She gulped down her tea, pulled on her trousers and shirt and went in search of Ambrose. She had hardly hoped to find him so early but he was already in the breakfast room, coffee cup in hand, gazing out over the lawn. It was one of the rooms which she had seen on Friday's quick tour of the castle, the furniture and fittings all designed by Godwin. There was a simple refectory table with a set of fretwork-backed chairs while one long wall was entirely covered by a set of cupboards and open shelves, charmingly carved in light wood and surmounted by a tiled frieze in which orange trees in bright blue pots alternated with highly romanticized scenes from the legend of King Arthur and the Round Table. At the time Cordelia had thought it an interesting example of the architect's move towards the simplicities of the Aesthetic Movement, but now its self-conscious charm was lost on her.
Ambrose turned at her entrance and smiled.
'Good morning. It looks as if we're going to be lucky in the weather. The guests should arrive in sunshine and get back without risk of parting with their supper. The crossing can be treacherous in bad weather. Is our leading lady awake?'
'Not yet.'
Cordelia made a sudden resolution. It could do no harm to tell him. The woodcut almost certainly came from his house. Clarissa had told her that he already knew about the poison-pen messages. And Clarissa was his guest. Above all, she wanted to see his reaction to the paper. She held it out and said:
'I found this pushed under Clarissa's door this morning. Does it belong to you? If so, someone has mutilated it for you. Look on the back.'
He studied it briefly, then turned it over. For a moment he was silent. Then he said:
'So the messages are still coming. I did wonder. Has she seen this?'
There was no need to ask whom he meant. 'No. And she won't.'
'Very wise of you. I take it that weeding out this kind of nuisance is one of your duties as secretary-companion?'
'One of them. But does it belong to you?'
'No. It's interesting, but not my period.'
'But this is your house. And Miss Lisle is your guest.'
He smiled and wandered over to the sideboard.
'Will you have coffee?' She watched while he went over to the hotplate, poured her cup and refilled his own. Then he said:
'I accept the implied criticism. One's guests certainly have the right not to be harassed or menaced while under one's roof. But what do you suggest I can do? I'm not a policeman. I can hardly interrogate my other house guests. That, apart from its certain lack of success, would only result in six aggrieved persons instead of one. I doubt whether Clarissa would thank me. And, forgive me, aren't you taking this a little too seriously? I admit that it's a practical joke in poor taste. But is it any more than a joke? And surely the best response to this kind of nonsense is a dignified silence, even a certain amused contempt. Clarissa is an actress. She should be able to simulate one response or the other. If there is someone on the island who is trying to spoil her performance he – or more likely she – will soon give up if Clarissa demonstrates a total unconcern.'
'That's what she will do, at least until after the play. She won't see this. I can trust you not to tell her?'
'Of course. I have a strong interest in Clarissa's success, remember. You didn't put the thing there yourself by any chance?'
'No.'
'I thought not. Forgive my asking, but you see my difficulty. If it wasn't you, it was presumably her husband – except that he isn't here at the moment – her stepson, her cousin, her faithful dresser, or one of her oldest friends. Who am I to start probing these family and long-standing relationships? Incidentally, that woodcut belongs to Roma.' 'To Roma! How do you know?'
'You do sound fierce, quite like a schoolmistress. Roma used to teach you know. Geography and games, Clarissa tells me. A strange combination. I can't quite picture Roma, whistle at the lip, panting down the hockey field exhorting the girls to greater efforts or plunging into the deep end of the swimming pool. Well, perhaps I can believe that. She has aggressively muscular shoulders.'
Cordelia said:
'But the woodcut?'
'She told me that she found it in a second-hand book and thought I might be interested in seeing it. She showed it to me yesterday, just before the rehearsal, and I left it on the blotter on my desk in the business room.'
'Where anyone could have seen and taken it?'
'You sound like a detective. As you say, where anyone could have seen and taken it. It looks, incidentally, as if the message were typed on my machine. That, too, is kept in the business room.'
The typesetting, at least, would be easy enough to check. She might as well do it now. But before she could make the suggestion Ambrose said:
'And there's another thing. Forgive me if I find it rather more annoying than Clarissa's poison pen. Someone has broken the lock of the display cabinet outside the business room and taken the marble arm. If, during your duties as secretary-companion you should happen to learn who it is, I'd be grateful if you would suggest that he or she put it back. I admit that the marble's not to everyone's taste but I have a fondness for it.'
Cordelia said:
'The arm of the Princess Royal? When did you notice that it had gone?'
'Munter tells me that it was in the display case when he locked up last night. That was at ten minutes past midnight. He unlocked this morning shortly after six but didn't look at the display case although he thinks that he might have noticed if the arm had gone. But he can't be sure. I myself saw that it was missing, and that the lock had been forced, when I went to the kitchen to make tea just before seven.' Cordelia said:
'It couldn't have been Clarissa. She was asleep when I got up this morning. And I doubt whether she'd have the strength to break a lock.'
'Not much strength was required. A strong paper-knife would have done the trick. And, conveniently enough, there was a strong paper-knife on the desk in the business room.'
Cordelia asked:
'What are you going to do?'
'Nothing, at least until after the play. I can't see how it affects Clarissa. It's my loss, not hers. But I take it you would prefer her not to know?'
'I think it's vital that she doesn't know. The least thing could upset her. We'll just have to hope no one else notices that the arm has gone.'
He said:
'If they do, I suppose I can say that I've removed it since Clarissa found it so displeasing. It's humiliating to have to lie when there's no need, but if you think it important that Clarissa isn't told…'
'I do. Very important. I'd be grateful if you'd say and do nothing until after the play.'
It was then they heard the footsteps, firm, quick, clanging on the tiled floor. Both turned simultaneously and gazed at the door. Sir George Ralston appeared, tweed-coated and holding a grip. He said:
'I got through the meeting late yesterday. Drove most of the night and slept in a lay-by. Thought Clarissa would like me to put in an appearance if I could make it.'
Ambrose said:
'But how did you get to the island? I didn't hear a launch.'
'Found a couple of early fishermen. They put me ashore in the small bay. Got my feet wet but nothing worse. I've been on the island a couple of hours. Didn't like to disturb you. Is that coffee?'
A jumble of thoughts ran through Cordelia's mind. Was she still wanted? She could hardly ask Sir George directly with Ambrose present. She was supposed to be on the island as Clarissa's secretary, a job that was unlikely to be affected by his sudden appearance. And what about her room? Presumably he would wish to move next door to his wife. She was uncomfortably aware that she must look less than pleased to see him and that Ambrose was glancing at her with a sardonic, wryly amused look which recognized her discomfiture. Murmuring an excuse she slipped away.