Startled, Alleyn looked up. Sitting on the canvas cover of one of the boats was a woman. She seemed to be dabbing at something. She stood up and he saw that she wore a pair of exceedingly grubby flannel trousers, and a short grey overall. In her hand was a long brush. Her face was disfigured by a smudge of green paint, and her short hair stood up in a worried shock, as though she had run her hands through it. She was very thin and dark. She scrambled to the bows of the boat and Alleyn was able to see what she had been at. A small canvas was propped up in the lid of an open paintbox. Alleyn drew in his breath sharply. It was as if his deliberately cultivated memory of the wharf at Suva had been simplified and made articulate. The sketch was an almost painfully explicit statement of the feeling of that scene. It was painted very directly with crisp, nervous touches. The pattern of blue-pinks and sharp greens fell across it like the linked syllables of a perfect phrase. It was very simply done, but to Alleyn it was profoundly satisfying—an expression of an emotion, rather than a record of a visual impression.

The painter, an unlit cigarette between her lips, stared dispassionately at her work. She rummaged in her trouser pockets, found nothing but a handkerchief that had been used as a paint-rag, and ran her fingers through her hair. ‘Blast!’ she repeated, and took the unlit cigarette from her lips.

‘Match?’ said Alleyn.

She started, lost her balance, and sat down abruptly.

‘How long have you been there?’ she demanded ungraciously.

‘Only just come. I—I haven’t been spying. May I give you a match?’

‘Oh—thanks. Chuck up the box, would you?’ She lit her cigarette, eyeing him over the top of her long thin hands, and then turned to look again at her work.

‘It is exceedingly good, isn’t it?’ said Alleyn.

She hunched up one shoulder as if his voice was a piercing draught in her ear, muttered something, and crawled back to her work. She picked up her palette and began mixing a streak of colour with her knife.

‘You’re not going to do anything more to it?’ said Alleyn involuntarily.

She turned her head and stared at him.

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s perfect—you’ll hurt it. I say, please forgive me. Frightful impertinence. I do apologize.’

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous,’ she said impatiently, and screwed up her eyes to peer at the canvas.

‘I merely thought—’ began Alleyn.

‘I had an idea,’ said the painter, ‘that if I worked up here on this hideously uncomfortable perch, I might possibly have the place to myself for a bit.’