as much to me.”