'This is your first visit, isn't it? What do you think of it?'
'It's remarkable. And unexpected.'
'You're interested in Victorian architecture?'
'Interested, but not at all knowledgeable.'
'I shouldn't tell Ambrose that. He'll devote the whole weekend to educating you in his passions and prejudices. I've done my homework so I'll forestall him by telling you now that the architect was E. W. Godwin who worked for Whistler and Oscar Wilde and was associated with the aesthetes. What he aimed for – so he tells us – was the careful adjustment of solids and voids. Well, he's achieved that here. He did some perfectly awful town halls including one at Northampton – not that Ambrose would admit to its awfulness – but I think that he and I will agree about this achievement. Are you taking part in the play?'
'No, I'm here to work. I'm Miss Lisle's secretary, her temporary secretary.'
His quick glance was surprised. Then his lips curved in a smile. 'So I should imagine. Clarissa's relationships tend to be temporary.'
Cordelia said quickly:
'Do you know anything about the play? I mean, which company is acting in it?'
'Didn't Clarissa explain? They're the Cottringham Players, said to be the oldest amateur company in England. They were started in 1834 by the then Sir Charles Cottringham, and the family have more or less kept them going ever since. The Cottringhams have been mad about acting for over three generations, their enthusiasm invariably in inverse proportion to their talent. The present Charles Cottringham is playing Antonio. His great-grandfather used to take part in the revels here until he was imprudent enough to cast a lascivious eye on Lillie Langtry. The Prince of Wales made his displeasure known, and no Cottringham has spent the night under the castle roof ever since. It's a convenient tradition for Ambrose. He need only entertain the leading lady and a few private guests. Judith Cottringham has a house party for the producer and the rest of the cast. They'll all come over tomorrow by launch.'
'Where did they act before Mr Gorringe offered the castle?'
'It was offered, I imagine, by Clarissa rather than by Gorringe. They gave an annual performance in the old assembly rooms at Speymouth, an occasion more social than cultural. But tomorrow shouldn't be too discouraging. A Speymouth butcher, appropriately enough, is playing Bosola and he's reputed to be good. Ferdinand is taken by Cottringham's agent. Hardly Gielgud; but Clarissa tells me that he knows how to speak verse.'
The sound of the engine died to a gentle shudder and the launch slowly edged towards the jetty. The stone quay curved from the terrace in two arms to form a miniature harbour. At intervals, steep steps festooned with seaweed led down to the water. At the end of the eastern, longer arm was a charming folly, a circular bandstand of delicate wrought iron, painted white and pale blue with slender pillars supporting a curved canopy. Beneath this stood the welcoming party, a group of two men and two women, as immobile and carefully positioned as a tableau. Clarissa Lisle was a little to the front, her host attendant at her left shoulder. Behind them, waiting with the impassive, careful non-involvement of servants, stood a dark-clad man and woman, the man out-topping the group in height.
But the dominant figure was Clarissa Lisle. The immediate impression, whether by chance or design, was of a goddess of classical mythology with her attendants. As the launch drew alongside the quay Cordelia saw that she was wearing what looked like shorts and a sleeveless top in closely pleated cream muslin with, over it, a loose-fitting, almost transparent shift in the same material, wide-sleeved and corded at the waist. Beside this deceptively simple, cool flowing elegance Roma Lisle in her trouser-suit seemed to exude a sweaty and eye-dazzling discomfort.
The waiting group, as if under instruction, held their poses until the launch gently bumped the landing steps. Then Clarissa fluted a small cry of welcome, spread batwings of fluttering cotton and ran forward. The pattern was broken.
During the chatter which followed the formal introductions and while Ambrose Gorringe was supervising the unloading of luggage and the humping ashore of boxes of supplies from a locker in the stern, Cordelia studied her host. Ambrose Gorringe was of middle height with smooth black hair and delicate hands and feet. He gave an impression of spry plumpness, not because he carried excess fat but because of the feminine softness and roundness of his arms and face. His skin gleamed pink and white, the circular flush on each cheekbone looked almost artificial. His eyes were his most striking feature. They were large and sparkling bright as black, sea-washed pebbles, the surrounding whites clear and translucent. Above them the brows curved in a strong arch as tidily as if they had been plucked. The ends of the mouth curved upwards in a fixed smile so that the whole face held the shining humorous animation of a man enjoying a perpetual internal joke. He was wearing brown cotton trousers and a black short-sleeved singlet. Both were highly suitable for the weather and the occasion, yet to Cordelia they seemed incongruous. Something more formal was needed to. define and control the latent strength of what she guessed was a complex and, perhaps, a formidable personality.
In his way the manservant, now supervising the loading of the luggage and crates of supplies on to a small motorized truck, was equally remarkable. He must, thought Cordelia, be well over six feet in height and with his dark suit and heavy white lugubrious face had the spurious gloom of a Victorian undertaker's mute. His long, rather pointed head sloped to a high and shiny forehead topped with a wig of coarse black hair, which made absolutely no pretensions to realism. It was parted in the middle and had been inexpertly hacked rather than trimmed. Cordelia thought that such a bizarre appearance could hardly be inadvertent and she wondered what perversity or secret compulsion had led him to contrive and present to his world a persona so uncompromisingly eccentric. Could it be revulsion against the tedium, the conformity or the deference demanded of his job? It seemed unlikely. Servants who found their duties frustrating or uncongenial nowadays had a simple remedy. They could always leave.
Intrigued by the man's appearance she scarcely noticed his wife; a short, round-faced woman who stood always at her husband's side and didn't speak during the whole course of the disembarkation.
Clarissa Lisle had taken absolutely no notice of her since their arrival but Ambrose Gorringe came forward, smiled and said:
'You must be Miss Gray. Welcome to Courcy Island. Mrs Munter will look after you. We've put you next to Miss Lisle.' Cordelia waited until the Munters had finished unloading the launch. As the three of them walked together behind the main party, Munter handed his wife a small canvas bag with the words:
'Not much post this morning. The parcel from the London Library hasn't come. That means Mr Gorringe probably won't get his books until Monday.'
The woman spoke for the first time. 'He'll have plenty to do this weekend without new library books.'
At that moment Ambrose Gorringe turned and called to Munter. The man moved forward, changing his quick steps to a stately unhurried walk which was probably part of his act. As soon as he was out of earshot Cordelia said:
'If there's any post for Miss Lisle it comes first to me. I'm her new secretary. And I'll take any telephone calls for her. Perhaps I'd better take a look at the post. We're expecting a letter.'
Rather to her surprise, Mrs Munter handed over the bag without demur. There were only eight letters in all, held together in a rubber band. Two were for Clarissa Lisle. One, in a stout envelope, was obviously an invitation to a dress show. The name, but not the address, of the prestigious designer, was engraved on the flap. The second, an ordinary white envelope, was addressed in typing to:
The Duchess of Malfi, c/o Miss Clarissa Lisle, Courcy Island, Speymouth, Dorset