Whitten said, “We live fairly undisturbed lives here. Especially those on Bryher. It’s the smallest of the lot and has the smallest population. Seventy-five, somewhere around there. Here we are,” he added, as the car pulled up by a ferry.

“Add the number of tourists to that.”

“We counted about a dozen. Only four at the Hell Bay, the others visiting residents.”

“You could monitor any private craft?”

“Oh, yes. There are very few of those, and remember, this is the Atlantic we’re talking about, which is not the main venue for pleasure craft. But I’ve made a note of those who do maintain private boats; they’re in the folder. Those people are in the bulb business.” To Jury’s inquiring look, Whitten said, “Tulips, narcissi. We do a lot of business in that line. It’s the perfect climate. Flowers and tourists, those are our industries here.” He added, “A murder won’t do a lot to bolster Bryher’s tourist trade, will it?” His smile was tight.

Jury said, “That can work both ways. I’d predict you might have a run of tourists. People are extremely curious when it comes to sex and murder. And the crime passionnel can sell a lot of tickets.”

“What makes you think this is one?”

“Nothing at all except she’s a beautiful woman, and beautiful women often ignite murderous feelings—jealousy, rage—in husbands and lovers. Was she here alone?”

As Whitten opened his mouth to reply, a police constable came up to them. “Boat’s ready. Let’s go.”

As the boat lunged along, slapping at the sea, Jury had to agree with Whitten that this wasn’t a venue for pleasure boating. And when they approached the northwest corner of the island, Jury decided it wasn’t a venue for pleasure, period.

Yet in its own way, and depending on who was looking at it, Hell Bay was beautiful, if you could take nature unchained, untrammeled and with one hell of an undertow. Pitch-black, the steep, high face of the rocks rose on each side of the bay, and the sound of water crashing against them made it hard to speak in a normal tone. They had to raise their voices.

“Scylla and Charybdis,” said Jury. “Monsters in the sea in the Odyssey. An impossible passage for a ship.”

“Sounds about right,” said Whitten.

“Body’s here,” said Macalvie, looking down at the body of Manon Vinet. Sand had now been swept into small hillocks around her. “Of course, the sand has been swept by wind, so it’s not the same. But you get the idea.”

“‘You get the idea’ has never made much of a crime scene, Macalvie.” Jury knelt down beside the body. “Gunshot. What kind?”

“Service revolver. Something like a Webley, Smith & Wesson. Probably .38. Close range. We haven’t found it. No prints either—I mean, the sand.”

“‘Something like’ and ‘probably’ … I get the idea.”