"And what will happen to Zanny?"

Something indescribably awful, Clare thought. My womb cries out in protest.

"If I were religious," she said, not answering the question, "I'd leave this one with G.o.d. Either He'll let her get away with it - by not letting anyone believe her confession - or He won't."

"And as you're not religious?" (If you welsh on Zanny, much as I love you, Clare, I'll kill you.) She took a biscuit and ate it slowly, letting crumbs drop on the sheet. (And if you welshed on her, I expect I'd do the same to you.) "I'm quite prepared," she said at last, "to be temporarily converted."

The rope over the pool stayed taut. And then, their tension easing very slowly, they moved cautiously back from the brink.

On the whole, they decided, it would be wiser not to go to the convent fair. Zanny, wearied by mathematics and calmed by minor penances, might by then have regretted her impulsive confession -- but they couldn't be sure of it. It was one, thing to keep silent when they were apart from her - quite another to be battered by the truth which she might well scream at them. Silence then would strain them to the limit.

They didn't put it to each other quite like that. They disliked fairs, they said. Graham had met Clifford Ponsonby at a Rotarian lunch and hadn't been impressed. He couldn't hold his liquor for one thing, and had been retired from the Circuit earlier than usual.

"Retired from what?" Clare asked, making safe little stepping stones of conversation away from Zanny.

"The Northern Circuit," Graham told her. "He's a retired judge."

"Not the one that Murphy .. .?"

"Nothing to do with Murphy."

"Love me," Clare said, "again . . ." Conversation was treacherous. Only flesh on flesh could soothe the mind.

He doubted if he had the strength. But he tried. And he had. They lay body on body while the anguish and the guilt oozed safely away.

The invitation to Sir Clifford Ponsonby had been sent and accepted long before Murphy's trial. Had Mother Benedicta been gifted with foreknowledge she would have asked any other local dignitary to do the honours. At this stage, the days getting closer and closer to Murphy's execution, any link with the law, even the retired law, was unfortunate. The emotional climate was well above normal. School essays - not just Zanny's, who wasn't much good at writing anyway -- reflected the situation in different ways. Love, pain, horror in different guises spilled out of fountain pens and into copybooks.

Zanny, on Dolly's advice, wrote to the Home Secretary begging for a reprieve. Mother Benedicta, after much hesitation, allowed the letter to be posted. The Home Secretary would probably get dozens of similar letters. Miss Sheldon-Smythe was bound to have sent one, too.

Zanny's letter to her parents made no mention of the subject of Murphy at all. She hoped very much that they would come to the fair, she told them. That she would be there to receive them, she very much doubted. Her faith in the Home Secretary was implicit. She had told him. He would act. Mother Benedicta would break the news to her parents and explain her absence. On the whole, it was better coming from Mother Benedicta.

In the meantime the convent prepared for the fair. The arts and crafts section was to be housed in the main hall. This included paintings and needlework. Zanny, forced into work therapy, not only struggled with algebraical equations and lost, she painted blue lupins in a pale pink vase against a background of purple. Dolly's "Yuk!" was fair comment.

Dolly's contribution was clues to a treasure hunt. Her first lot of clues were so abstruse that the treasure -- a box of chocolates -- would have remained hidden for ever. Sister Clemence had pointed out crisply that the public at large were for the most part simple-minded and to devise clues that they might have some chance of understanding.

Most of the outdoor activities were of the sort that could be brought in quickly, should it rain. There were bran-tubs and hoop-la and darts.

There was also a small tent full of rabbits in hutches. They looked appealing. They were cheap. As a way out of Mother Benedicta's problem it was brilliant.

Miss Sheldon-Smythe looked at them sadly. "Your master," she told them, "may not return to you, but I shall fight - fight - fight." She had her own plans for the day of the fair. She hoped it would be fine.

There was now less than a week to Murphy's execution. Zanny confessed to Father Donovan. "And don't give me three Hail Marys," she said, "as you gave me once before." It was cheeky. He forgave her. And gave her five. The Home Secretary hadn't answered. The local police were useless. The nuns were working her into the ground. She was tired. She was wan. She had never looked more beautiful.

The day of the fair was cloudless. Hot, golden sunlight poured from the autumn sky. The girls in their neat blue uniforms moved amongst the guests introducing parents and friends. Dolly, as usual, was included in several groups. She still told the occasional fantasy story about her dear dead parents, but for the most part was accepted for herself. Zanny, who had hoped by this day to be absent, mooched glumly on her own. Her parents had phoned Mother Benedicta explaining why they couldn't come. The excuse, a thin one about a weekend in London with friends recently returned from abroad Mother Benedicta accepted with barely concealed annoyance and pa.s.sed along to Zanny. Zanny didn't care. She walked in a fog of depression. Her parents had pushed her off to France during the holidays - and now they were ditching her again. Well, let them. It didn't matter. So - the sun shone - well, let it.

These days of agony, Murphy told her in her mind, will pa.s.s. You must do nothing. Say nothing. Your courage is like a beacon that will blind my eyes in the last moments. I die for you. You must not die for me.

Oh, but I must, Murphy.

And I will. I will. I will.

"Your job," Sister Clemence, who was in charge of the smooth running of the fair told her, "is to keep an eye on the crafts table. As the day is so hot the opening ceremony and the Greek dance will take place out of doors. Afterwards the main doors will be opened. Make sure you get to your table in plenty of time -- and be sure you read the prices on the tickets. Do not reduce anything until late afternoon, and then only if certain items fail to sell. Anything that doesn't sell, even at a reduction, must not be given away. All the items will keep and will be other fairs. Point out the quality of the st.i.tching - stress the charities that will benefit - be an excellent salesgirl for the greater glory of G.o.d."

"I don't see why," Zanny said, "I - we - any of us - should be bothered with such trivial matters now."

'The world is made up of trivial matters," Sister Clemence told her. "It's like good, plain bread and b.u.t.ter -- we survive on it."

"Some of us survive," said Zanny.

Sister Clemence and all the other nuns had been warned by Mother Benedicta to handle Zanny Moncrief with tact. Sister Clemence was tactfully tactless in French. "Voyons, ne dis pas de betises!" she said brusquely.

The main convent gates had been open for twenty minutes before Sir Clifford Ponsonby and his wife, Betty, drove up in their battered old Bentley. The fact that he was using the Bentley rather than the Rolls was an indication of his annoyance at having to attend this tin-pot occasion at all. He would have politely declined the invitation to open the wretched affair if he had had his way. But Betty wanted to come. Betty, large, florid, dominating, had engineered his rise to the top of the legal profession. She had pushed - pulled strings -steered - and heaved. His knighthood, she had told him, was due to her. But then his enforced retirement was also due to her: you lived with Betty and you drank. Or you left her. She had learned to put up with the drink provided he didn't make it too obvious. The flask in his hip pocket was nicely concealed. She reminded him about his speech.

"And don't mention Attlee and the Labour government."

"The world," he groaned, "has gone mad. I am mad. I live in a bungalow in the wilds of Wales. I launch lifeboats. I open libraries. I preside at b.l.o.o.d.y fairs in b.l.o.o.d.y convents. How in Hades do I address the nun in charge?"

"Ma Mere is usual," Betty said with a touch of humour, "but probably not suitable for you. Try Reverend Mother - or just plain You. Keep your speech short. Don't be too mean with your money. And . . ." catching sight of the rabbit tent as they drove past it, "don't buy any of those."

It was one of the parents who told Dolly that Sir Clifford was a retired judge. Mother Benedicta had skilfully avoided mentioning it when explaining to the girls who was to do the honours this year. Dolly immediately sought Zanny out and told her.

"He might have influence with the Home Secretary."

By this time, Sir Clifford and his wife were standing by the tea tent on the top lawn in a little roped off area. From here he was to make his opening speech.

Zanny looked at him in some surprise. A retired judge? That little football of a man? He had purple cheeks. Very little hair. Large pink hands. No doubt the wig and gown would improve him, but not much. Did men like that -- pig-like creatures like that - have the power of life and death over beautiful men like Murphy?

"It gives me very great pleasure" - he was lying suavely - "to be here in this lovely convent garden on this perfect autumn day. You do me great honour, Reverend Mother, by inviting me to attend your annual fair, and even greater honour by asking me to open it. As you know, I have recently come to live in the district after spending many years in Liverpool. I find the countryside a delight - and the people charming. My wife and I have been received everywhere with much warmth and excellent hospitality. Today I hope we shall make new friends amongst the pupils, their parents, and the local townspeople. The proceeds of the fair, I am told, go to various charities. May I present you. Reverend Mother, with a small preliminary con tribution before the fun commences." He handed over what he privately thought of as penance money and Mother Benedicta accepted the cheque with a few suitable words of appreciation.

At this stage, she told the a.s.sembled audience, some of the senior girls would entertain everyone with an outdoor ballet.

The Greek dance was the sole contribution of Robina Blane who was now counting her days until the end of the autumn term and her escape from teaching for ever. The long, salaried summer holiday had been the bait that had hooked her into this second term. It hadn't been worth it. The death of Bridget and the impending execution of Murphy would forever colour her time in this terrible place with tones of deepest gloom. Her personality, never very strong, had faded even more during the last weeks. She was a poor teacher. She didn't like the girls much. But she could dance, and so -given encouragement - could they. Three violins and a cello formed background music as they trooped onto the square of lawn directly in front of Sir Clifford, his wife, and Mother Benedicta.

Their legs, Sir Clifford thought, were pretty good. And the little white Greek outfits, though not very revealing, at least showed areas of thigh. The p.u.b.escent female could be an exciting creature. Looking around he had noticed one or two rather more than presentable examples. The girls - some had pretty good bosoms, too - raised their arms, pointed their toes, and began to dance. They weren't bad. On the whole, it wasn't such a bad place to be. It would be better if he could take a surrept.i.tious drink of whisky. That might be possible later on.

The first dance, rather quiet and slow, lulled the mood of everyone watching it. Some of the audience settled themselves on the gra.s.s. Bees hummed. The violins were punctuated occasionally by a cheep from an interested bird.

And then the tempo quickened. Robina, obeying instructions she was afraid to refuse, nodded nervously at the orchestra. A senior girl, obeying the cue, joined the orchestra with a pair of cymbals.

There was silence for twenty seconds.

Miss Sheldon-Smythe, as always totally clad in black, walked into the centre of the dancers. They took a step back from her, giving her room. She pointed an imperious ringer at the cymbals. They clashed.

Mother Benedicta, who had seen the rehearsal and knew that this had nothing to do with it, stiffened with apprehension. Sister Agnes had been told to stay with Miss Sheldon-Smythe as much as possible and see that she didn't make a nuisance of herself. Obviously having given her the slip she was about to do just that.

Miss Sheldon-Smythe called out in a high reedy voice, "Who do we want?" . The Greek dancers shouted, "Murph ... ee ..."

"How do we want him?"