*Never mind all that,' Sidney Grice broke in. *This is not a women's tea party and we are in a hurry.'

*Do you remember their names?' I asked.

*Mr and Mrs Brewster,' the lady said, *and coincidentally they were booked on the ship you were enquiring about, the Aphrodite, but thirdly-'

*Brewster,' I said, *but that is the name of-'

*That pestilential priest.' Sidney Grice spat the words out. *Obviously his interest in Mrs Dillinger was not purely pastoral. Well, we are on to them now sure enough and they have not escaped us yet. A river police launch can overhaul them before they reach open waters. Come on, March. We have not a moment to lose.'

Sidney Grice made as if to rise but I stayed seated.

*What was the thirdly?' I asked.

*For heaven's sake.' He s.n.a.t.c.hed his hat off the desk.

*They came in and cancelled their trip last week,' Mrs Woodminster said.

*What?' Sidney Grice spun back to her.

*That was what really stuck in my mind,' she said. *The Aphrodite is a little old-fashioned perhaps, but a very comfortable ship, and they had booked a nice cabin with two portholes, but then they came in last week and asked to change their booking. I explained that they would lose their money at such short notice but they would not be persuaded. It was all very odd. The Framlingham Castle is a much older and a dare I say? a insalubrious ship, and not due to reach Sydney for four weeks after the Aphrodite is scheduled to arrive there.'

*When does she sail?' Sidney Grice asked, dropping back into his chair.

*Why, she sailed the next day, last Thursday,' Mrs Woodminster told him, choosing another needle.

My guardian's cheek ticked. *And they were on board?'

*As far as I know.' Mrs Woodminster allowed herself a small smile. *I do not wave my clients off, Mr Grice, but I have not seen them since.'

*d.a.m.n.' Sidney Grice stood up again, so violently that his chair crashed back on to the floor. *d.a.m.n and blast.' He kicked the chair out of his way and threw his cane across the room. It bounced off the wall and clattered on to a cabinet. *G.o.d d.a.m.n that G.o.dforsaken b.i.t.c.h to h.e.l.l eternal.'

His face was drained a white with fury.

*There must be something we can do,' I said.

*Nothing.' Mrs Woodminster put down her needlepoint. *They will be well out of territorial waters by now.'

Sidney Grice clenched his fists and almost doubled up in a paroxysm of rage.

I heard a clink and saw that my guardian's eye had fallen on to the floor. He put a clawed hand to his face in unspeakable hate and frustration and, raising his right foot, brought it crunching down, grinding the gla.s.s with his heel into coloured shards and sharp crushed powder.

*Well, it looks like your murderer has outwitted you and escaped, Mr Grice.' Mrs Woodminster clapped her hands together. *Oh, I cannot wait to tell my friends in the Sewing Society.' And in the lamplight her eyes positively sparkled.

On the way out I fell over. The pavement was slippery and I missed my footing.

68.

The Doctor *It is a nasty sprain.' The doctor's voice was soothing with a soft Scottish accent. *You are fortunate not to have broken it. Make yourself comfortable, Miss Middleton, and I will bind it for you.'

The doctor opened a drawer in his desk and brought out a roll of bandage and a pair of long straight-bladed scissors with flattened ends.

*It will feel a little tight,' he said, *but we should be grateful it was not your right hand. I should not want your writing career to be hampered.'

*How did you know I write?'

He wound the bandage around my wrist in a series of figures of eight.

*I read your biography of your father,' he said, *and thought it excellent, especially the battle scene. It almost made me believe I was there.'

*Thank you,' I said, *but it sold very few copies.'

The doctor wound the bandage over the webbing of my thumb and back up my wrist.

*The trouble is that the book market is swamped with so much romantic rubbish these days that quality literature like ours tends to get overlooked.'

*You write too?' I asked.

He shrugged modestly. *I try, and I have to say that your work made me think that a retired army doctor might make a good character in a story I am writing.'

*What sort of a story?' I asked as he cut the bandage and ripped a tear from the free end.

*I am not sure,' he said, tying the ends neatly together, *but your guardian is an interesting subject.'

*I think he has probably been written about enough by now,' I said, and he shrugged again and said, *You are probably right.'

I stood and paid him.

*You are my first patient of the day,' he told me, *and I would not be surprised if you are the last. It is so difficult to establish a medical practice from scratch.'

*Well, I shall certainly be recommending you,' I said. *Thank you for your help, Dr Conan Doyle.'

You were a hopeless dancer. You never trod on my feet but that is all I could say in your defence. You had no sense of rhythm and were the only man I ever met who would try to waltz in 4/4 time. You could not sing either. Your voice was a pleasant baritone but you could no more hold a tune than consomme between your fingers.

Once, after a few drinks and no doubt encouraged by your comrades, you tried to serenade me from the garden by my window a a romantic ballad, I think, but I could not stop myself giggling. You were hurt at first but then you started chuckling and we were both bent double, trying to catch our breaths, when father came out to see what was going on and you tried to run away but fell into a mulberry bush.

Sing to me now, my darling. I won't laugh, I promise.

69.

News For a whole week Sidney Grice did not appear. He locked himself in his room and though Molly left pots of tea outside his door he rarely touched them or the bowls of stewed vegetables she replaced every few hours.

*I don't know what he's living on,' she told me, and I did not know when he slept either, for I could hear his footfalls in his bedroom throughout the day and whenever I awoke in the night he was still pacing.

*I have not seen him this way since...' Molly said, but could not finish her sentence. *Oh, I do hope he is not indulging in his secret vice.'

The idea of my guardian having a vice was rather appealing.

*But what is this vice?' I asked.

*I can't say I know, miss.' Molly screwed up her pinafore. *For it is a secret.' Her eyes filled and she scurried off.

A few callers came and Molly sent them all away.

On the eighth day, when I went down to breakfast, I was surprised to see my guardian already seated at the table and crunching on a pile of charcoaled toast in the shelter of his copy of The Times. He greeted me with a cheery grunt but did not lower his paper, contentedly humming behind it as he rustled the pages.

*Excellent, excellent,' he said, happily sipping his tea. *One hundred and twenty-four dead.'

*Why? What has happened?'

My boiled egg was cold and I resolved to skip breakfast and go out to a tea house.

*Wonderful news in the Thunderer,' he said, lowering the paper, and I saw his face happier than I would have believed possible. *A storm in the Bay of Biscay. Most ships managed to ride it but one rotting hulk sank with the loss of all hands and pa.s.sengers. Guess the name of that ship, March.'

*The Framlingham Castle.'

*None other.'

*Oh,' I said, *but all those poor souls...'

I remembered Grace Dillinger, so elegant and beautiful and a little flushed when I opened the front door to her on my first day. I remembered Father Brewster, his clear honest face and the intensity of his prayers for the man she was sacrificing. How much did he know? Did he try to save her as the ship broke up? Did they cling to each other as the raging sea choked and tossed and sucked them down?

*Well, March,' Sidney Grice said. *I think this calls for a celebration.' And reaching out, he pulled the bell twice for a fresh pot of tea.

70.

The Last Letter I opened the secret compartment, took out the bundle and undid the bow. The paper was dry, a little yellowed, and brittle as I unfolded it.

The last letter ended with the same words as the rest but this time I read them.

Always remember...

I told you a lie once. I thought it was a small lie and harmless and just for that once, but some lies grow malignant and live for ever. Would you forgive me if you knew? I like to think you would.

I touched the gold and untied the black ribbon knotted through it.

Always remember... you wrote.

I watched a man in torment and, in my heart, I actually said a little prayer of thanks. Could you forgive me that? I am not so sure.

I saw the chip that made it less real at first but more real now.

Always remember, you wrote, and I could hardly read the words, that you are beautiful.

I slipped the ring on to my finger and my hands trembled just as yours did those few years so very long ago.

71.

Grasping the Nettle *I still do not understand,' I said, the afternoon after the news of the shipwreck, *why Grace Dillinger killed Sir Randolph. Surely he was the one man who could help William?'

We were having hot b.u.t.tered m.u.f.fins by the fire.

My guardian shook his head. *On the contrary, he would do nothing of the sort. Sir Randolph never said he had perjured himself and indeed it was his refusal to do so that sealed his fate. If he would not be her witness, at least she could claim that he was and sow more seeds of doubt.'

*But why was his body taken to the family tomb?'

*Whatever his sins,' Sidney Grice licked his fingers, *Father Brewster was still a priest and Sir Randolph was one of his parishioners, albeit an irregular attender. He laid out the body and performed last rites.'

*The oil on his forehead,' I said.