As soon as they arrived John went to the kitchen to find Elizabeth. The guests could take care of themselves. They always had the same rooms. Committee weekends followed the same pattern every year. Soon Doctor Derbyshire would open a bottle of Scotch in the common room, someone would put a light to the fire and they would wait for Elizabeth to ring the bell for supper.

Elizabeth was stirring a pan of soup over the Calor-Gas stove. She was three years older than him, but did not look it. Her hair was thick and black and long. She was slim still, in jeans and a sweater.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

She turned to him and pulled a face. “Lousy. I’ve been sick four times and I always seem to be tired.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. It’s supposed to be a sign that the hormones are working properly. You might have to give me a hand with breakfast tomorrow morning, though. I’m not sure that I’m up to frying bacon. Are they all settled in?”

“I suppose so. George won’t be here until tomorrow morning, but he’s going to walk. It’s a shame. I wanted to have a go at cannon netting waders over the tide and he’s had a lot of experience. Charlie seemed very excited about something.”

“Charlie’s always excited about something. Has Nick been behaving himself?”

“Mm. So far. I think that Mark is a good influence on him. He’s not usually quite so obnoxious when Mark is around.”

“What about Pam and Jerry?”

“I’m not sure, but I think that Jerry might be coming to his senses. He doesn’t seem quite so zombie-like and admiring as usual.”

“I do hope so. I like Jerry so very much.”

They did not need to discuss Miss Carson. Jasmine was always the same.

In the common room they had left the curtains open, but had lit tilly lamps. The generator would have provided them with electric light, but the tillies were a committee weekend tradition, an affectation, a nostalgia for the time when the observatory was being developed, before the generator had been installed. It was not cold but the driftwood fire added light and atmosphere. It was a comfortable room, with rugs, big armchairs and a lot of books. It should have been a relaxed, enjoyable time. Paul Derbyshire had opened a bottle of whisky. They all held a drink. Usually it was a period of quiet conversation—restrained, academic, about birds and ringing. But as the tide swept in on either side of the long room, so that it could have been a ship moving forward through water, the occupants seemed unable to pretend even to friendship, and there was a mounting sense of tension and irritation.

Pam Marshall wandered to a writing table, where the daily log of birdwatching activity was kept, and there was a card index of ringing totals and recoveries. She had changed, and was wearing a plum-coloured velvet skirt and a simple cream blouse, quite appropriate to the occasion. She would never have worn anything unsuitable, but no one else had changed and the different clothes added to the impression that she was ill at ease, trying for some reason to impress.