‘Well, it’s been a number of years, you see, since –’

‘You’re well known to the Bloomsbury group, for instance?’

Michael frowned. ‘The … Bloomsbury –?’

‘We haven’t corresponded for some years, to my regret, but Virginia and I were very close, at one time. And dear Winifred, of course. Winifred Holtby. You’re familiar with her work?’

‘Yes, I –’

‘You know, if it would help you at all in your career, I could quite easily supply you with a number of introductions. I have a certain amount of influence with Mr Eliot. In fact the truth of it is, if you can keep a secret’ (and here she lowered her voice to a whisper) ‘I’m told that he has quite a crush on me.’

‘You mean – T.S. Eliot?’ Michael faltered. ‘Author of The Waste Land?’

Tabitha let out a bright, musical laugh.

‘Why, you silly boy!’ she said. ‘Hadn’t you heard: he’s been dead for years!’

He joined in her laughter uncertainly. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘I hope you’re not trying to tease an old lady,’ she said, poking him playfully in the ribs with a knitting needle.

‘Who, me? Of course not.’

‘My reference,’ she explained, her eyes still twinkling at the joke, ‘was to Mr George Eliot. Author of Middlemarch and Mill on the Floss.’

Tabitha took up her ball of wool and began knitting again, smiling benignly all the while. She was only able to bring an end to Michael’s dumbfounded silence by introducing an abrupt change of subject.

‘Ever flown a Tornado?’

∗

Supper at Winshaw Towers that night was not a cheerful meal, consisting as it did of cold meat, pickles, cheese and an indifferent Chablis. They were only eight at table: Henry and Mark chose to remain in an upstairs room, watching the news on television. They both seemed to think that an announcement of American air strikes against Saddam Hussein might be imminent. The others all sat together at one end of the long table in the dining room, which was draughty and inhospitable. The radiators were not working, for some reason, and the electric chandelier was lacking several bulbs. They ate for some minutes in near-silence. Michael did not feel that he could initiate a private conversation with Phoebe in these circumstances, and the Winshaws themselves appeared to have little enough to say to one another. Meanwhile the constant howling of the wind, and the hammering of rain against the windowpanes, did nothing to raise anybody’s spirits.

The monotony was broken, at last, by the sound of heavy knocking upon the front door. Shortly afterwards they could hear the door being opened, and there were voices in the hall. Then Pyles shuffled into the dining room, where he informed the assembly as a whole: ‘There’s a gentleman outside, says he’s a policeman.’

Michael thought this a most dramatic announcement, but the others evinced no particular interest. It was finally Dorothy, seated nearest to the door, who got up and said: ‘Better have a word with him, I suppose.’

Michael followed her into the hall, where they were met by Mark, coming down the Great Staircase.

‘What’s all this about, then?’ he said.

A thickly bearded, beetle-browed figure of indeterminate age, his policeman’s uniform soaked through with the rain, introduced himself as Sergeant Kendall of the village constabulary.

‘By crimes!’ he exclaimed, his local accent almost impenetrable to Michael’s ear. ‘It’s a night when we’d all want to be tucked up safely at home, and no business to take us out of doors.’

‘What can we do for you, Sergeant?’ Dorothy asked.

‘Well, I’ve no wish to alarm you, Madam,’ the policeman said, ‘but I thought it best you were warned.’

‘Warned? About what?’

‘You have a Miss Tabitha Winshaw staying with you tonight, I believe.’

‘We do, yes. Is there any harm in that?’

‘Well you know, I suppose, that at the … hospital where Miss Winshaw usually resides, a number of highly dangerous cases – mental patients, you understand – are also held, under conditions of absolute security.’

‘What of it?’

‘It seems there was a break-out this afternoon, and one of these patients escaped – a murderous cut-throat, no less: a killer without mercy or remorse. By crimes! The life of the man unlucky enough to cross his path on a night like this would not be worth an hour’s purchase!’

‘But surely, Sergeant, the Institute lies more than twenty miles away. This incident, distressing though it may be, can hardly concern us.’

‘I’m very much afraid that it does. You see, the vehicle of his escape, we believe, was the very same car which brought Miss Winshaw here tonight. The cunning fellow must have concealed himself in the boot. Which means, in all probability, that he’s still somewhere hereabouts. He can’t have got far, in this weather.’

‘Let me get this straight, Sergeant,’ said Mark Winshaw. ‘Are you telling us, in effect, that there’s a homicidal maniac at loose in the grounds?’

‘That’s about the size of it, sir.’

‘And how would you advise that we adapt ourselves to this regrettable state of affairs?’

‘Well, there’s no need to panic, sir. That would be my first advice. Don’t panic, whatever you do. Simply take the precaution of locking all the doors to the house – bolt them, too, if you can – set a few dogs out to roam the gardens, fortify yourselves with whatever guns and firearms you happen to have about the place, and make sure there’s a light burning in every room. But whatever you do, don’t panic. These creatures can sense fear, you know. They can smell it.’ Having thus reassured them, he set his cap firmly on his head and made for the door. ‘I’d better be getting along, now, if you don’t mind. My colleague’s waiting for me out in the car; and we’ve several more houses to visit tonight.’

After seeing him out – and letting in a torrent of rain and swirling leaves in the process – Mark, Dorothy and Michael returned to the dining room to inform the others of this extraordinary news.

‘Well, that just about puts the tin lid on a delightful evening,’ said Hilary. ‘Now we get to spend the night here with Norman Bates for company, do we?’

‘There might, even now, be time to leave,’ Mr Sloane murmured, ‘if anyone cares to try it.’

‘I may well take you up on that,’ said Dorothy.

‘I can’t believe that one of my neighbours would ever do such nasty things,’ said Tabitha, half to herself. ‘They all seem such quiet and pleasant people.’

Several of her relatives snorted at this point.

‘Incidentally, you know, you mightn’t be far wrong,’ Michael remarked, turning towards Hilary. ‘I don’t know about Norman Bates, but of course there are films where this sort of thing happens.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, like The Cat and the Canary, for instance. Did anybody see that?’

‘I know it,’ said Thomas. ‘Bob Hope and Paulette Goddard.’

‘That’s right. All the members of a family are summoned to an isolated old house for the reading of a will. There’s a terrible storm. And a police officer turns up to warn them that there’s a killer in the area.’

‘And what happens to the members of this family?’ asked Phoebe, looking directly at Michael for the first time.

‘They’re murdered,’ he said calmly. ‘One by one.’

The crash of thunder which followed this statement was louder than ever. It was succeeded by a long pause. Michael’s words seemed to have had a powerful effect: only Hilary remained determinedly unimpressed.

‘Well, to be honest, I don’t see what we’ve got to be worried about,’ she said. ‘After all, you’re the only one who’s been attacked so far.’

‘Oh, come on,’ said Michael. ‘We all know that that was an accident. Surely you’re not suggesting –’

‘Do you mind?’ Roddy now broke in abruptly. ‘I’m beginning to find the tenor of this conversation almost as tasteless as this confounded Stilton.’