Annie shook her head. “No, though the police were here looking for her later that week. They scared me at first. I wondered what had happened. I thought she might have had an accident. But they said they just wanted to take a statement from her. They’d raided that party she went to, and they’d found drugs there. They wanted her to be a witness. I never would have thought that she’d be mixed up in anything like that.”

“Do you remember any details of the case? Who was being charged?”

“No. The police didn’t mention anything like that.”

George prepared to leave then, and Annie, regretfully, got up to go back to work.

“Did you know Peter Littleton?” George asked suddenly.

“The one that married that lass on St. Agnes? Aye, of course I know the name and I knew him by sight. He used to bring his wife here for dinner, sometimes, when they were first married, but I haven’t seen him for a couple of years. He’s left her now, you know.”

“Did Sally Johnson know him?”

“I don’t think she would have known him, but she would have known of him, that’s for certain. He was a character. Everyone on Scilly knew of him.”

George held the door for her and followed her out. It was cool and quiet in the hotel. Outside the heat and the humidity overpowered him. Even on the sea, in the crowded, noisy boat, it seemed unnaturally airless. When he arrived at St. Mary’s he was told that there were no tripper boats that day to St. Agnes, so he chartered one himself, taking a momentary pleasure in asking for a receipt so that he could charge the expense to Clive Anderson. As soon as he had enjoyed the thought, it seemed in poor taste.

Because there were no day-trippers, St. Agnes was quiet. It was mid-day and the pub near the quay was open but, despite tremendous temptation, he walked past. He had been to St. Agnes often enough for some of the locals to recognize him, but he did not feel ready yet to answer questions. St. Agnes was his favourite Scilly isle. As he walked up the track, between the dry-stone walls, the familiar and peaceful sights and smells relaxed him. He felt at home.

He was walking past the Gugh, the sandy peninsula on the east of the island, when somebody caled his name. Before he turned he recognized the voice. Charlotte Cavanagh had been schoolmistress on St. Agnes for thirty years. She had come to the island as a young widow straight after the war. When she retired she moved from the schoolhouse to a tiny cottage on the shore, but little else had changed. The islanders had admired her, and been afraid of her when she first arrived, brave and outspoken and a little wild. She still kept herself apart. She was Mrs. Cavanagh to most of them, and she rarely mixed socially with any of the island families. She was passionately interested in the islands, in their history, natural history and archaeology. She painted them and wrote about them, but she still did not belong.