He shrugged. “ You should see some of the fishing parties,” he said. He had an irrational desire to defend the birdwatchers. Perhaps it had something to do with Rose Pengelly.

Claire Bingham was starting to feel impatient. She should be at Porthkennan while the other passengers were still tired and shocked. She should not give them too much time to discuss things and concoct a story among them. It was reassuring that George Palmer-Jones was with them. He would give her reliable inside information. But in a way, too, his presence only increased the pressure on her. She did not want to let herself down in front of someone so respected in the profession, someone who could possibly influence her career if he chose. Outside on the deck she heard the voices of the men who were taking away the body. It must have slipped because there was a thud and a muffled oath.

“Are there any more parties booked onto the boat?” she asked.

“Not this week.”

“You do realise we’ll want to examine it in more detail? There’ll be experts to see it first thing in the morning, and there’ll be someone here all night.”

“Why all this, then?” he asked suddenly. “Don’t you think it was an accident?”

“No,” she said calmly. “ He was hit on the head before he drowned.”

“Couldn’t he have done that when he fell?”

“Not according to the doctor.” She looked at him sharply. “You don’t seem very surprised.”

He spoke slowly, his hands gripped tightly around his knee.

“When they were looking for him, they couldn’t find any of his gear.” he said. “Even his bag and the bits of clothes he’d left below had gone. That seemed very queer to me.”

“I see,” she said, and scribbled something in her notebook.

Rosco stood up. He felt drained and worn out and could no longer think clearly. “Is that all?” he asked.

She nodded. “For now.”

“Are you going to Porthkennan?”

“Probably.” She had already moved from the saloon and onto the deck. There was a faint breeze, but the air was still hot and humid.

“I live there, too,” he said. “ I’m in the cottage on the shore. If you want me, that’s where I’ll be.”

He suddenly wanted to prolong the interview. The extent of his folly struck him and cut through his panic. He should have told her. She was sure to find out for herself. Perhaps she already knew but was saying nothing in the hope of catching him out.

“Goodbye, Mr. Rosco,” she said formally, and jumped without his help from the boat onto the quay. “I’ll probably be talking to you again tomorrow.”