‘Very well then, Miss Rushton. Now we will get on to Tuesday.’

  She had to be prompted. She was shaken by the easy way he had manoeuvred her, the more so because it was done so perfunctorily and as though her attempted concealments were of no moment to him. She was humiliated, she felt helpless. She realized now how unprepared she was. The inspector was perhaps but an average detective but he was using a method that surprised and defeated her.

  ‘So you joined the yacht at about half past eleven?’

  ‘Yes . . . about then. It was nearly eleven when I set out . . . I stopped to talk to someone I knew.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘George. He’s an angler on a houseboat.’ Why did her interrogators exchange glances when she mentioned that name?

  ‘He would be a friend of yours, would he?’

  ‘Yes . . . no, he’s just an acquaintance.’

  ‘How much of an acquaintance?’

  ‘Does it matter? He lends me books.’

  ‘What is his name, Miss Rushton?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s just George.’

  They exchanged further looks; the inspector shrugged, then nodded. Again she had the bewildering expression that what she had uttered was unexpectedly significant. Did they know something about George? Was it damning to be his acquaintance? Both were looking at her with calculation, the younger man no longer bored. She felt her nausea returning. God, what had she got mixed up in?

  ‘Who was on board the yacht when you joined it?’

  ‘Simon . . . all of them except Woody.’

  ‘And where was he?’

  ‘I don’t know. He was out in the launch.’

  ‘Where was Keith Lea-Stephens?’

  ‘He was there. He took in sail for me. Then he came and sat with us . . . we were all sitting under the awning.’

  ‘Can you remember the conversation?’

  She pummelled her brain for some vestige of it. As far as she could recall it had no bearing on what happened to Keith. ‘We talked about the racing . . . about the yachts that were taking part. Then Simon suggested that we enter Lutestring in a race.’

  ‘That who should enter it?’

  ‘Keith and myself.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘No. I hadn’t done any racing.’

  ‘But you went out in it later, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes. I was coming to that. I thought I would go for a spin in the dinghy, then Simon . . . he wanted to take photographs of Lutestring.’

  ‘I would like to get that clear. You were going for a sail in your dinghy. You invited Keith Lea-Stephens to go with you, did you?’

  ‘No! I was going on my own.’

  ‘And then Mr Lea-Stephens made a counter suggestion?’

  ‘Yes. He asked me to take Lutestring so that he could get photographs of her sailing.’

  ‘And you invited Keith Lea-Stephens to go with you?’

  ‘No . . . that is, I needed someone to crew me.’

  ‘And Keith Lea-Stephens offered himself?’

  ‘Well . . . yes, he was willing.’

  ‘In fact, his uncle suggested it?’

  ‘I couldn’t take Lutestring without a crew.’

  ‘I see. Now about the photographs. They were taken at long-range, were they?’

  ‘They were . . . some of them were . . .’

  ‘You mean there were others taken at closer range?’

  ‘Yes. I came in close for some of them.’

  ‘Mr Lea-Stephens requested that?’

  ‘Yes . . . he was leaning over the rail, taking shots from above . . .’

  By now she had given up trying to follow the aim of the questions. Her surrender of her own judgement as to what was relevant was complete. She had a dull sensation that she was playing a part in a drama of which she was ignorant, that all she had observed and surmised was ludicrously wrong and off the mark. She sat with her head slightly drooping. She felt beaten and worthless.

  ‘What happened after Mr Lea-Stephens had finished taking the photographs?’

  ‘We went sailing . . . about the Broad. Up the channel towards Alderford.’

  ‘You moored, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, we moored . . . at a staithe with a boathouse. Then we went to look at a yacht. An old yacht, in the boathouse . . .’

  ‘On the north side of the channel?’

  ‘On the right-hand side. Going up.’

  ‘That would be Tanner’s Moorings.’ He paused to glance at another of the sheets. ‘Did you see anyone there? Any boat that you knew?’

  ‘I saw Simon in the launch . . . you must have it in his statement.’

  ‘I would rather you answered my questions, Miss Rushton. Did you form an opinion as to what he was doing?’

  ‘I . . . no. He was just out having a spin in the launch.’

  ‘He wasn’t spying on you?’

  ‘I didn’t say that!’

  ‘He ignored you completely?’

  ‘No, but I wouldn’t say . . .’

  ‘Then you saw someone else, did you?’

  She nodded her head stupidly. ‘Sam Fulcher. The man who wanted to be my gardener . . .’

  ‘And what was he doing?’

  ‘Just rowing. Watching us.’

  ‘You seem to have been the object of a great deal of attention, don’t you think?’

  It went on and on. She had never guessed what it would be like. The sheer repetition of the questions wore down every secondary emotion. They wanted to be told everything though they seemed to know it all beforehand, and in the end it appeared futile even to imagine concealing anything. Yet she did. She managed to preserve those intimate facts about herself and Keith. By no trap or forced admission did they succeed in drawing these from her. They insinuated in a dozen ways that he was much more than her friend, but she found the strength to lie, however little they might believe her. And finally (it seemed after hours, though in fact it was barely an hour) they dismissed her with a suspended sentence:

  ‘We would prefer you to hold yourself available, Miss Rushton.’

  She left the room feeling drained completely, scarcely understanding where she was. She heard a question murmured in Simon’s voice and shook her head. But she had only guessed what he had asked her.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  SHE HAD HER lunch blessedly alone. The others had already finished, and Simon had been called away to receive some instructions about the inquest. She ate mechanically, not noticing, her eyes fixed on the plate, her mind dazed and crushed and unable to think connectedly. So this was what it was like to be questioned by the police. To be reduced from an intelligent person to the status of an idiot. To be shown that one’s mind was not sacred and impregnable, but unless armed, wholly vulnerable to the common shrewdness of a trained interrogator. The image of the inspector’s casualness continued to float before her eyes. He had experienced no triumph, no complacency in trapping her. It was simply part of a routine that had been tried and proved effective, cold, scientific, a ready tool to dissect the mind. And how could one be armed against it? What was the formula of defence? At the moment this seemed more important than the death of Keith or anything else. What the inspector had got out of her was trivial but not the way in which he had done it, and she could see that it opened a door to the subjugation of human intelligence. Unless there was a defence, the mind’s integrity was jeopardized.

  But slowly these considerations faded before the more urgent facts of her situation. As she drank her coffee and smoked she began to shape her ideas more clearly. From the interrogation it was plain that the police were thinking as she had thought: that it was Simon who stood to gain and who might have engineered Keith’s death. Did they know the full facts of Simon’s relation with his father? Did they know as much as she, or were they better informed? There was one motive alone that stood up to scrutiny: this was what had emerged from the confused welter of facts. If Simon’s second row with his father had been sufficiently serious, then the size of the stake involved might well have tempted him to crime. And did the police know of that second quarrel? Would they be informed of it by Simon’s father?

  The more she thought about it the more her uncertainty grew intolerable. One way or another, she needed to know in what horror she had become entangled. It might yet be an innocent tragedy and the appearances illusive, but if it were not then she needed the truth: she wanted to face it for what it was. And the kernel of the matter lay in the quarrel, of this she was convinced: she must fathom the importance of that if she were to decide on Simon’s culpability.

  By the time the coffee cup was empty she had roused herself from her stupor. A definite line of inquiry had begun to shape in her mind. She must know more of Simon’s father before she could assess the significance of the quarrel. She marshalled together all she had heard of him. The picture that emerged was unfortunately hazy. He was stern, but not inhuman; he had rigid ideas, yet was polite and agreeable. He could inspire affection in Keith while being willing to sacrifice him to a selfish wish. He disliked actresses and promiscuity, yet could patch up a quarrel with a son on that score. He had built one of the major engineering firms and was absorbed by an ambition of continuing it in the family. This was all, as far as she could remember, and it was not enough for her purpose. The question in effect was one of intensity: was Simon’s father inflexible enough to disinherit Simon?

  She reviewed the sources for the possible augmenting of her knowledge: apart from Simon himself, there was only Dawn and Woody who had met the father. Jill too would doubtless have met him and would perhaps know as much about him as most, but Stella couldn’t see herself going to Simon’s secretary for information. Dawn’s twopenn’orth she already had, and Woody would be quick to smell a rat: he would simply clam up, and probably drop a hint to Simon. No: for information she would have to go outside Lazy Waters. An alternative source or two still remained for her to try. The head of Lea-Stephens Engineering would scarcely have escaped notice in books of reference, while there was a columnist she knew: and there was always Jenny. Jenny, Stella remembered thoughtfully, had seemed to know a good deal about Simon.

  She looked up: Simon was standing in the doorway, watching her. His face had been empty but now it broke into a weak smile. By a considerable effort she dissembled the revulsion she felt for him. She stubbed her cigarette energetically and rose from the table. He came into the room.

  ‘They have fixed the inquest for tomorrow at ten.’

  ‘Oh. Shall I be wanted?’

  ‘No, my dear. Only self and Jill.’ Then, noting her surprised look, he added petulantly: ‘Only evidence of identification. They’re keeping up this bloody farce.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He made a gesture. ‘I’m the one to be sorry. I feel an absolute swine, getting you into this pickle. I’m a bastard, Stella, you’d do better not to know me. They gave you hell in there, didn’t they? You came out white as paper.’

  ‘I can’t see how it was your fault.’

  He gave her a long, pregnant look. Oh God, she thought, he can read my mind too. Then he turned away with a sigh, took a step towards the window.

  ‘You don’t know me,’ he said slowly. ‘I really am a bastard, Stella.’

  She held her breath for a second, not daring to make a reply. It was too much like a confession and she found it throwing her into a panic. What should she do? What would be her position if he confessed? She wanted to know, but she realized fearfully that there could be danger in the knowledge. She said quickly:

  ‘I want . . . I am going to Norwich this afternoon.’

  He shrugged and faced her ruefully. ‘Right, my dear . . . you had better take the Metro.’

  ‘Thank you, but the bus will do, Simon.’

  ‘Nonsense. You don’t know our bus service. It’s sketchy and sometimes missing, and it’s misery to shop without a car.’

  She let it go at that and accepted the key from him. He went with her down to the garage and opened the door for her. The Metro was an HLS with its own row of badges, and she did her best to reverse it out smoothly and with a respect proper to Simon’s possessions.

  ‘You will be back for tea, my dear?’

  She nodded vaguely and closed her window. She could feel his eyes still fixed on the car as she drove it through the gates and on to the marsh road. Then she found she was breathing hard and was gripping the wheel like a learner driver.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  STELLA WAS UNFAMILIAR with Norwich, its one-way streets and medieval eccentricities, and her patience was a little tested before she located the Central Library. This was a curious building that suggested an unfinished factory, an uneasy neighbour of the city hall and the large church of St Peter Mancroft. Stella parked and went in; signs directed her to the reference wing. Here, from low shelves stocked with bright, fresh volumes, she selected the current Who’s Who and Directory of Directors.

  In the former there were entries both for Simon and his father, Simon’s paragraph being brief and extending only to six lines. His father had made more of an impression; his entry occupied half a column. Stella took it to a table where she could study it at leisure.

  He was Arthur Seymour Kincaid Lea-Stephens, KCB, DSO, the only son of a Yorkshire family, educated at York, Greshams and Peterhouse. He had residences in the West Riding, Mayfair and Juan les Pins, and had married a Juliet Denbigh by whom he had issue. During the Second World War he had served in a Guards regiment, with distinction. He had endowed a laboratory for metallurgical research. He was chairman of Lea-Stephens Engineering and its subsidiary companies and among his recreations were listed shooting, yachting and racing. All this, or something like it, she had been expecting to find, and it merely corroborated her impression that there were Lea-Stephens millions; but there was one brief entry which she hadn’t anticipated, a deadly little message contained in nine words in small italics:

  President (founder member) of the League of Moral Reform. She read it with a sinking sensation. It was the answer to her question. It put before her, as nothing else could have done, the man who was Simon’s father. He was not disapproving, merely. His objection to Simon’s behaviour was not passive. He was a militant, a reformer, and perhaps a moral fanatic; he might have forgiven Simon once, but the second occasion would find him adamant. She no longer had any doubt that Simon had been rejected in favour of the grandson.

  She closed the book, leaving it on the table as the notices directed. Now it was done and she was certain she felt a dragging emptiness inside her. She went out into the street with its traffic, noise and sunshine, got back into the Metro and sat staring at the dashboard. But it wasn’t the dashboard she could see. It was the dark and ugly mess. It was Simon, and the rest of them, and in the last instance herself. Because she was guilty too, however ignorant she had been: a pawn, but a pawn who had been all too willing. And Keith, in his innocence, had walked into the net spread for him; he had grasped at the pawn and become the inevitable victim . . .

  Her hands tightened on the wheel. No – she wanted yet more proof! Still it was not enough to carry such a weight of horror. Before she could believe she needed every scrap of evidence, a foundation of circumstance from which dissent would be impossible. She climbed out of the car again and enquired her way to a phone box; there she scattered change on the top of the box, flattened her address-book, and dialled.

  ‘Connect me with Lena Stott.’

  She was kept waiting for several minutes; but at last the board at the Press Building got her through to the gossip desk. As the phone was snatched up she could hear the clatter of typewriters, and could visualize to herself the mayhem on the floor where Lena worked.

  ‘Lena?’

  ‘Why . . . Stella Rushton! Where have you been hiding away?’

  She closed her eyes, trying to be patient under the barrage of questions and commiseration. It seemed so old, so far away, that childish business with Justin – how had it ever seemed important or likely to affect her foolish life? Finally Lena took the phone number and called Stella back so they could continue their conversation uninterrupted by the all-too-frequent pips.

  ‘What do I know about Arthur Lea-Stephens? We know everything at The Press. Well, to kick off with, he’s in line for a peerage.’

  ‘Have you actually met him, Lena?’

  ‘Bless your heart, of course I have. And Cliff Richard too. And the Reverend Ian Paisley.’

  ‘What sort of a man is he?’

  ‘Not your type, I would have thought. He’s pushing seventy anyway, though it’s a well-supported case of seventy. But what gives, lover? Why this great interest in captains of industry?’

  ‘Lena, I can’t explain. It’s just vital that I know about him.’

  ‘Official secret, huh?’ She heard Lena’s throaty chuckle. ‘Never mind, pet, I won’t dig if it’s sensitive. Well, he’s tall, grey and handsome, he’s the last of the sharp dressers, he’s polite, he’s condescending, and between ourselves a bit of a nutter. He gives a lot of bread away, mostly to undeserving causes, believes Mary Whitehouse is Saint Joan and Aunty Beeb the voice of the devil. When he talks of the evils of prostitution there’s an unhealthy gleam in his eye, and the going gets even rougher when he’s slating public immorality. Am I answering your question?’

  ‘Yes.’ Stella leaned against the wall of the phone box. Better than she knew Lena was filling in the detail.

  ‘Want to know some more?’

  ‘Yes . . . has there ever been any scandal?’

  ‘There better hadn’t be, not with a snow-white character like Lea-Stephens. But wait a moment – I’m forgetting his offspring. Would that be where the wind lies?’

  ‘Simon.’

  ‘Aha. Now I’m beginning to see the light.’

  Lena chuckled again and it was easy to guess what she was thinking; but Stella felt too extinguished to expostulate with her. She let Lena revel in her imagined penetration. Later on she would know well enough what this call had been about . . .