and the skirt fell open to reveal a pair of tight-fitting shorts in the same material. As far as Cordelia could see, she wore nothing else. Her feet were bare and her long, shapely legs were untanned by the sun. Cordelia reflected that those white voluptuous thighs must be more erotic than a whole city of sunburnt limbs and that the girl knew it. Sophia Tilling’s dark good looks were only a foil to this gentler, more entrancing beauty.
At first sight the fourth member of the party was more ordinary. He was a stocky, bearded young man with russet curly hair and a spade-shaped face, and was lying on the grass by the side of Sophie Tilling.
All of them, except the blond girl, were wearing old jeans and open-necked cotton shirts.
Cordelia had come up to the group and had stood over them for a few seconds before they took any notice of her. Shesaid: “I’m looking for Hugo and Sophia Tilling. My name is Cordelia Gray.”
Hugo Tilling looked up: “What shall Cordelia do, love and be silent.”
Cordelia said: “People who feel the need to joke about my name usually enquire after my sisters. It gets very boring.”
“It must do. I’m sorry. I’m Hugo Tilling, this is my sister, this is Isabelle de Lasterie and this is Davie Stevens.”
Davie Stevens sat up like a jack-in-the-box and said an amiable “Hi.” He looked at Cordelia with a quizzical intentness. She wondered about Davie. Her first impression of the little group, influenced perhaps by the college architecture, had been of a young sultan taking his ease with two of his favourites and attended by the captain of the guard. But, meeting Davie Stevens’ steady intelligent gaze, that impression faded. She suspected that, in this seraglio, it was the captain of the guard who was the dominant personality.
Sophia Tilling nodded and said, “Hullo.”
Isabelle did not speak but a smile beautiful and meaningless spread over her face.
Hugo said: “Won’t you sit down, Cordelia Gray, and explain the nature of your necessities?”
Cordelia knelt gingerly, wary of grass stains on the soft suede of her skirt. It was an odd way to interview suspects—only, of course, these people weren’t suspects—kneeling like a suppliant in front of them. She said: “I’m a private detective. Sir Ronald Callender has employed me to find out why his son died.”
The effect of her words was astonishing. The little group, which had been lolling at ease like exhausted warriors, stiffened with instantaneous shock into a rigid tableau as if struck to marble. Then, almost imperceptibly, they relaxed. Cordeliacould hear the slow release of held breath. She watched their faces. Davie Stevens was the least concerned. He wore a half-rueful smile, interested but unworried, and gave a quick look at Sophie as if in complicity. The look was not returned; she and Hugo were staring rigidly ahead. Cordelia felt that the two Tillings were carefully avoiding each other’s eyes. But it was Isabelle who was the most shaken. She gave a gasp and her hand flew to her face like a second-rate actress simulating shock. Her eyes widened into fathomless depths of violet blue and she turned them on Hugo in desperate appeal. She looked so pale that Cordelia half expected her to faint. She thought: “If I’m in the middle of a conspiracy, then I know who is its weakest member.”
Hugo Tilling said: “You’re telling us that Ronald Callender has employed you to find out why Mark died?”
“Is that so extraordinary?”
“I find it incredible. He took no particular interest in his son when he was alive, why begin now he’s dead?”
“How do you know he took no particular interest?”
“It’s just an idea I had.”
Cordelia said: “Well, he’s interested now, even if it’s only the scientist’s urge to discover truth.”
“Then he’d better stick to his microbiology, discovering how to make plastic soluble in saltwater, or whatever. Human beings aren’t susceptible to his kind of
At first sight the fourth member of the party was more ordinary. He was a stocky, bearded young man with russet curly hair and a spade-shaped face, and was lying on the grass by the side of Sophie Tilling.
All of them, except the blond girl, were wearing old jeans and open-necked cotton shirts.
Cordelia had come up to the group and had stood over them for a few seconds before they took any notice of her. Shesaid: “I’m looking for Hugo and Sophia Tilling. My name is Cordelia Gray.”
Hugo Tilling looked up: “What shall Cordelia do, love and be silent.”
Cordelia said: “People who feel the need to joke about my name usually enquire after my sisters. It gets very boring.”
“It must do. I’m sorry. I’m Hugo Tilling, this is my sister, this is Isabelle de Lasterie and this is Davie Stevens.”
Davie Stevens sat up like a jack-in-the-box and said an amiable “Hi.” He looked at Cordelia with a quizzical intentness. She wondered about Davie. Her first impression of the little group, influenced perhaps by the college architecture, had been of a young sultan taking his ease with two of his favourites and attended by the captain of the guard. But, meeting Davie Stevens’ steady intelligent gaze, that impression faded. She suspected that, in this seraglio, it was the captain of the guard who was the dominant personality.
Sophia Tilling nodded and said, “Hullo.”
Isabelle did not speak but a smile beautiful and meaningless spread over her face.
Hugo said: “Won’t you sit down, Cordelia Gray, and explain the nature of your necessities?”
Cordelia knelt gingerly, wary of grass stains on the soft suede of her skirt. It was an odd way to interview suspects—only, of course, these people weren’t suspects—kneeling like a suppliant in front of them. She said: “I’m a private detective. Sir Ronald Callender has employed me to find out why his son died.”
The effect of her words was astonishing. The little group, which had been lolling at ease like exhausted warriors, stiffened with instantaneous shock into a rigid tableau as if struck to marble. Then, almost imperceptibly, they relaxed. Cordeliacould hear the slow release of held breath. She watched their faces. Davie Stevens was the least concerned. He wore a half-rueful smile, interested but unworried, and gave a quick look at Sophie as if in complicity. The look was not returned; she and Hugo were staring rigidly ahead. Cordelia felt that the two Tillings were carefully avoiding each other’s eyes. But it was Isabelle who was the most shaken. She gave a gasp and her hand flew to her face like a second-rate actress simulating shock. Her eyes widened into fathomless depths of violet blue and she turned them on Hugo in desperate appeal. She looked so pale that Cordelia half expected her to faint. She thought: “If I’m in the middle of a conspiracy, then I know who is its weakest member.”
Hugo Tilling said: “You’re telling us that Ronald Callender has employed you to find out why Mark died?”
“Is that so extraordinary?”
“I find it incredible. He took no particular interest in his son when he was alive, why begin now he’s dead?”
“How do you know he took no particular interest?”
“It’s just an idea I had.”
Cordelia said: “Well, he’s interested now, even if it’s only the scientist’s urge to discover truth.”
“Then he’d better stick to his microbiology, discovering how to make plastic soluble in saltwater, or whatever. Human beings aren’t susceptible to his kind of
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