‘Yes. I had, if you recollect, promised you not to leave my apartment again last night and to breakfast in my apartment this morning. A loophole presented itself.’

In spite of Miss Emily’s distress there was more than a hint of low cunning in the sidelong glance she gave him. ‘I went out,’ she said. ‘I placed my manifesto. I returned. I took my petit déjeuner in my room.’

‘When did you go out?’

‘At half past seven.’

‘It was raining?’

‘Heavily.’

‘Did you meet anybody? Or see anybody?’

‘I met nobody,’ said Miss Emily. ‘I saw that wretched child. Walter Trehern. He was on the roadway that leads from the cottages up to the Spring. It has, I believe, been called – ’ She closed her eyes. ‘Wally’s Way. He was half-way up the hill.’

‘Did he see you?’

‘He did. He uttered some sort of gibberish, gave an uncouth cry and waved his arms.’

‘Did he see you leave?’

‘I think not. When I had affixed my manifesto and faced about, he had already disappeared. Possibly he was hiding.’

‘And you didn’t, of course, see Miss Cost.’

‘No!’

‘You didn’t see her umbrella on your ledge above the pool? As you were tying up your notice?’

‘Certainly not. I looked in that direction. It was not there.’

‘And that would be at about twenty to eight. It wouldn’t, I think, take you more than ten minutes to walk there, from the pub?’

‘No. It was five minutes to eight when I re-entered the hotel.’

‘Did you drop the notice, face down in the mud?’

‘Certainly not. Why?’

‘It’s no matter. Miss Emily: please try to remember if you saw anybody at all on the village side of the causeway or indeed anywhere. Any activity round the jetty, for instance, or on the bay or in the cottages? Then, or at any time during your expedition.’

‘Certainly not.’

‘And on your return journey?’

‘The rain was driving in from the direction of the village. My umbrella was therefore inclined to meet it.’

‘Yes. I see.’