He had been too absorbed in his thoughts to acknowledge how cold he was, but as he stepped back from the body and stood by the parapet, his limbs were stiff and painful, and he tried desperately to rub the life back into his arms. Down below, he saw Hilaria come round from the church and out onto the terrace, staring anxiously up at him; he knew that she was relying on him to know exactly what to do, to take this bewildering act of violence and somehow make sense of it for her, but rarely had he felt more helpless. Cut off from the mainland and with no means of communication open to him, he had no help or support, none of the forensic expertise that was always at his beck and call, and no way of accessing any of the official records that might have made his task a little easier. He realised for the first time how much he took the teamwork of an investigation for granted. Most of all, he missed the professional camaraderie of his colleagues. The isolation – physical and emotional – was new to him, and he was painfully aware that it also carried a far greater significance: Richard Hartley’s killer – whoever he or she might be – must still be on the island, and at the moment he couldn’t decide whether to treat that as a comfort or a threat. 171

Reluctantly, he made his way down, nursing a gnawing if irrational guilt at leaving the vicar alone at the scene of his death; the cold and indignity had lost their power to hurt, but it seemed wrong to abandon him, and there was still the question of how long he could decently leave the body in situ while waiting for the island to become accessible again. Hilaria must have seen him leave the roof because she was waiting anxiously for him at the foot of the stairs and showed him into the vestry. ‘Well?’ she asked.

‘I’m afraid he’s been killed – sometime late last night or in the early hours of the morning.’ He gave her the details as sparingly as he could, knowing that she had a right to the information but reluctant to make things any worse for her if he could help it; she would already be feeling responsible. ‘Where is Mrs Hartley?’

‘In the drawing room. Josephine and Marta are with her. She’s finding it hard to believe, and I can’t tell if it’s the shock or a more fundamental inability to understand what’s happened.’ She spoke as always with a quiet authority, but Penrose could see how devastated she was. ‘Perhaps it will sink in when we confirm the worst. Can I tell her myself?’

‘Yes, of course. I’ll need to speak to her, but she’s welcome to go back to her room first as long as someone goes with her.’

‘I’ll take her and stay with her. At least it will feel like I’m doing something useful.’