"Yes," said Zanny.

"Me too," said Sir Clifford, ungrammatically, but chummily. "I get a bit breathless -- need to sit now and then. Ever heard of Anno Domini?"

"A saint?" asked Zanny.

"Devil, more likely," said Sir Clifford. "Has power over the arteries. These days I live in a bungalow - no stairs. Have you ever considered how cra.s.sly bourgeois a bungalow is?"

Zanny hadn't.

Pig, she thought. Pig. Pig. Pig. Hang Murphy, would you? Pig. Pig. Pig. All the resentment that had burned in her after his speech was being rekindled with every word he spoke.

"Has anyone ever told you what remarkably pretty hair you have?" asked Sir Clifford, edging his chair a little nearer.

"Frequently," said Zanny. She had been aware of her good looks for quite a long time.

There was a smell in the air, rather like the smell in Murphy's cottage that night she had gone to him. The smell - unpleasant - she had managed to banish from her mind most of the time. His missing tooth - the one small flaw - she had learnt to disregard. Perfect beauty was a bore. Murphy was never that.

"Depending on what?"

"Some things matter," Zanny said, not quite sure what she meant, it was the tone of voice that counted, "and some things don't. I'd be prepared to do quite a lot of things for people I like.'

She would be prepared to do quite a lot of things. He had heard that before from different sources. Mature sources. How old was she? Sixteen? Was he being over-optimistic if he risked seventeen?'

"But you wouldn't cheat?"

"No."

"So you wouldn't help me?"

"Oh, I'd help you. I'd go with you." Zanny turned her head and looked at the.ceiling. "Upstairs," she said.

Did she mean what he thought she meant? Or was it the whisky talking in his mind? The whisky tended to talk a lot of garrulous nonsense - garrulous and delightful nonsense.

He smiled at her. "Pretty p.u.s.s.y," he said. It was just a feeler.

"Miaw," said Zanny, making contact.

He sat still for several minutes, excitement rising inside him. He had done a lot of stupid things in his time, but nothing this stupid. You didn't open a convent fair and then lay one of the pupils. But wouldn't you, said the whisky, given the chance? No, said the judge, it's unthinkable - certainly not.

He edged the chair back.

Zanny was pleating her dress. She was pulling it up and down over her knees as she pleated it. She had never seduced anyone in her life, but for the first time it wasn't a bad effort. She looked over at Sir Clifford and smiled shyly.

Innocent as a raindrop, he told himself and didn't believe it.

"Well -" he said, "if it isn't far up the stairs . . ."

"Not very," said Zanny, "and we can take it as slowly as you like."

Take what slowly? he thought. How knowledgeable was she? Suzanne, the French wife of a junior counsel, was the slowest player of the game he knew. Largo for a very long time and then a thundering prestissimo conclusion.

They hadn't got a very long time.

He was a highly respected retired judge.

Well. . . respected by those who didn't know.

Retired by those who did.

"You stand," Zanny said, "a very good chance of winning."

"Winning? Winning what?"

"The treasure, of course," said Zanny. "Aren't you dying to know what it is?" Dying, judge - dying.

"Come," she said, "I'll show you."

"Show me?"

"The way."

The first flight of stairs -- wide and shallow -- she danced up, her skirt swirling tantalisingly so that he had glimpses of the backs of her knees - sweet little hollows. He laboured after her, the vicious hammer in his chest tapping at the hard metallic anvil in small warning blows.

"Hold on there," he said. "Hold on."

She turned on the top step and began creeping down. "p.u.s.s.y," she said, "p.u.s.s.y."

"You - p.u.s.s.y," he said.

"You Tarzan -- me Jane," said Zanny, three steps away from him.

The little devil. The little randy b.i.t.c.h. Where would she take him? Where would be private enough?

"Where?" he asked.

"Higher -- higher -- higher ..." She pointed past the cool blue and white Virgin with the flowers around her feet, "Up -- and around . . ."

"Far?"

"Not very." , "Heart sick."

"Depending on what?"

"Some things matter," Zanny said, not quite sure what she meant, it was the tone of voice that counted, "and some things don't. I'd be prepared to do quite a lot of things for people I like.''

She would be prepared to do quite a lot of things. He had heard that before from different sources. Mature sources. How old was she? Sixteen? Was he being over-optimistic if he risked seventeen?

"But you wouldn't cheat?"