The conversation was no longer of the murder and when they might be allowed home. The real birdwatchers were no longer eager to go. They spoke in a series of bird names—Cory’s shearwater, great shearwater, bonxie—which was a sort of incantation or prayer for the following day. The wind, Molly thought, provoked the same obsession as the boat trip had done. It was the same madness to do with birds and the sea, and she saw, as soon as they arrived, that George was infected by it, too.

When they walked into the kitchen, there was very little response to their arrival. Molly had expected questions about what they had discovered in Bristol, about George’s accident. She thought they would want to know when the enquiry would be finally over, but they seemed to have decided by mutual unspoken consent that Greg Franks should be forgotten. Their lack of concern made her angry. What right had they to decide that Greg’s life was of such little value? Roger Pym’s only interest was in whether George had managed to discuss the red-footed petrel with Gwen Pullen.

“Did you get to the museum? Did Gwen tell you about the old record of a colony of similar birds on the Aleutian Islands? We should have taken a tape recording of the bird’s call, you know. That could be decisive. Did you discuss a name? We really should have a name.…”

And he paused, hoping that they would suggest that the bird should be called after him. He had come to believe that the discovery was his, and he would be remembered forever as the person who had identified Pym’s red-footed petrel.

So George was brought immediately into the conversation, and Molly marvelled that he could appear so calm and absorbed while she felt such a terrible responsibility.

Later in the evening the doorbell began to ring, and all night there was the sound, hardly discernible against the wind, of cars driving down the valley. The people at the door were birdwatchers who had seen the forecast and wanted to be at Porthkennan Head at dawn. Did Rose have any space? they wanted to know. Could she put them up for the night? They stood on the doorstep in the rain like helpless little boys.