For George Palmer-Jones it had been an unsatisfactory day. He had not slept well. In his mind he had repeated the details of Mary’s death, looking for some other fact which might explain it differently. He had found none. And the problem—the need to come to a decision about his future—had not been replaced by the new one. As he tried to sleep the two subjects became linked in his mind, as if the discovery of a logical explanation of the child’s death was a test of competence, and if he failed at that, the new venture of his own business would be a failure. If I knew her secret, he thought. If only I knew her secret.

Then there had been the dilemma of whether or not to go to church. It was not that he had no faith. He was church warden in his parish church and he had a strong, though idiosyncratic, commitment. It was a matter of delicacy. He was not sure that he would be welcome. Jonathan and Sylvia never attended services. He knew that when they first came to Kinness they were under considerable pressure to go. Jonathan had even been expected to preach. They had seen it as a matter of principle, and never went, even when the children from school were performing.

Sylvia did not appear for breakfast. The two men sat at the pine table in the small, immaculate kitchen, drank percolated coffee from expensive hand-thrown mugs. George felt a deep nostalgia for the large untidy kitchen at home, for tea from a jumble-sale teapot, and for Molly.

“I’m sorry that Molly couldn’t come this year,” he said.

“So am I. Sylvia misses the company.”

“She did want to come, but there was a crisis in the refuge for battered wives where our daughter works. One of her staff is sick. Molly said she’d help for a while. I’m not sure that she’s settled to retirement.”

Nor have I, he thought. He said:

“I thought I might go to church this morning.”

Jonathan was disappointed, offended. “I was planning a walk,” he said, “see if the wind brought in anything interesting.”

“I’ll come with you then.” It was easier that way. He was the Drysdales’ guest. He supposed that Jonathan enjoyed his company on these walks around the island. It was hard to tell. The previous visits to Kinness had been different. Molly mixed with everyone. She had made them all laugh. There had been a sense that they were on holiday. It occurred to him that he was there under false pretences—he had only been invited in the past because of Molly’s ability to make them happy. The least he could do was to go birdwatching with his host. He must be unsettled, he thought. He never usually needed an excuse to go birdwatcbing.

It was a depressing walk. There were no birds.