She raised her hands, turned them over, plucked at the fabric of the sweater. Beseechingly she looked at Meredith, the look of a hurt animal caught in a trap, hopeless, perplexed.

‘Mary, you passed over. You drowned. A long time ago. The body you inhabit now belongs to another person. It is time now for you to go, my dear.’

‘To go? Where can I go, sir? I’ve been wicked. I poisoned the mistress. I keep thinking about that. I can’t get away from that.’

‘That was a long time ago. You’ve been confused, Mary. You’ve been held here by your feelings. It is time for you to go on now.’ Meredith swallowed. ‘Look about you, Mary. With the inner eye. Close your eyes. What do you see?’

The eyelids dropped as if heavy with weariness.

‘What do you see, Mary?’

‘Some light. Far away.’

‘Go towards it. Go now, my dear. Leave us and go towards that light. You will find friends there. Go.’

The body of Ann Parish swayed. Meredith signed to Bourne. The neurologist, though startled, read his cue correctly and began to bring Ann Parish out of the trance. She woke, blinked once or twice, looked enquiringly about. Surprise registered on her face as she realized she was on her knees. She got up, grimacing at the dust-patches on her trousers.

Meredith looked at her.

‘How do you feel, Ann?’

‘Fine. Was everything all right?’

‘Yes. Everything was all right.’ He turned to Bourne. ‘We can discuss this downstairs later. But I will say one thing now. That must be the last session with Ann. You agree.’

Paul detected a note of steel in his voice. Bourne nodded slowly. Pollard pointed to the floor.

‘Do we have that up now?’

Bourne nodded again.

Amid much creaking and rasping, Pollard and Smith managed to prise up the floorboard. A torch was shone into the cavity below, filled with the dust and cobwebs of the years.

Gritting his teeth, Pollard gingerly pushed his hand through the accumulated debris and began with care to dredge to the bottom of the foot-deep hole. The onlookers watched tensely. They saw him stiffen. Slowly he brought his hand out of the cavity. His fingers uncurled and his hand, palm up, was held out. On it there lay a small, cylindrical bottle, corkless, almost chalky with dust. With the forefinger of his other hand he smoothed away the dust layer. A label was uncovered. In copperplate handwriting, faint but still legible, were the words: Tartar Emetic.

15

15 Death-trap?

They returned to the lounge, leaving Swanson and Fletcher to bring down the camera and lighting equipment.

‘Surely we’ll get away soon,’ Carol murmured. Paul drew her attention to the bay window where flurries of snow cascaded against the panes.

‘I wouldn’t count on it.’ He turned to Pollard. ‘There’s not much use trying to get to the bridge today.’

‘No. It’s almost four-thirty. Daylight’s going soon.’