Shortly before one thirty she made her way along the tiled passage past the business room to the baize door which she knew must lead to the servants' flat. There was no bell or knocker but while she was wondering how to attract attention, Mrs Munter came quietly up behind her carrying on her hip a basket of washing. Without speaking, she held open the door and Cordelia passed before her down a shorter passageway and into.a sitting-room to her right. Like all Victorian architects, Godwin had ensured that from none of their rooms could the servants overlook their betters whether the family were disporting themselves indoors or out, and the single window gave a view only of a wide yard with, beyond it, the stable block with its charming clock tower and weather vane. Across the yard was slung a washing line from which drooped a pair of Munter's huge pyjamas. They seemed to Cordelia pathetic and embarrassing and she averted her eyes as if detected in a prurient curiosity.
The room itself was starkly furnished, not uncomfortable, but despite the artful simplicity of the art nouveau furniture almost devoid of character. There was a television set in the corner but no books or pictures and no photographs or ornaments on the dresser. It was as if the inhabitants had no past to remember, no present to celebrate. And no third person, apparently, ever sat here. There were only two easy chairs, one on each side of the elegantly carved iron grate, and only two upright chairs set opposite each other at the dining-table.
Mrs Munter didn't invite her to sit down. Cordelia said:
'I didn't mean to bother you. I just wanted to see that you are all right. And I'm going into Speymouth shortly. Is there anything I can get or do for you?'
Mrs Munter swung her basket of washing down on the table and began folding the clothes.
'There's nothing. I'll be with you on the boat likely enough. I'm leaving, Miss. I'm getting off the island.'
'I know how you must feel. But if you're frightened I could share a room with you tonight.'
'I'm not frightened. What is there to be frightened of? I'm leaving that's all. I never liked being here and now that he's gone I don't have to stay.'
'Of course not, if that's how you feel. But I'm sure Mr Gorringe wouldn't want you to do anything in a hurry. He'll want to talk to you. There are bound to be well… arrangements.'
'There's nothing to talk about. He's been a good enough master but it was Munter he wanted. I came with Munter. Now we're separate.'
Separate, thought Cordelia, finally and for ever. There had been no mistaking the note of satisfaction, almost of triumph. And she had come to the flat out of an embarrassed compassion, inexperienced as she might be, to try to give comfort. None, it appeared, was wanted or necessary. But surely there would be wages outstanding, offers of help to be made, funeral arrangements to be discussed? Ambrose would surely want to reassure her that she could stay on at the castle as long as it suited her. And, of course, there would be the police, Grogan and his ubiquitous experts in death, trained in suspicion and mistrust. If Munter had been deliberately pushed to his death, she could have done it. With one undetected murderer already on the island, what better time to get rid of an unwanted husband? Cordelia didn't doubt that Grogan, faced with this ungrieving widow, would place her high on his list of suspects. And the police were bound to see this hurried departure as highly suspicious. She was wondering whether she ought to say a word of warning when Mrs Munter spoke.
'I've spoken to the police. They've no call to keep me. They know where they can find me. Mr Gorringe can see to the funeral arrangements. It's no concern of mine.'
'But you were his wife!'
'I never was his wife. He wasn't the marrying kind, and nor am I. I'll be leaving in the launch as soon as Oldfield is ready.'
'Are you all right for money? I'm sure that Mr Gorringe…'
'I don't need his help. Munter had money. He had ways of making a bit on the side and I know where he kept it. I'll take what's due to me. And I'll be all right. Good cooks don't starve.'
Cordelia felt totally inadequate. She said:
'No indeed. But have you somewhere to go, for tonight I mean?'
'She'll be staying with me.'
Tolly came quietly into the room. She was wearing a dark-blue fitted coat with padded shoulders and a small hat pierced with one long feather. The outfit was reminiscent of the thirties and gave her a slightly raffish and outdated smartness. She was carrying a bulging suitcase bound with a strap. She moved unsmiling to Mrs Munter's side – it was impossible for Cordelia to think of her by any other name – and the two women faced her together.
Cordelia felt that she was seeing Mrs Munter clearly for the first time. Until now she had hardly noticed her. The strongest impression she had made was of an unobtrusive competence. She had been an adjunct to Munter, little more. Even her appearance was unmemorable, the coarse hair, neither fair nor dark, with its stiff, corrugated waves, the stolid body, the stumpy work-worn hands. But now the thin mouth which had given so little away was taut with an obstinate triumph. The eyes which had been so deferentially downcast stared boldly into hers with a look of challenging, almost insolent confidence. They seemed to say: 'You don't even know my name. And now you never will.' Beside her stood Tolly, unchanged in her self-contained serenity.
So they were going away together. Where, she wondered, would they live? Presumably Tolly had a house or flat somewhere in London where she had made a home for her child. Cordelia had a sudden and disconcertingly clear picture of them, not living there surrounded by memories, but installed in a neat suburban house within convenient distance of the Tube and the shopping parade, net curtains looped across the bay window, hindering inquisitive eyes, a small front garden railed against unwelcome intruders, against the past. They had thrown off their servitude. But surely that servitude must have been voluntary? Both were adult women. Surely it wasn't the fear of unemployment that had kept them from their freedom? They could have left their jobs whenever it suited them. So why hadn't they? What was the mysterious alchemy that kept people tied together against all reason, against inclination, against their own interests? Well, death had parted them now, one from Clarissa, the other from Munter; parted them very conveniently the police might think.
Cordelia thought, I'm seeing both of them clearly for the first time and still I know nothing about them. Some words of Henry James fell into her mind. 'Never believe that you know the last word about any human heart.' But did she know even the first word, she who called herself a detective? Wasn't it one of the commonest of human vanities, this preoccupation with the motives, the compulsions, the fascinating inconsistencies of another personality? Perhaps, she thought, we all enjoy acting the detective, even with those we love; with them most of all. But she had accepted it as her job; she did it for money. She had never denied its fascination, but now, for the first time, it occurred to her that it might also be presumptuous. And never before had she felt so inadequate for the task, pitting her youth, her inexperience, her meagre store of received wisdom against the immense mysteriousness of the human heart. She turned to Mrs Munter.
'I should like to have a word with Miss Tolgarth alone. May I please?'
The woman didn't reply but looked at her friend and was given a small nod. Without speaking, she left them.
Tolly waited, patient, unsmiling, her hands folded before her. There was something which Cordelia would like to have asked first, but she didn't need to. And she was less arrogant now than when she had first taken the case. She told herself that there were questions she had no right to ask, facts she had no right to be told. No human curiosity, no longing to have every piece of the jigsaw neatly fitted into place as if her own busy hands could impose order on the muddle of human lives, could justify asking what she knew in her heart was true, whether Ivo had been the father of Tolly's child. Ivo who had spoken of Viccy with knowledge and love, who had known that Tolly had refused to accept any help from the father; Ivo who had taken the trouble to get in touch with the hospital and learn the truth about that telephone call. How strange to think of them together, Ivo and Tolly. What was it, she wondered, that they had wanted of each other? Had Ivo been trying to hurt Clarissa, or assuage a deeper hurt of his own? Was Tolly one of those women, desperate for a child, who prefers not to be burdened with a husband? The birth of Viccy, if not the pregnancy, must surely have been deliberate. But none of it was her business. Of all the things that human beings did together, the sexual act was the one with the most various of reasons. Desire might be the commonest, but that didn't mean that it was the simplest. Cordelia couldn't even bring herself to mention Viccy directly. But there was something she had to ask. She said: