In Myrtle Cottage they were sitting round the table after a late supper when the car came to take Jane Pym to the police station. Rose had cleared most of the plates but had become distracted halfway through the task, and there were still empty wine bottles, glasses, a plate of cheese, a bowl of fruit. During the meal there was little conversation. Each person seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts. They talked in occasional bursts about the weather, foreign travel, and with more commitment about seabirds. Roger reported Gwen Pullen’s theory that the petrel had come from an isolated colony on the Aleutian Islands and discussed ideas for raising money for an expedition during the following breeding season. It was as if murder, the wearing day’s interviews, had never taken place. They were tired and drained.

The first interruption to the evening came with George’s phone call to Molly. Rose answered it quickly, as if she were expecting the telephone to ring, then called Molly to the phone. When Molly returned to the table, the others looked at her eagerly, though they were too polite, too exhausted, to ask for news. They knew about George’s reputation and hoped for some miraculous end to their misery. They were like a group of ex-patriots trapped in some bleak and hostile country, waiting for information from the civilised world. George had escaped the tedious police questioning and the irritation of continuous shared company. They were a little jealous and thought he should be there to endure it with them.

“He’s not coming back tonight,” Molly said, and sensed their disappointment, “He said the traffic’s too heavy. It’s the bank holiday.”

“I’m sorry,” Roger Pym said languidly. “It would have been pleasant to have someone new to talk to.”

“Where will he stay?” Rose asked. She seemed obliged still to look after them all.

“There’s an hotel,” Molly said. “ It’s near the village where he was phoning from. I think it’s called Rashwood Hall. Do you know it, Duncan? It must be quite close to your home.”

Startled from thought of his own, surprised, it seemed, to be spoken to, James blinked and nodded.

Yes, he said. He had heard of it. He hoped George would be comfortable there.

“What will the inspector say about his not coming back?” Jane Pym asked. “She didn’t seem very positive when I asked when we could go home.” She was very tense, petulant. She would have liked to explain the importance of her work, to tell them it was vital she return, but the words would not come, and embarrassed, she shrank back into her seat. No one gave her an answer.

Later, when the meal was over and they could think of nothing more to say, the sound of the front doorbell came as a relief.