Before Ted Baxter could use this information as yet another indication of his opinion of Peter Littleton, George interrupted.

“Did he tell you why he’d been in court?” George asked, knowing already what the answer would be.

“Drugs,” she said flatly. “ He’d been in trouble for taking dope.”

“Did you know that when you married him?” Ted Baxter was flushed with rage but, in an attempt not to upset his daughter, he tried to restrain his anger. “You knew he was a junkie and you married him. I’ve had a drug addict under my roof?”

“Oh, Dad,” she said condescendingly. “ He wasn’t a drug addict. Everyone does it these days. It’s nothing-to make a fuss about.”

Ted Baxter, luckily, seemed able to find no reply to this, and George asked:

“Did he use drugs when you knew him, when you were married?”

“Not much.”

She spoke with regret, as if admitting an indiscretion. Perhaps she thought it was sophisticated to take drugs.

“I think sometimes the birdwatchers brought him some. I know that he smoked occasionally at parties.”

“Did you ever meet any of his friends?”

“I certainly did,” she said petulantly. “They came to stay every spring and autumn. They made a terrible mess all over the house. There were sleeping bags everywhere. I even found one of those twitchers sleeping in the bath. I stuck it for two years and then I put my foot down. Peter brought them home for meals sometimes, usually when I was out, but I wouldn’t have them to stay.”

“Did any of them become your friends?”

She tried to look amused.

“They hardly seemed to notice that I was there. They only ever talked about birds.”

“Did you meet Tom French or Rob Earl?”

“I remember Rob Earl. He’s the good-looking one. He looks like that old-fashioned film star … What’s his name? He was in all the westerns on the television. Rob got drunk at our wedding. I’ve heard of Tom French, but I can’t remember what he looks like.”

“He had a party on St. Mary’s a year ago last September. Peter went to it. Did you go with him?”

“No,” she said definitely. “I never went to any of the birdwatchers’ parties. I was never made to feel welcome.”

George walked back to the quay the long way round, along the cliffs. The scent of gorse blossom was sweet and heavy, and the light was very clear. Gulls and guillemots, unusually lazy, sat in ledges on the cliffs, or glided below him. Further away, he could see his boat waiting for him and the boatman sitting on the sand, apparently asleep.

He sat on the short grass and tried to evaluate the information he had gained since coming to the island. There was really nothing new, nothing tangible. He knew now that Sally had become involved with some man while she was working on Tresco, and that she had left suddenly because she was pregnant. He could have deduced that from Barnaby’s age. He had learnt that the police wanted to question her about drugs found at a party she had attended. Surely he could infer that the party had been Tom’s. It coincided exactly with the date of Tom’s court appearance. Why, then, was he so convinced that Peter and not Tom was the father of Sally’s child? Because of the way that Sally and Tom’s relationship had developed and because she had never allowed Tom to be considered the father. But he still had no real evidence of any connection between Peter and Sally, apart from the coincidence that both had been on Scilly and both had been in love. He had learnt that Peter had been prosecuted in the past for drug abuse, and that he still occasionally took cannabis. Did that have any relevance? Had he planted the drug on Tom at the party? That was aimless speculation.