They walked to the entrance hall where the coats hung, and up the narrow stone stairs. John had switched off the generator, and Martindale showed the way with a torch. He went into the dormitory and Palmer-Jones into his cell-like single room. There was a small bed, an old dining chair and his rucksack; there was just room for him to stand. He was tired, but he did not feel ready to sleep. He lit a candle. The place seemed full of small noises, of the plumbing, soft footsteps, the creak of beds and the rustle of clothes. It was as if everyone had been tired in order to avoid the company of others, but now they could not sleep. He wondered if he should find out where Pamela was sleeping. He could see if she was awake and talk to her. But although he was not sleepy he felt a kind of lethargy, so that the idea of any action intimidated him. He sat on his bed and looked at his notes, but the words spun before his eyes and he was left only with a series of impressions, visual images of the kind that usually came to him when he was over-tired. He saw Savage, sitting in the ringing room, intense and competitive, defying the murderer to outwit him, determined that by will alone he could know what had happened. He saw Jasmine Carson offering her help as if it were a donation to some worthy cause, and Doctor Derbyshire’s spiteful, smiling face turned to the wind. He saw fear in young faces, and triumph, because the island had been restored to them, and because the young cannot sustain a pretence of mourning. But he could not be sure if the visions were true, or the distortion of truth, caused by his own interpretation and prejudice. It occurred to him then that he might write to Molly. He began the letter in his mind, and the words comforted him, gave some sense to the situation. He was thinking that he might undress and sleep, when somebody screamed.

It was not a loud scream. It was stifled and could have been man or woman or child. He took the candle, opened the door and walked quickly into the corridor and towards the noise. As he did so other doors opened. The screaming continued. Mark joined him and they ran together towards the sound. Jerry Packham was in front of them. Both were fully dressed. The noise came from the room next to Packham’s and he opened the door.

It was another single bedroom, like the one which George had just left, whitewashed, with a hand-painted print of sea-pinks on the wall. The scene was lit by a tilly lamp hung from a hook in the ceiling. Nicholas Mardle was kneeling by the bed like a child at prayer. His hands were red and sticky with blood and as he rubbed his eyes with his fist the blood smeared on his face and hair. He was screaming. On the bed Pamela Marshall lay. Her nightdress had been white starched broderie anglaise. The sheet and blanket had been pulled back from her, carefully and neatly, so that an exact triangle of white sheet had lain against the quilt. Now the nightdress and the sheet and the quilt were crimson. Blood still oozed through the cotton weave of the nightdress and because the cloth was wet, the outline of her breast showed through it. She looked at them with blank-eyed horror.