‘Has she been murdered? Or can’t you say until after the autopsy?’

‘We can’t say,’ he admitted, looking wary, ‘until after the inquest. Not on—er—on—er—’

‘The external appearance of her body?’

‘That is so, Mrs Alleyn. That is correct, yes.’

‘Have you heard that last night the Skipper got a telegram purporting to come from her? From Carlisle? Intimating she was on her way to the Highlands?’

‘We have that information, Mrs Alleyn. Yes.’

‘Well, then?’

Mr Tillottson coined a phrase: ‘It’s quite a little problem.’ he said.

‘You,’ Troy said with feeling, ‘are telling me.’ She indicated the stool. ‘Do sit down, Mr Tillottson,’ she said.

He thanked her and did so, obliterating the stool.

‘I suppose,’ she continued. ‘You want a statement from me, don’t you?’

He became cautiously playful. ‘I see you know all about routine, Mrs Alleyn. Well, yes, if you’ve no objection, just a wee statement. Seeing you, as you might say—’

‘Discovered the body?’

‘That is so, Mrs Alleyn.’

Troy said rapidly: ‘I was on deck on the port side at the after-end, I think you call it. I leant on the rail and looked at the water which was covered with detergent foam. We were, I suppose, about two chains below Ramsdyke weir and turning towards the lock. I saw it—I saw her face—through the foam. At first I only thought—I thought—’

‘I’m sure it was very unpleasant.’

She felt that to concede this understatement would be to give ground before Mr Tillottson.

‘I thought it was something else: a trick of light and colour. And then the foam broke and I saw. That’s all really. I don’t think I called out. I’m not sure. Very stupidly, I fainted. Mr Tillottson,’ Troy hurried on, ‘we know she left the Zodiac some time during the night before last at Crossdyke. She slept on deck, that night.’

‘Yes?’ he asked quickly. ‘On deck? Sure?’

‘Didn’t you know?’

‘I haven’t had the opportunity as yet, to get what you’d call the full picture.’

‘No, of course not. She told Dr Natouche she meant to sleep on deck. She complained of insomnia. And I think she must have done so because he and I found a bit of cloth from the cover of her diary—you know I told you how it went overboard—on her Li-lo mattress.’

‘Not necessarily left there during the night, though, would you say?’

‘Perhaps not. It was discoloured. I think Dr Natouche has kept it.’

‘Has he? Now why would the doctor do that, I wonder.’

‘Because I asked him to.’

‘You did!’

‘We were both a bit worried about her. Well, you know I was, don’t you? I told you.’

Mr Tillottson at once looked guarded. ‘That’s so, Mrs Alleyn,’ he said. ‘You did mention it. Yerse.’