Alex Mair said: 'I could argue that what you are killing isn't a child and that repugnance at an act isn't evidence of its immorality.'

Dalgliesh said: 'But isn't it? Doesn't Mrs Dennison's natural repugnance tell us something about the morality of the act?'

She gave him a brief, grateful smile and went on: 'And isn't this use of a foetus particularly dangerous? It could lead to the poor of the world conceiving children and selling the foetuses to help the rich. Already I believe there's a black market in human organs. Do you think a multi-millionaire who needs a heart-lung transplant ever goes without?'

Alex Mair smiled. 'As long as you aren't arguing that we should deliberately suppress knowledge or reject scientific progress just because the discoveries can be abused. If there are abuses, legislate against them.'

Meg protested: 'But you make it sound so easy. If all we had to do was to legislate against social evils Mr Dalgliesh for one would be out of work.'

'It isn't easy but it has to be attempted. That's what being human means, surely, using our intelligence to make choices.'

Alice Mair got up from the table. She said: 'Well, it's time to make a choice now on a somewhat different level. Which of you would like coffee and what kind? There's a table and chairs in the courtyard. I thought we could switch on the yard lights and have it outside.'

They moved through to the drawing room and Alice Mair opened the french windows leading to the patio. Immediately the sonorous booming of the sea flowed into and took possession of the room like a vibrating and irresistible force. But once they had stepped out into the cool air, paradoxically, the noise seemed muted, the sea no more than a distant roar. The patio was bounded on the road side by a high flint wall which, to the south and east, curved to little more than four feet to give an unimpeded view across the headland to the sea.

The coffee tray was carried out by Alex Mair within minutes and, cups in hand, the little party wandered aimlessly among the terracotta pots like strangers reluctant to be introduced or like actors on a stage set, self-absorbed, pondering their lines, waiting for the rehearsal to begin.

They were without coats and the warmth of the night had proved illusory. They had turned as if by common consent to go back into the cottage when the lights of a car, driven fast, came over the southern rise of the road. As it approached its speed slackened.

Mair said: 'Lessingham's Porsche.'

No one spoke. They watched silently as the car was driven at speed off the road to brake violently on the turf of the headland. As if conforming to some prearranged ceremony they grouped themselves into a semicircle with Alex Mair a little to the front, like a formal welcoming party but one bracing itself for trouble rather than expecting pleasure from the approaching guest. Dalgliesh was aware of the heightening tension: small individual tremors of anxiety which shivered on the still, sea-scented air, unified and focused on the car door and on the tall figure which unwound from the driver's seat, leapt easily over the low stone wall and walked deliberately across the courtyard towards them. Lessingham ignored Mair and moved straight to Alice. He took her hand and gently kissed it, a theatrical gesture which Dalgliesh felt had taken her by surprise and which the others had watched with an unnaturally critical, attention.

Lessingham said gently: 'My apologies, Alice. Too late for dinner, I know, but not, I hope, for a drink. And God, do I need one.'

'Where have you been? We waited dinner for forty minutes.' It was Hilary Robarts who asked the obvious question, sounding as accusatory as a peevish wife.

Lessingham kept his eye on Alice. He said: 'I've been considering how best to answer that question for the last twenty minutes. There are a number of interesting and dramatic possibilities. I could say that I've been helping the police with their inquiries. Or that I've been involved in a murder. Or that there was a little unpleasantness on the road. Actually it was all three. The Whistler has killed again. I found the body.'

Hilary Robarts said sharply: 'How do you mean, "found"? Where?'

Again Lessingham ignored her. He said to Alice Mair:

'Could I have that drink? Then I'll give you all the gory details. After unsettling your seating plan and delaying dinner for forty minutes that's the least I owe you.'

As they moved back into the drawing room Alex Mair introduced Dalgliesh. Lessingham gave him one sharp glance. They shook hands. The palm which momentarily touched his was moist and very cold.

Alex Mair said easily: 'Why didn't you ring? We would have kept some food for you.'

The question, conventionally domestic, sounded irrelevant, but Lessingham answered it. 'Do you know, I actually forgot. Not all the time, of course, but it honestly didn't cross my mind until the police had finished questioning me and then the moment didn't seem opportune. They were perfectly civil but I sensed that my private engagements had a pretty low priority. Incidentally, you get absolutely no credit from the police for finding a body for them. Their attitude is rather, "Thank you very much, sir, very nasty, I'm sure. Sorry you've been troubled. But we'll take over now. Just go home and try to forget all about it." I have a feeling that that isn't going to be so easy.'

Back in the drawing room, Alex Mair threw a couple of thin logs on to the glowing embers and went to get the drinks. Lessingham had refused whisky but had asked for wine. 'But don't waste your best claret on me, Alex. This is purely medicinal.' Almost imperceptibly they edged their chairs closer. Lessingham began his story deliberately, pausing at times to take gulps of the wine. It seemed to Dalgliesh that he was subtly altered since his arrival, had become charged with a power both mysterious and oddly familiar. He thought: He has acquired the mystique of the story-teller and, glancing at the ring of fire-lit and intent faces, he was suddenly reminded of his first village school, of the children clustered round Miss Douglas at three o'clock on a Friday afternoon for the half hour of story-time, and felt a pang of pain and regret for those lost days of innocence and love. He was surprised that the memory should have come back so keenly and at such a moment. But this was to be a very different story and one unsuited to the ears of children.

Lessingham said: 'I had an appointment with my dentist in Norwich at five o'clock and then briefly visited a friend in the Close. So I drove here from Norwich, not from my cottage. I'd just turned right off the B1150 at Fairstead when I nearly crashed into the back of this unlit car skewed across the road. I thought it was a damn silly place to park if someone wanted to take a leak in the bushes. Then it crossed my mind that there could have been an accident. And the right-hand door was open, that seemed a bit odd. So I drew into the side and went to take a look. There was no one about. I'm not sure why I walked into the trees. A kind of instinct I suppose. It was too dark to see anything and I wondered whether to call out. Then I felt a fool and decided to leave it and mind my own business. And it was then that I almost tripped over her.'

He took another gulp of the wine. 'I still couldn't see anything, of course, but I knelt down and groped about with my hands. And it was then that I touched flesh. I think I touched her thigh, I can't be sure. But flesh, even dead flesh, is unmistakable. So I went back to the car and got my torch. I shone it on her feet and then slowly up her body to her face. And then, of course, I saw. I knew it was the Whistler.'

Meg Dennison asked gently: 'Was it very terrible?'

He must have heard in her voice what she obviously felt, not prurience but sympathy, an understanding that he needed to talk. He looked at her for a moment as if seeing her for the first time then paused, giving the question serious thought.