The other two were coming back up the beach with the wet dogs.

"Don't know how he can do that," said Cecil. "It's devilish cold in that water."

"Oh, you know Pat," said Woolton. "He'd do anything if it made him look good in front of the girls."

Verity sighed and took another piece of shortbread from her tin.

A short distance away, a man lay on his back with a newspaper over his face. On the front page was a photograph of a small plane in a cloudy, moonlit sky.

The evening kicked off with c.o.c.ktails on the veranda, followed by halibut with green beans and then rice pudding, courtesy of Horace and Mrs. Horace, and then party games. First they played a literary game in which they took it in turns to pluck a book from Woolton's shelves. They all had to write fake opening lines and try to guess which was the real one. Protests that O'Connell had an unfair advantage proved ill-founded when it transpired he was completely unable to conceal his distinctive style.

Next was a taste-and-identify compet.i.tion, in which Woolton had them all sampling a wide array of liqueurs and trying to label them correctly. n.o.body was any good at this, and all were thoroughly drunk by the end.

An attempt at charades dissolved rapidly in laughter when Cecil acted out the entire plot of Wuthering Heights Wuthering Heights with an energy and seriousness which simply couldn't be bettered or even tolerated. The game was swiftly abandoned in favor of hide-and-seek outside, with the sea hissing and shushing behind it all. with an energy and seriousness which simply couldn't be bettered or even tolerated. The game was swiftly abandoned in favor of hide-and-seek outside, with the sea hissing and shushing behind it all.

The garden was wild and sprawling. It sloped sharply away, all long gra.s.s, bindweed, dog roses and briars, and sprawled down to an old wooden fence, ten yards or so from the cliff edge. Ragged trees, strung with faded and torn Chinese lanterns from some long-ago party, leaned at impossible angles. Up nearer the house the ground was flatter, and the gra.s.s shorn back. A stone fountain, long since defunct, sat centrally. Beside it, a burned, ash-ridden s.p.a.ce where someone had recently played at campfires.

Back and forth through the garden they ran squealingly, hiding in trees, down among the gra.s.s and behind bushes. Stopping only to drink more, and perhaps to tilt their heads back and gaze up at the clear, limitless, starry sky. Darting behind an old potting shed, Grace collided with O'Connell, who grabbed her and kissed her hard. Whispered, "I've been waiting all day to be alone with you."

"Have you?" Grace was giddy.

"You know I have. This bunch-they're such children. They're driving me crazy."

"Really? I thought they were your old and dear friends..."

"You were right, Grace. We should have gone away on our own. All I want now is to be alone with you."

"Do you?"

He kissed her again, more softly this time.

When they came apart, she smiled. "You needn't worry. I'm having a fine old time. I admit I found Woolton and company rather tricky at first. But now I've worked it all out, I've decided I like them."

"Worked it all out?"

"They're in love with you. Not just the women. Sam and Cecil, too. They're all besotted."

O'Connell laughed. Shook his head.

"They're suspicious of me because I'm the outsider," she continued. "The interloper. They resent letting me into their little club, but they know they have to if they don't want to risk losing you. It's all perfectly reasonable and understandable when you think it through."

He kissed her neck. "Is it true that Cramer asked you to go away with him? I mean really, honestly true?"

She took a moment before replying. She'd spoken on impulse this morning, and in anger. She'd regretted mentioning Cramer almost as soon as she'd spoken. And yet it might be just as well if O'Connell wasn't entirely sure of her. It wouldn't hurt him to find out what it felt like to dangle just a little.

"What do you think?" she said.

For a time they stood there silently, holding each other, leaning against the shed wall, which was covered in thick ivy. Listening to each other's breathing, feeling the beating of each other's heart. She imagined them staying there, forever, like statues, as the ivy grew over them, wrapped them in its tendrils, took possession of them.

It was Grace who eventually broke the dream. "It's all gone rather quiet, wouldn't you say?"

"I suppose so." He stroked her hair. "Why don't we take a walk together? We could go down to the beach like we planned to this morning."

"Oh yes, let's. I'll just fetch my wrap."

She knew she'd left the wrap-a silk one, all pink and gold, Oriental, with a long fringe-slung over the back of her chair after dinner. But when she looked, it wasn't there. Neither was it up in the bedroom. Returning to the lounge to check for it, she found Babs at the drinks table, pouring gin into a highball gla.s.s. Reaching for a second.

"Have a gin fizz with me, Grace?"

"Actually I was just going off for a walk with O'Connell."

"Funny how you call him that." Babs squeezed lemon juice into both gla.s.ses and added sugar. "I thought he was Pat to everyone. Go on. He can wait a few minutes. Anyway, I've poured it now." She added a squirt from the soda siphon to each gla.s.s.

"Well..." But she'd already taken a gla.s.s. Hadn't she decided it was a good thing for O'Connell to dangle a little, after all?

"Chin-chin." Babs raised hers and they clinked. Then she sat down on the sofa and patted the seat beside her. "I absolutely adore adore your column, Grace. Oh, something's wrong. Was that a faux pas?" your column, Grace. Oh, something's wrong. Was that a faux pas?"

Grace winced. "It's just that you shouldn't know it's me who writes it. I don't tell people."

"Oh, that naughty Pat!" Babs shook her head. "He wanted us to be impressed with you. Don't worry, though, darling. Your secret's safe with me. And Cecil, of course."

"And Verity and Sam..." She was thinking too about all those other people who'd found out about Diamond Sharp lately. Sheridan, Cramer, Margaret, Henry Pearson...

They both sipped. The drinks were very strong.

"So, you've known Pat a long time, then?" prompted Grace.

"Oh, I should say. Years and years. Practically as long as I've known Cecil. We have a sort of...enduring understanding, he and I."

The implication-that Barbara and "Pat" had at one time been lovers or had at least considered the possibility-was clear. Just how recently would this have taken place? She imagined O'Connell still hanging about the garden, waiting impatiently for her. Dangling..."And John Cramer?"

"It's as I told you earlier. They were both at Yale with Cecil. I knew them all when they were merely young slips of lads." She frowned. "Can one talk about someone being a 'slip of a lad'? Or is the expression just for a 'slip of a girl'?"

"Perhaps you could call them striplings?" said Grace. "I can imagine them as 'striplings.'"

A light smile. "How exactly do you know John?"

Grace took a big gulp of the gin. "He's a friend of my sister's."

"They're quite something, those two boys. Both of them special. She She couldn't choose between them, certainly. You know who I mean. I don't like to say her name. And then, even after it was all decided and she was married to John, she couldn't leave Pat alone." couldn't choose between them, certainly. You know who I mean. I don't like to say her name. And then, even after it was all decided and she was married to John, she couldn't leave Pat alone."

They both looked at Barbara's reflection in the French windows. She was one of those women who never simply "sit." They're aware, all the time, of their own dramatic effect, continually striking a pose.

"Did you know her well?" asked Grace.

"Not really. She wasn't my type at all. Mad as a hatter, always was. Men are so stupid, aren't they, to fall for that sort of girl? She was beautiful, of course. And often very entertaining. It was that unpredictable streak that got the boys hooked. She was a bit dangerous." She eyed Grace over her highball gla.s.s. "No common sense or caution and she didn't really care what happened to her or anyone else. Always going too far. That was why she ended up being locked away so much. That and the black moods and the potty fantasies." Babs emptied her gla.s.s. "Another?"

Grace nodded. Pa.s.sed her gla.s.s over.

Babs poured. "Really, Grace, if you knew the half of it. Her plan, in my view, was to use her suicide to cause the biggest amount of trouble that she could. For both both of them. When I think of her sitting there in that clinic of hers plotting and scheming-well, it makes my blood boil." of them. When I think of her sitting there in that clinic of hers plotting and scheming-well, it makes my blood boil."

It was on the tip of Grace's tongue to remark that Eva must have had other things on her mind, but what would be the point in saying that? She hadn't known Eva, after all. Why should she go jumping to her defense? Better to draw Barbara out further on other matters. She was clearly in the mood for gossip after all...

"So, being around Pat and John for all these years, you must have seen a lot of women come and go..."

A chuckle. "I should say. Probably enough to fill Wembley Stadium." But then she eyed Grace thoughtfully. "Pat's women have been purely recreational. There's been n.o.body serious since her her. Not until you, that is..."

Grace felt herself blushing and gazed down into her gla.s.s. Somewhere in the distance, a strange unworldly melody was unfurling itself.

"...As for John's women-well, with him it was a more desperate sort of escapism. Went hand in hand with the drink."

"Bit of a womanizer, is he?"

A smile. The kind that comes from toying with a treasured memory. "'Womanizer' is such an unpleasant word. What's your interest, anyway? Does your sister have her eye on him?"

"Possibly. Should I be warning her off?"

"Oh, I shouldn't think there's any need for that. Our John may have strayed rather close to the edge but he's drawn right back, I can tell you. These days he's sober and well behaved to the point of being, frankly, rather dull."

"I see." Grace felt herself scrutinized closely. Too closely.

Babs put a hand on her shoulder and turned to check her reflection in the French windows. Pose: elegant woman giving confidential advice to young, inexperienced friend. "At least there's two of them and two of you this time."

"I'm sorry?"

"No need to get all tangled up again, eh?"

The peculiar tune in Grace's ears was growing louder. It was as if someone was wandering about the garden playing on pipes. She imagined, briefly, that O'Connell was doing just that. Striding c.o.c.kily around in the moonlight, piping away like an overgrown Pan...

Barbara's face wore an expression which hovered at some indeterminate position between concerned and wryly amused.

"What has Pat told you about my sister and me?"

But Babs had risen quickly to her feet and crossed to the French windows. "Oh G.o.d!" She was peering out into the garden. "Do you hear it? Sam's at it again. And after all those promises. Come on, we'd better go out."

In the next instant, Grace's hand was grabbed and she was half led, half dragged out to the garden, where the most curious spectacle was taking place.

Samuel Woolton was reclining, entirely naked, in the bough of a horse chestnut tree, playing on a set of panpipes. His pointed goatee, the dark hair on his body, the paleness of his skin in the moonlight and the proudly erect phallus (from which both women quickly averted their gaze) made him resemble some mythical G.o.d or creature. Priapus, perhaps, crossed with a faun.

Around the disused fountain danced Verity Woolton. She was wearing only her underwear, and was draped about with Grace's Oriental wrap. Her pirouettes were almost balletic, but for the wobbles and the odd capering. Even in the darkness of the garden, one could discern her bulbous ever-startled gaze.

"I wouldn't mind so much if he could actually play a half-decent tune." Barbara's tone was withering. "Or if she could dance remotely well. Perhaps, if I tried some of the stuff they're so fond of, he really would would seem tuneful and she graceful." She raised her voice to a dry, ash-ridden shout: "Sam, do come down, there's a pet! Verity, seem tuneful and she graceful." She raised her voice to a dry, ash-ridden shout: "Sam, do come down, there's a pet! Verity, please please..." Then something seemed to occur to her and she began to turn this way and that, looking all about her. "Cecil? Where the devil...Cecil!"

She was interrupted by a resonant, "Tally-ho!" and a glimpse of pink flesh and fast-moving little legs as Cecil went darting back and forth between the trees, as naked as Sam Woolton, the bald head glinting.

"Heavens!" Babs was flushed. "Cecil, for goodness' sake, stop it and put some clothes on. We've seen it all before, darling, and we don't want to see it again."

But the shout came back: "b.u.g.g.e.r off, you old hag!" For a few seconds he was freeze-framed, standing still in the moonlight, between two trees. A squat Bacchus with pink hairless chest and overhanging belly. Letting out a huge whoop, he ran, full pelt, down the hill, vaulting clean over the back fence and disappearing entirely from view.

"Oh, G.o.d," said Grace. "The cliff..."

The piping came to an abrupt halt. Babs. .h.i.tched up her dress and ran after Cecil, almost colliding with her sister as she went. Grace followed in her wake, as a flaccid Sam climbed down from the tree, and as Verity pulled Grace's wrap more closely about her and a.s.sumed a forlorn look.

Climbing over the fence, Grace found Babs standing alone, gazing over the edge. "Oh no...Is he..."

Babs, ignoring her, put her hands on her hips and bellowed, "You fool! What did you think you were doing doing?"

Arriving beside her, Grace looked down. The view wasn't quite so dramatic as she'd feared. The sea was black and foamy where it lapped over the sharp rocks on its bed, but the initial drop was only about ten feet, down to a gra.s.sy ledge. Cecil was sitting on this ledge, clutching his ankle.

"Sorry, darling." His face, as he gazed up, was abject. "Beautiful night, wouldn't you say? Bit cold now though..."

Babs turned to Grace. "This is so embarra.s.sing."

"Don't be silly. He's all right. That's the main thing."

"Not when I've finished with him, he won't be. Cecil, you'd better get yourself back up here right away."

The face below twisted into a grimace. "Not sure I can, my sweet. Think I might have broken my ankle."

"You blithering idiot!" Babs turned back to Grace, and her eyes softened with worry. "Now what do we do?"

Woolton, clad in a tartan dressing gown, climbed over the fence. He was carrying an identical dressing gown, which he flung down to Cecil. "Here you are, old chap. Cover up the...old chap, there's a good fellow." Then, turning back to the group, he announced, "I shall climb down and bring him up!"

"You most certainly will not." Verity had appeared beside them. She had Grace's wrap over her head and was clutching it tightly about her, a sort of pink-and-gold widow in mourning. "Or there'll be two of you to be rescued."

"Perhaps we should ring for the fire brigade?" Grace suggested. "Or the police?"

"The police? Here?" Woolton's voice rose to a squeak. "Over my dead body!"

"For goodness' sakes!" Verity appeared to have sobered up rapidly. "Go and get the ladder, Sam. Just go and get the ladder."

Woolton scrambled off. After a few minutes, and just as Grace was wondering what on earth had happened to O'Connell, a cheerful whistling rang out. It was O'Connell, a ladder balanced on his shoulder, calling merrily, "Anyone want their windows cleaned?" Sam trotted along beside him.

Together, and with a certain amount of drunken fumbling, they extended the ladder down the cliffside. Sam and Grace knelt down and gripped the top as firmly as they could to keep it steady, while O'Connell climbed down to Cecil.

"It's not broken," O'Connell announced, feeling the ankle. "A sprain at worst."

"It hurts a lot though." Cecil seemed annoyed at the demotion of his injury. "I don't think it'll take my weight."

With difficulty, O'Connell hoisted Cecil over his shoulder in a fireman's lift, and, grunting, began slowly to ascend the ladder while Grace and Woolton struggled to keep it in position. Eventually, a groaning Cecil was deposited on safe ground, and O'Connell stood brushing himself down.

"It's like carrying a very heavy bride over a very steep threshold."

"Oh, Pat, you're our hero." Verity clasped her hands together.

O'Connell was looking oddly at Grace. "Just how much do you weigh, Miss Rutherford? Let's try, shall we? Be sure I can manage when the time comes to carry you you over the threshold." Ignoring her protests, he grabbed her around the legs and threw her over his shoulder, proclaiming, "Oh, she's a mere feather after that lump!" over the threshold." Ignoring her protests, he grabbed her around the legs and threw her over his shoulder, proclaiming, "Oh, she's a mere feather after that lump!"

The blood rushed to Grace's head and she beat with her fists against his back. "Put me-"