THE FACE OF EVIL

Christopher Nicole

... you must know that pain is nothing more than apart of pleasure. Pain, and humility, and surrender, are as important as pride, and brutality, and mastership, in the experience of the ultimate fulfilment. In time you will be permitted to practise all of those upon us. But at the moment... your mind is too young, too inexperienced.... We must deal with your mind first.' And the way to her mind was through the body.

The Face of Evil

Christopher Nicole

ARROW BOOKS

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AN IMPRINT OF THE HUTCHINSON GROUP
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First published by
Hutchinson & Co (Publishers) Ltd 1971
Arrow edition 1972	

This book is published at a net price and supplied subject to the Publishers Association Standard Condition of Sale registered under
the Restrictive Trade Practices Act 1956
© Christopher Nicole 1971

Made and printed in Great Britain by The Anchor Press Ltd.,
Tiptree, Essex isbn 0 09 906050 7

'So farewell hope, and with hope farewell fear, Farewell remorse; all good to me is lost; Evil be thou my Good.'
JOHN   MILTON
 Paradise Lost

The characters and events in this novel are invented; any resemblance to real characters or events is coincidental and unintended.

Acknowledgement

The quotation from The Golden Bough is reprinted by permission of the executors of Sir James Frazer.
Contents
Incident at Sea	15
The Widow	39
The Coven	68
The Sabbat	102
The Ultimate Pleasure	127
The Accused	162
The Trial	200
The Execution	238

'Stand back! Stand back there!' The policemen formed two lines, arms outspread, restraining the onlookers, mostly women, who crowded the steps of the Old Bailey. In the centre of the divided crowd was left an avenue perhaps six feet wide.
Cynthia Earlswood paused in the doorway to allow John Bowen to catch up with her, and smiled at the spectators; she would not see them again once she entered the valley between the large policemen. Mrs. Earlswood was only just five feet tall, and was quite absurdly beautiful. Her face was a perfect heart, with high forehead, small nose, delicately pointed chin. Her complexion was superb, and she wore her straight black hair to her shoulders, parted in the centre, with never a trace of grey despite the vicissitudes, proved or unproved, of her life. But her lips, although wide and smiling, were a shade thin, and her eyes, a deep amber which suggested a pair of caverns at the end of which were shafts of diffused sunlight, possessed a quality of disinterest which was disturbing. They were eyes which never changed, as Bowen had observed, and during the past few weeks he had been able to watch her in every possible emotional circumstance. Whatever happened, Mrs. Earlswood had revealed no hope, no love, and not even any hatred, which was most surprising of all. Once he thought he had discerned fear, but this perhaps feminine weakness had been so brief he was no longer sure it had been there. Even the amusement which had always been present had been confined to her lips. Cynthia Earlswood was not a part of the world in which she moved; she regarded that world as a part of her. In his profession John Bowen had met a great many totally self-centred, selfish people, and found them uniformly unattractive. He wished he could form the same opinion about Mrs. Earlswood.
She exuded wealth and the confidence that goes with it. She wore a three-quarter-length mink coat, pulled close against the chill November evening, a matching hat, and three-inch heels. Her high heels were the only indication Bowen had ever received that she had the slightest interest in what people thought of her.
She descended the steps with so regal an air that someone started to clap, and was joined by several others. Then there were some boos.
'It's always like this.' Bowen took her elbow. 'It's exciting.' Her voice was low, unexcited. I feel like an actress.'
Bowen decided against making the obvious rejoinder, checked her as they reached the gaggle of young men, armed with notebooks and cameras, who waited in front of the white Bentley convertible. 'Mrs. Earlswood is very tired'
'Just one photograph'
Cynthia Earlswood smiled into the lens.
'Did you ever have any doubts as to the result, Mrs. Earlswood?'
'No.' Cynthia turned her smile on the young woman who had got out of the Bentley, and was opening the door for her. The girl was bareheaded, with pale yellow hair drifting down her back. She wore a sheepskin jacket which allowed just a glimpse of skirt, and black knee-boots. The legs were long and muscular, made more so by black tights. Her face was bland rather than pretty.
'And what are you going to do this evening, Mrs. Earlswood?' asked another reporter.
Cynthia appeared to consider. I am going home. I am going to have a lobster salad, and a bottle of champagne. And then I am going to bed.' She smiled at the crowd for a last time, and frowned instead as she picked out a face she had not noticed before, waiting at the top of the steps. Then her forehead cleared, and she held out her hand, as small and as delicate as the rest of her. 'I'll say goodbye, John. Come out to lunch tomorrow. I would like to thank you properly.'
‘I did my job, only, Cynthia' Her hand was cold. Bowen released it, stepped back.
'And when you go to bed, Mrs. Earlswood,' said a third reporter, made nervous by his own boldness, 'will you be alone?'
Cynthia had bowed her head to enter the car: She checked, and turned, looking at hint over her shoulder. ‘I never steep alone, darling,’  she said softly. 'As I am sure you have realised by now.' She shrugged. 'Tonight it may even be my husband.' She sat down. The roof was up, and she was immediately shrouded in shadow. The girl closed the door, walked round the car, got behind the wheel. The crowd parted, reluctantly, and the Bentley moved away from the kerb.
'Cheeky bastard,'Andrea said.	
Cynthia opened the bar, poured herself a glass of brandy. 'The press being what it is,' she said, ‘I suppose that aspect of events has interested them most. I haven't read a newspaper in weeks.’
'I've put a selection of the best ones on the seat.' Andrea switched on the reading lamp in the rear of the car, negotiated traffic, red lights, one-way streets with great skill, swung on to a -clearway. The engine began to hum.
Cynthia sipped her brandy. ‘I had always intended to become a public figure, one day. My problem was how to do it, in the most effective manner. Now it has been done for me. Did you see Michael in the crowd?'
'Yes,' Andrea said. 'Imogen was not with him.'
‘I should think the police are having a word with her. Perjury is a very serious offence. But it is a pity. I would like to see them again, to have them ...' Her tongue came out and slowly circled her lips. 'And I let him off appearing in the witness box. It would have made such a lovely headline. "Schoolmaster in sadistic orgies." '
‘I can't tell you how glad I am you didn't call me,' Andrea said. 7 was petrified. So was Patrick.'
'Patrick was very good. Very convincing. Where is he?'
'He didn't stay for the verdict. He said he knew what it had to be. He has gone home to arrange a welcome, for you.' Andrea drove with both hands on the wheel. She watched the road, but every few seconds she glanced in the rear-view mirror. This was adjusted to Cynthia's face.
'Dear Patrick.' Cynthia picked up a newspaper, began to read. She crossed her right knee over her left, but thereafter her legs never moved. There was no finger tapping. She did not even blink very often. Sometimes she half smiled.
The car turned through wrought-iron gates, followed a curving drive. Cynthia closed the newspaper, uncrossed her legs, and the Bentley came gently to a halt in front of the portico. The house had been built in the spacious days of the late nineteenth century. Then there had been nothing but the slight hills and the woods and the stream, so empty, so quiet, that on a June afternoon it was possible to hear, the enormous roar swelling across the Downs as the horses rounded Tottenham Comer. Now there were rows of small, neat houses, and small neat gardens, containing small, neat families who drove small, neat cars and kept small, neat dogs. But still there was no neighbour nearer than a quarter of a mile. Salvatore Maladay had built this house, and wooded these thirty acres, for his son and his son's family, had protected them from the tax man by a series of skilful if not always honest financial manoeuvres. And in a sense a Maladay still ruled here.
Cynthia stepped down, looked up at the house. There were no lights to be seen. Where is everyone?'
'They are downstairs,' Andrea explained. 'They thought you would wish to go there, right away, after all this time.'
Cynthia smiled. 'They are sweet people. Really they are. I  have missed them all.' Her hand closed on Andrea's wrist. 'But I have missed you most of all. Why did you never come to see me?'
Andrea moved away, and the fingers relaxed. The girl opened the boot, took out the suitcase. 'Mr. Earlswood thought it would be best if I didn't.'
'Did you miss me?'. 
‘I dreamed of you every night, Mrs. Earlswood. But we must go downstairs, or they will be very disappointed.'
Cynthia opened the front door, stepped into the darkened hall, switched on the lights. Suits of armour frowned at her from behind the potted palms. Maladay House remained eternally Victorian, because Carter Maladay had wished it so. and Cynthia respected the memory of her first husband. She waited for Andrea to take off her coat, glanced at herself in the full-length mirror; her hair, as ever, was satisfactory; her green woollen dress required a slight smoothing.
She walked down the hall, past the great staircase, opened a heavy oaken door, turned on the light, blinked, and was plunged into darkness once again. 'Patrick!' Her soft voice penetrated the vaulted room. ‘I am too tired to enjoy anything tonight. It really has been a considerable strain.' .
There was no sound from the darkness in front of her. Cynthia reached the floor after descending thirteen steps, paused, listened to the tap-tap of Andrea's feet behind her.
'Turn on the lights, Patrick. I have said that I am not in the mood.' Although she still spoke quietly, there was a sudden brittleness in her voice.
'Cynthia Earlswood,' said a man, so close to her that she started. 'Formerly Maladay, née Lambert, there are crimes for which you must answer.'
Cynthia smiled. The sound of her released breath was clearly audible in the darkness. 'Is that you, Thomas? You were never very good at disguising your voice. Are you jealous, Thomas? Is Patrick jealous? Are you all jealous? Would you all have liked to stand there beside me? You wouldn't have enjoyed it. It was quite frightening.'
'No one in that court understood your crimes,' said the man. 'Understood how to go about making you confess to them. Understood how properly to punish you for them.'
Cynthia turned, placed one foot on the step. A hand was thrust into her chest, forcing her backwards, and other hands closed on her arms, pressing her falling. Although v she could not see, she could feel people all around her.  People she knew so well. So intimately.
'Andy, was that you? Really, I do not think you are at all amusing. Patrick? Switch on the lights this instant. If you have missed me this much, we can play a game later on. After have eaten, and had a bath.'
'There will be no eating, Cynthia Earlswood,' said the man. 'And no bathing. There will be questions'.
'Don't be ridiculous.' Cynthia attempted to move, but her arms were still gripped.
'If you Refuse to answer, we will have to persuade you.'
This timee Cynthia laughed, an unusual event, and one which indicatcd her anger. 'And how will you do that, Thomas, darling? Will you stretch me on the rack, tear my flesh with red-hot irons, put me to the strappado, perhaps?'
'They await your pleasure, madam.'
Cynthia felt herself being turned by her captors, and in the same instant the lights were switched on. For a moment she was blinded, and closed her eyes. Then she opened them again, to gaze on the cellar she knew so well. The cellar of Maladay House had been famous always, for the wines qf Salvatore Maladay. The last of his short line had found' a different use for it, and Cynthia had spent many enjoyable hours down here. But this cellar she did not recognise, or perhaps she recognised it too well. Cynthia Earlswood screamed.

Incident at Sea

Grey shapes, slipping through the dusk, rising and falling to the swell of the sea, each carving its own flicker of white. They reminded Michael of a ghost fleet, lightless and therefore sinister. But not quiet their noise was all around him.
Dusk was the most frightening time. It seemed incredible that anything could happen in daylight; there were so many ships, so many people, a whole nation out here upon the sea. No tin cylinder could interfere with this peaceful exodus. But the hours of darkness were dangerous. Last night he had Iain in his bunk, his teddy bear clutched in his arms, waiting for the explosion, wondering what it was going to be like. And last night they had only just lost sight of Ireland.
Now they were really at sea. But, then, being this far out also meant they were that much closer to Canada. Tonight, and then tomorrow night, and they'd start seeing Canadian or American destroyers and perhaps even planes. That was what Ben said. Tonight and tomorrow night. Forty-eight hours. How wonderful to be able to go to sleep, tonight, and wake up the day after tomorrow, and know he was safe. And if he did not wake up, he would never know. It was the knowing, the waiting, which was terrifying. He supposed he was a coward. But even Ben was afraid. On their last night in England, when Patrick and Michael had knelt to pray before getting into bed, Ben had smiled at them, and shaken his head in disbelief. Last night Ben had not smiled at all. He hadn't prayed either, of course. But he hadn't smiled.
'Psst!.' It was Patrick, secretive as ever, hand twiddling the third button of his blazer, the button which was always coming off, to the irritation of matron. But there was no matron here. And the stewardesses all seemed so busy. 'Guess what. Ben's got a bird. I’ll show you when we sit down.'
The supper gong was pealing. There were so many children on board they were fed an hour before the adults, crammed together in the tourist dining saloon. Ben's lot were seated at the very end of one of the long tables, first Ben, very neat as usual, upper lip dirtied by the incipient moustache which was his proudest possession, but then he had hair all over; then Herb, who was second-in-command, being fourteen, but who, having gained a first-eleven trial last summer was miserable at the thought of spending this summer in Canada (Do they play cricket in Canada?); and then the two juniors.
'There she is,' Patrick whispered. 'See that table over there? She's the blonde. Long hair? It curls.'
The girl was drinking soup. Her head kept disappearing as she lowered her mouth to meet the spoon. Or maybe it was the roll of the ship. It was difficult to decide, because of the closed ports. He had been to France on a holiday with his mother, in 1938, and he had been sick during every meal, coming and going. Because he had always watched the horizon going up and down. He hadn't been sick once on this voyage, because he couldn't see the horizon when eating. Something to remember on future trips. If there were ever going to be future trips.
‘What're you staring at?’ Ben growled.
'I wasn't, Ben, really,' Michael protested. 'I was daydreaming.'
‘You were staring at Miss Lambert. Watch it, young Mike, or it'll be six of the best for you.' Like all the best fathers, Ben did not believe in sparing the rod. And he genuinely enjoyed beating people. The trouble was, the way Ben handled a cane, Michael often enjoyed it too. And then, afterwards, he hated Ben and he hated himself. But Ben was really not a bad chap, for a sixth-former. When he had first looked over the three boys who were in his care he had pulled Michael's bear out of the carryall by one leg and whirled it round his head. 'No teddies on this trip,' he had declared. 'Childhood ends here.’ But when Michael had burst into tears, Ben had lowered the toy and gazed at him for several seconds, and then had stuffed the bear back into the carryall. 'At that,' he had said, 'you might just need him. But I'd fill him with kapok, if I were you.' It had been easy to make jokes like that, when they had still been in England. But-Michael had always been grateful to Ben for that-act of kindness, would always be grateful to him. Even when he hated Ben for caning him, there was a lot of love in the hate, as well.

ii

Next morning they were messing about on the games deck, the only place on the ship where the children were not supervised, and where they could make as much noise as they liked. It was a good May morning. The greyness which Michael always associated with England in May was absent, the sky was blue, the wind was light, and only a little chilly, and the sea was smooth. It was empty, too, and so was the sky. No planes could fly out here. And perhaps no submarines could exist down there, in that bottomless dark blue. Besides, it was daylight again, the third day. Nothing could happen in daylight, and they were coming up to halfway. He could feel his stomach unclenching its muscles.
He played chess, with Patrick, on Patrick's pocket set. They were about equal. Patrick might be a year older, and more experienced, but Michael was the better player. They played chess all day long. 'That's all they do,' Ben explained, and they scrambled to their feet as his shadow fell across them. 'This is Patrick,' Ben said. 'He's eleven. Not a bad little runt. And this is Michael. He's ten. You want to watch our Mike. He's a troublemaker.'
The girl wasn't pretty. This was disappointing. Somehow one expected Ben's girl to be a juvenile Carole Lombard. Of course, she had magnificent hair, long and yellow and curling. But she also had a large nose and a small mouth. On the other hand, she was a big girl, almost as tall as Ben, and she looked older. And no one could deny that Ben already looked a man, even without the hair. 'Hi,' she said. 'I'm Corinne. And this is Cynthia.'
Michael hadn't noticed the little girl. She was so tiny she could have been overlooked anywhere, a small dark ball, with a tight, anxious face, every feature bunched together like a monkey's. Her hair was the purest jet Michael had ever seen, and so straight and luxuriant it might have been carved from a piece of ebony. Her limbs were so thin he felt he could snap them between his hands;      
'Cyn is my cousin,' Corinne explained, apologetically. Cynthia stared at Michael. She had peculiar eyes. They made Michael remember looking into Father's after-dinner glass of brandy. Unlike most people, Father had drunk his brandy in tumblerfuls. It was the only thing about Father that Michael could remember.
"You're not on your own?' Ben asked.	
'Lord, no.’ Corinne shook her head, and the faint breeze caught the curling hair and scattered it. 'We're sharing a cabin with my mum and Mrs. Lucas. B Deck.'
'We're on D.' Ben made it sound very important to be on D.
'By yourselves?' Corinne's pale blue eyes were enormous.
'The three of us and Herbert, yes. We're all from the same school. Brackery. You must have heard of it?’
'Odh!' Corinne Lambert exclaimed. 'Isn't it terribly expensive?'
'Costs a fair whack,' Ben admitted. 'It's for the sons of people who would send them to Eton, if they could pass the entrance exam. We're the dumb ones.'	
'And you're travelling alone? Just the four of you?’ Ben hesitated, looking at the two boys. Michael knew he was debating whether or not to lie. But a lie would be pointless: she'd be sure to find out about Johnno. 'There's a master in charge,' he said. There ate twelve of us, you see. When things got rough it was decided to evacuate the school, being in Kent. Our folks decided Canada was the place for us.'
'Ooh,' Corinne said again. 'Your parents must be very wealthy.'
‘We make ends meet,' Ben said. 'Now what about you and your cousin coming down to our cabin after lunch,'
"That would be terrific. Mum and Mrs. Lucas always play bridge after lunch. They'd never think of looking for us.'
'Aunt Alice wouldn't like us to,' said the little girl, Cynthia. Her voice was hardly more than a whisper.
Ben's expression suggested that he'd like to take the cane to her. 'She wouldn't know.'
'We're only going to play Monopoly. You like Monopoly, Cyn.
Cynthia pouted.'I don't like boys.'
'She's only nine, you see,' Corinne said,
'You don't even look like cousins,' Ben said. 'Does she
have to come along?'
'I have to look after her. All the time. That's what Mum says. But we'll come down. Don't worry. I'll talk her into it. Cynthia was staring at Michael again. Her expression, was contemptuous. He put out his tongue, and she turned her back.
Lunch was a tense meal. Suppressed excitement made digestion impossible. Ben lectured them in a low tone. 'You chaps just do everything I suggest,' he said. 'Everything. This Corinne and I could have a good thing going but for that little bint she's trailing around. So we have to go at it all together.'
' Herbert shook his head. 'You don't want to rush things, old man.'
"Don't I? We'll be in Montreal in two days' time. We'll never see each other again.'
'But what do you want to do, Ben? You and Corinne, I mean?'Michael asked. 
'Give him another bun,' Ben begged. 'And tell him to get on with it.'
At least the Monopoly was his game. The Monopoly and his teddy bear were the only really personal possessions he had taken. Patrick helped him to sort the money. Patrick liked handling money, even pretend money. While the little boys arranged the game, Herbert lay in his bunk and read Wisden Cricketers' Almanack, and Ben brushed his hair. But they all sat up when the door opened.
It was Landles, the second steward, a silent little man whose expression had grown more and more gloomy as he had watched the children trooping on board. He gazed into the cabin, and sniffed, like a watchdog.
'Nobody ever taught you to knock?' Ben asked.
'You watch your lip, young fellow,' Landles said. 'You're Mr. Johnson's lot. I know. I have my eye on you. And what are you doing down here, I should like to know.'
'It happens to be our cabin,' Herbert pointed out.
'It's a fine sunny afternoon,' Landles said. 'All them kids are on deck. Excepting you.'
‘We're worried about our complexions’ Ben said. 'Yon wouldn't want us to spoil them, Landles.'
'Mr. Landles to you, young fellow.'
'Okay, Mr. Landles. Close the door behind you, there's a good chap.'
The door banged. 'I don't like him,' Ben said. 'He has B.O.'
'And his moustache is bigger than yours.’ Patrick ducked.
‘Do you think he suspects something?' Herbert asked.
'How the hell could he suspect anything?' Ben demanded. But he was nervous. He kept opening the door and checking the corridor. He had opened the door; seven times when he sighed with relief, and beckoned the two girls inside. 'That blasted steward was prowling around just now. Did you see him?'
‘No.' Corinne was flushed with excitement. When She was flushed, and breathing hard, she was almost pretty.
'He'll tell Aunt Alice,’ Cynthia said. 'And she'll lock you in the cabin, Corinne. You know she will.'
'She'll lock you up as well,'Ben said.
'No she won't. I'll tell her you all made me come down here.'
'Oh, shut up, do,' Corinne said. They played Monopoly for an hour and a half. That was all the time Ben needed to own every property on the board.' ‘You're terrific,' Corinne said.
It was a cheat,' Cynthia declared. 'Those two sold him every property he asked for.' She glared at Patrick and Michael. And they let him off rents.'
'One good thing about boys' schools,' Herbert said. 'They teach you how to lose decently.'
'Well, what'll we play now?' Corinne was excited, too. Almost as excited as Ben. And their excitement made Michael excited, although he had no idea what was going to happen next. What could happen next?
'We'd better go,'Cynthia said.
'Whatever for?' Corinne wondered. 'Mum will be playing bridge until five at the earliest, and it's only half past three. Don't you know any more games, Ben?'
Ben took out his pack of cards. They were marked cards, but the marking was so cleverly done that Patrick and Michael had not yet worked out where to look. Not that they wanted to know, really. Ben could do the most surprising tricks with these cards, and they were content with that.
'I don't know how to play cards,' Cynthia said.
This is a very simple game,’ Ben said. 'Anyone can play it. Even Michael knows now to play it. Don't you, Mike?'
'Oh, yes, Ben,' Michael said obediently, and wished he did.
'What's the game called?' Corinne wanted to know.
'It's a sort of forfeits. We'll have a trial hand. Pack up that rubbish, Mike.'
Michael crammed the Monopoly back into its box, and they all sat cross-legged on the deck.
Ben shuffled. 'It can be quite exciting. I suppose you've read The Suicide Club’
'Who hasn't read that?' Cynthia asked scornfully.
'Well, those chaps all wanted to die, right? Only they didn't like the idea of committing suicide, and they all liked gambling. So...'
'So they dealt the cards.' Corinne said excitedly. 'And the ace of spades did the killing, while the ace of clubs was the victim. Or was it the other way around?'
'Doesn't matter,' Ben said. 'There were more of them than there are of us, so, for us, any ace is the executioner, any knave the victim.' The executioner?'Cynthia asked.
The ace demands the forfeit, silly,' Corinne said. 'And the knave pays it.'
Ben dealt the cards, face up, one to each person. Patrick received the knave of diamonds. 'It's you for the high jump, Patsy. You'd better hope it's not me with the first ace.’ But of course Michael knew, as Patrick knew, that with this pack Ben could deal whichever card he wished to whoever he chose.
Cynthia received the first ace. She picked it up and looked at it with her brandy-liquid eyes. 'What do I do?'
'You make him give you a forfeit, silly,' Corinne said.
'It doesn't have to be something,' Ben explained. 'It's like the Suicide- Club, remember? We all have things we want to do, or have, or see, but we're afraid to say what we want. But in this game everything goes. Anything you've ever wanted. You can make Patsy do something. Or you can do something to him, if you like.'
‘Ooh!’ Corinne said. 'What a suggestion.'
‘Oh, well, of course, you mustn't do anything to hurt him,' Ben said hurriedly. 'Not really hurt him, I mean.’
'I don't know what I want him to do.' Cynthia appeared thoroughly bored by the whole thing. 'Can you stand on your head?'
'No,' Patrick said. 'And the ship's rolling.'
'Do what the lady asks,' Herbert said. I’ll help you.’
Patrick placed his hands on the deck, rested his head between them, tried to raise his legs, and had his ankles gripped by Herbert. For a moment he was hanging upside down, and then Herbert let go, and he collapsed on top of Michael. Herbert roared with laughter, and even Cynthia smiled, a surprising relaxation of the tight face. Michael watched Ben, whispering to Corinne, watched the girl flushing. She was definitely pretty when she flushed. His excitement was growing all the time. Something was going to happen. Something memorable.
'All right, Patrick,' Ben said. 'Stop rocking the boat. That was just a dry run, of course. Are you going to play. Cynthia?'
'Oh, I suppose so.'
'Well, there's just one thing. We must all promise to pay the forfeit, whatever it may be. Otherwise we'd never get anywhere.'
'Oh, yes,' Corinne agreed. 'I promise.'
Cynthia nodded. But she was obviously thinking of her next command, not of what might happen to herself. Ben reassembled the pack, shuffled, dealt, exactly reversed She first situation. 'Quick revenge, Patrick.'
‘Well, she can stand on her head,' Patrick said.
'I can't,' Cynthia objected.
'Neither could I,’ Patrick pointed out.
'But I'm wearing a dress’
'You promised,' Corinne said.
.'I'll hold vour legs, too,' Herbert said.
Cynthia hesitated, glanced around the cabin, the eager faces. Michael thought he saw a tear in one of her eyes.' Then she placed her head on the floor. Herbert caught her ankles and swept them upwards, and she gave a short scream. Her legs looked very smooth. Especially the thighs. Michael wanted to touch them, and he wished he were holding her ankles, instead of Herbert, because instead of holding her ankles together, as he had done with Patrick, Herbert was holding them several inches apart, and looking down, and Cynthia s pants weren't as tight as all that.
And suddenly he knew that he was not alone in his excitement. Even Cynthia was flushed and panting when she resumed her seat, although that could have been because of the blood rushing to her head.
Corinne won the next deal, with Michael as her victim. She gazed at the card for several seconds, and her tongue came out and circled her lips, delightedly. Michael was so excited he had an erection. Ben has a cane,' Corinne said. 'I'd like to cane you, Mikey. Six of the best.'
Because Ben had suggested it, of course. When they had been whispering together.
'He'll bend over the washbasin,' Ben said.
'You said we wouldn't hurt each other,' Michael begged.
'She's not going to hurt you, stupid. But it'll be trousers off. There's no fun in caning trousers.'
'I can't, Ben.'
'Then we'll have them off you. You can help, Cynthia.'
Cynthia actually laughed. Corinne had already picked up the cane, was swishing it to and fro. Michael hastily dropped his pants, bent over the basin. But he wasn't quick enough.
'He's got something the matter with him,' Cynthia shouted, and Michael hated her.
'There's nothing the matter with him? Herbert said.
'I've never seen one of those before,' Corinne confessed. 'May I touch it Ben?'
'No,' Michael shouted.
'You'll have to win another forfeit,' Ben decided. 'But you'll have one, all right. Maybe on me. You can touch mine. It's bigger.'
'Ooh, may!?'
'After you've whacked Mike. Bend over, Michael, old son.'
Michael bent over, biting back the shame tears. But soon they were real tears. Corinne hit much harder than Ben had ever done. After the third stroke he tried to get up, but Herbert and Ben each held one of his arms and he had to take three more, while tears flooded his face.
'Cry baby,' Cynthia chanted.
'You wait,' Michael spluttered. 'You wait.'
Those are very pretty stripes,' Ben said, 'Come on, sit down. Michael knelt.
'Next deal.’ Ben was working to a careful plan. Once again the luck was exactly reversed.
Michael threw the ace of hearts on top of Corinne's spade knave. 'Now I'm going to whack you. On your bare bottom.'
'No!' Corinne cried, and looked at Ben. 'Girls don't get caned.'
'You can't cane her,' Ben said, 'It's a rule, Mike. Each forfeit can only be used once in a game.'
'You let Patrick make Cynthia stand on her head.'
'Because the first one was only a trial,' Ben explained. 'You'll have to think of something else.'
Michael had never noticed before, but Ben's eyes were remarkably like Cynthia's, endlessly liquid. Although Ben's were darker, coffee, not brandy. And Corinne? She smiled at him, and thrust out her big chin. She was scared. And he wanted to hurt her, to humiliate her as she bad humiliated him. He hated Corinne Lambert. He would always hate Corinne Lambert.
'Come on, Mike,'Herbert said.
Michael's heart pounded. 'I want to pull her hair. Six times.'
'Well, that's straightforward enough,' Ben said.
Corinne laughed, a high-pitched sound, hysterical with relief. 'So long as you don't pull it out.' She inclined towards him. her head bent.
Michael sucked air into his lungs. 'Not that hair.'
Corinne rocked backwards, the colour exploding into her cheeks.'I don't have any other hair.'
'Oh, yes, she has,' Cynthia shouted. 'A great big bush on her tummy. I've seen it.'
Corinne's breath rasped. 'You don't touch me.'
Ben was staring at Michael, almost with admiration in his eyes. 'You little bastard, Mikey. I warned you we'd have to watch him, Corinne. He's a blighter, isn't he? But it is a forfeit’
- .'I won't let him.' Corinne stood up. Tm going to find Mum.'
'You're afraid,' Cynthia said. 'You're a sneak and a cheat and a coward, Corinne Lambert.' 'And I'm going to slap your beastly little face.'
'Come on, be a sport, Corinne.' Ben said. 'You did promise to play. And it's only Mikey. It might have been me.'
Corinne hesitated. Then nobody else must look.’
'We all looked when you whacked him.'
'Oh, you!’ She panted. 'Oh ... all right.' She remained standing, closed her eyes, slipped her hands under her skirt, pushed her pants down to her knees. The dress fell forward, but Michael raised it up. There was no sound in the cabin above the breathing of six pairs of lungs. Corinne's thighs were soft and smooth, too, much rounder than Cynthia's, and pressed together. And between, under his hand, there was curling softness, far thicker than Ben's, and pulsing with heat. Surprisingly, it was not yellow, was hardly darker than Ben's. He closed his fingers, touched flesh, also pulsing, and pulled. Corinne opened her eyes. 'Ow! You little beast.'
He released her, took another handful, pulled again. And then again. Her body moved to and fro, and tears rolled out of her eyes. Michael was pulling for a fourth time when the cabin door opened.

'You kids!' Landles said. But he was gazing at Corinne. She gave a gasp, dropped to her knees, head bowed, fingers scrabbling as she tried to yank the pants up her thighs. Michael remained, also kneeling in front of her.
'I ought to break your neck,' Ben said.
'You lay a finger on me and I'll have you flogged,’ Landles said. 'Nasty little sex maniacs. I knew you were up to something. I knew it. It's a chat with the skipper for you, young fellow. And you, miss. Leading these kids astray.'
'Oh, my Lord,' Corinne said. 'It was just a game.''
'Just a game, Mr". Landles,' Ben said. 'Nothing was going to happen.’
'Going to happen,' Landles asked derisively. 'It's what has already happened bothers me. You kids clear off. Not you, young fellow. Nor you, miss. You and me have got to have a little chat. You lot, hop it. And if you've any sense you'll keep your mouths shut.'
'Do as he says,' Ben ordered, as the boys hesitated. 'You too, Herbie. And don't worry! Corinne and I will sort everything out.’
Corinne sat on a bunk, hands dangling. She looked about to be sick.
'Come on.' Herbert closed the door. 'Clear off. And like Ben said, keep quiet.' He thrust his hands into his pockets, walked down the corridor.
'What are we going to do?' Cynthia asked. 'I knew it would turn out bad. We're going to be in the most terrible trouble. When Aunt Alice finds out...’
'She's not going to find out,' Patrick said. 'Ben will take care of that little squirt. I'm going for a walk.' He followed Herbert.
Michael hesitated. For the first time since coming on board he did not want to be at Patrick's side. 'Let's go on deck.' He led Cynthia up the stairs. The ship trembled as it met a slight wave, and for a moment the propeller was ragged. From the distance there came a rattle of crockery. "Did you ... I mean, were you scared in the cabin?'
'When we started. Then I got excited. I'm still excited. Does what happened to you happen to all boys?’
'Oh, yes. Ben has one nearly all the time.'
'Oh.’ She glanced at him over her shoulder. 'I have to go.' She ran down the corridor.
'See you at supper,' Michael shouted. 'And we'll see if we can find out what happened with Ben and Corinne,' he muttered. But Ben wouldn't tell them, and Corinne wasn't at supper at all. After three days at sea she had suddenly got seasick, someone said. But it no longer seemed important. A sea fog had arisen, right in the middle of the beautiful afternoon. The ships had become even more ghostly, when they could be seen at all. Most of the time they were out of sight, and the liner ploughed through a calm sea as if it were peace time, except that there were no sounds, and no lights. 'I don't know what you're all so scared about,' said one of the stewardesses. 'We're much better off in a fog. So long as we don't hit one of the other ships.'
Patrick and Michael were packed off to bed at eight-thirty, and, being juniors, they had the upper berths. Michael lay in bed, the blanket up to his chin, breathing paint, and stale air, and listening to the throbbing grind of the engines which were quite close underneath D Deck, and realised that it was night-time once again, and he at least was not really scared. He was too excited. ‘I wonder what did happen?'
'Ben'll tell us, when he's ready.' Patrick switched off the light.
Michael swept the bear into his arms, and went to sleep. And woke up just as suddenly. Nothing had changed. The engine beat still thumped under the deck, and the glass in the washstand shuddered. He wondered what time it was. But surely it must be near dawn. The fourth day out. They were over halfway. They were safe. 'The ship gave a jerk, arid changed speed, and Michael slid up the sheet and banged his head.
'What in the name of God was that?' Herbert said from the other side of the cabin. His voice was silenced by a jangling bell.
‘We've been hit.' Ben rolled out of bed, switched on the light It flickered, but stayed on. Michael peered over the side of the bunk. He thought, I'm dreaming this. I'm going to wake up again in a moment, and it'll be dawn.
Ben grinned at him. 'Grab that life-jacket, Mikey. And don't be scared. You remember where we go. B Deck. Come on. chaps. Let's get a move on.'
Patrick was trembling. He pulled on his life-jacket, but his fingers were shaking so hard he couldn't tie the knots. Ben did it for him.
Herbert pulled on his cricket blazer, tucked the Wisden into his side pocket, dropped the life-jacket over his head. 'Look at that!’
Ben's suitcase crept out from under the bed, hesitated, as if surprised by the light and the people, and then inched its way across the floor.
The engines stopped, and there was a blowing sound, ' like a vast factory going at full blast, and a lot of shouting and banging. The light flickered again.
The door burst open, and Landles looked in. 'For Chrissake, you bloody kids,' he bellowed. 'Get on deck.' Then he was gone again.
'Let's go.' Ben seized Michael's hand, and Michael just had the tune to grab Teddy before he was whirled down the corridor, once so familiar, now so strange, because it was filled with people as on the first day in Southampton, with the same air of excitement, only this time everyone was in pyjamas, and wearing life-jackets, and shouting, and the noise of the steam being blown out of the funnels was louder than ever.
'Stay close!'Ben shouted over his shoulder.
‘Will do.' Herbert had Patrick by the arm, was pushing his way through the crowd. ‘I wonder where Johnno and the other lads are?'
'Haven't a clue,' Ben panted. Michael wondered where. Cynthia was, and wondered why he was interested. Why her, and not Corinne? He could never forget Corinne. He did not think Corinne would ever forget him.
Ben burst through a last crowd of pushing, shouting, screaming children and their parents, and the cold night air whipped their faces. It was just as crowded out here, and., strangest of events, there were lights blazing over the sea, striking the fog wall which surrounded them, reflecting like sunshine. But there were no other ships, although the night was full of sound, explosions, whistles, throbbing engines. Never had Michael felt so lonely, in the midst of so many people.
'Boat 5.' Ben dragged him along the sloping deck. But as he did so, there was a tremendous bang from between Michael's legs. The deck shot upwards, and if it hadn't been for Ben's hand he'd have fallen. As it was, they found themselves against the rail, only the rail seemed to be the deck, and the cabin bulkheads were the deck above, and below them was water.
'She's going,' someone shouted, and someone else screamed, and a rush of people came towards them. Ben looked down. 'We're going to have to swim.'
'Ben!' Corinne screamed. 'Ben!'
Immediately beneath them, a lifeboat hung, like a slide, for the forward fall had been released or had broken, and, the bow of the boat actually lay in the water. But the after falls still held, and the boat was tilted at a forty-five-degree angle. Corinne was in the stern, both arms round the transom. Landles was beside her, one arm round her shoulders, shouting at her. She shrugged him aside, waved. 'Jump!' she begged.
'We'll never make it,' Michael gasped, and was sick, over the rail, and over a little man who was crawling towards him. absurd because his feet kept slipping through the iron struts.
But Ben was already jumping, over the rail and plummeting downwards, Michael in his arms. Ben struck first, and Michael flew out of his arms and skidded down the boat. The water seemed to be reaching for him, groping upwards, dark and ugly, and cold, even to look at, and he held on to a thwart, and looked up, and wished he hadn't. The liner was immediately above his head, and tilting all the time, twenty thousand tons of steel coming down on his head. He screamed, and vomited again, and choked on his own vomit, and gasped for breath, and heard Landles shouting, 'Cut it, cut, cut it,' and realised that Herbert and Patrick were also in the boat, and Herbert, who was a Boy Scout as well as a cricketer, was sawing at the falls with his scout knife. He looked up again, at the looming, overbalancing ship, and at the hundreds of people crowding the decks, helping to make the liner top-heavy, afraid to follow the example of the boys and jump, and saw a sleek head of smooth black hair.
'Cynthia!' he screamed. 'Jump! It's not far! Jump!'
She crawled through the rail, a tiny dark figure in pink pyjamas and a life-jacket. 'Catch me!' she yelled, and launched herself into space.
The lifeboat struck the water with a huge splash, as Herbert cut through the last of the rope. Michael discovered that he was being sick again, but it no longer seemed important. He leaned over the side, waiting .for Cynthia to reappear. How dark the water looked, streaked with foam, now, because although there was hardly any wind there was so much splashing and banging and exploding. But there was no Cynthia, and while he looked he was struck a violent blow on the shoulder.
'Ow!’ he bawled, and turned round to see Ben and Herbert each manning an oar. 'What about Cynthia?' he yelled.
The liner was going. The screams from the decks became louder, and more and more people were jumping now, but they couldn't reach the lifeboat, or any of the other lifeboats, because these were all moving as quickly as possible.
'Wait!' Corinne shouted. 'Cyn!'
She was swimming behind them, arms flailing, mouth opened, trying to scream and swim at the same time and swallowing mouthfuls of water.
Ben and Herbert stopped rowing. Another man came through the water, gasping and waving. He and Cynthia reached the boat at the same time, and the man pushed Cynthia under in his haste to scramble up. Landles brought both his hands together and swung them like a sandbag, struck the man on the side of the head. He made a peculiar noise and fell back into the water. Herbert and Ben were leaning over the side to drag at Cynthia, and Michael scrambled aft to help them. She lay in the bottom of the lifeboat, panting, water streaming out of her hair and squeezing from the pink pyjamas.
'Now where's that bloke?’ Ben said.
Herbert peered over the side. 'Gone.’
'I didn't hit him that hard,' Landles said.
'He wasn't wearing a jacket,' Ben explained. 'Didn't you see? That's why he was in such a hurry.'
'He can't be,' Landles said. 'It's all just a mix-up. Oh, my God!'
There was another explosion. But how long ago had been the first? Ten seconds? Ten minutes? - Ten hours? This one set the entire night alight, while the clinging mist confined: the molten blaze to so limited an area they might have been looking at a film, except that this was all in colour, and not even Gone With the Wind had attempted such a backdrop. Landles was shouting, but his words were incomprehensible. In any event, Michael didn't want to listen. He dropped into the bottom of the boat, beside Corinne, and she put her arms round his head, squeezed it against her life-jacket. The noise still echoed, changing only its timbre and its direction. The lifeboat heaved and bounced, and Michael vomited into Corinne's lap. Water rained on his head, and be knew they must drown. And then, without warning, there was a silence which was louder than the explosions, and the lifeboat tossed gently on the ripples left by the sunken ship.
Corinne seemed to have forgotten he was there. She pulled herself up, and he slipped down her legs and bumped his head on the boat's bottom. So he sat up too, and stared at the mist. Now he could almost hear again, shouts and cries, coming out of the night, and the darkness which had descended on the boat.
 'See anybody?' Ben asked.	
He was standing up in the stern. Michael wished he would sit down. If Ben went overboard, that was that. Herbert was in the bows, also looking into the sea. Patrick arid
Cynthia were sitting in the stern, holding hands. Landles sat beside them, gazing at Corinne. Corinne knelt amidships, hanging over the side. She was vomiting.
Ben cupped his hands over his mouth. 'Hallo!' he bawled. 'Anybody there?'
'Supposing the Germans hear you?' Herbert asked. 'I read a book once, about the last war, where these kids got picked up by the submarine which had sunk them.'
'That was a book,' Ben said contemptuously.
Herbert remembered, thrust his hands into the pockets of his blazer. 'My Wisden,' he shouted. 'It's gone. It must have fallen out' He sat down on the thwart shoulders hunched, the picture of dejection.
Michael realised he had lost Teddy, as well. Teddy was floating somewhere around the North Atlantic. He'd float until he became waterlogged, and then he would sink, down, to the bottom. But so would lots of other people.
Corinne subsided down the gunwale, half turned, sat in the bilge, feet drawn up, head sagging. 'I didn't see Mum.' she muttered. 'We left the cabin together, and then the boat fell over, and we got separated. Cynthia! Are you here, Cyn!’
'Yes.' Cynthia seemed less upset than anyone; But, then, she was the youngest. Probably she didn't understand.
'Did you see Mum, Cyn? Or Mrs. Lucas?'
'No,' Cynthia said. 'I think everybody's dead, except us.'
Corinne started to cry, great ugly tears which started from her belly and came retching upwards.
'Sit down, young fellow,' Landles said to Ben. 'If you haven't seen anybody by now, you won't see anybody any more.' He moved amidships, and knelt 'And now I think we will all join in prayer.'

IV

Michael realised he was awake. He had not actually been aware of having been asleep. But now he was definitely awake, and it was daylight. Not that the mist had lifted, but instead of being a wall of deeper darkness, it was a sinister yellowish-brown blanket, lying on the sea and the lifeboat, obliterating the sky. And it was cold. His pyjamas were almost dry, but had turned clammy; there was water in the bottom of the boat.
'Breakfast.' Landles sat aft, where there was a locker, and from this he had taken a box of biscuits and a tin mug of water. Michael blinked at him. He did not feel the least hungry, but he was terribly thirsty. The two girls sat beside each other, just in front of the steward, and Patrick was on the other side of Corinne. Michael felt a surge of jealousy. He felt that Corinne was his. And Ben's, of course. Ben and Herbert were together in the bow.
'You first, Corinne,’ Landles said. 'Just a sip, now.’
'But I'm thirsty,' Corinne said.
'Just a sip,’ Landles insisted. 'It may be a day or two; before anyone picks us up.'
'In this fog?' Ben asked. 'A ship could pass us twenty feet away and not see us.'
'The fog will lift,' Landles said. 'It always does. And we're in the shipping lane.'
'Except that convoys don't stick to the shipping lanes,' Herbert said triumphantly, and looked embarrassed . 'You don't let those two louts scare you kids,’ Landles said. 'We'll be all right. We prayed, didn't we? We'll be picked up. But we'll take it easy with the water.'
Corinne handed back the cup, and he poured a little more and gave it to Cynthia. She sipped, and then whispered to her cousin, her face glowing.
'How do we . . . ?’ Corinne hesitated. 'I mean, we all have to.'
'Over the side.' Landles held up his finger. 'That side Just hoick up your nightie and drop your backside over. I'll hold your hands.'
'It's her, really,’ Corinne explained.
'You go first,' Cynthia said.
'You go together,' Landles adjudicated. 'Ben, you come down here and hold Cynthia's hands.'
It was simpler and less embarrassing for the boys, although Michael could not figure out what would happen later on; the lifeboat was not moving through the water, and whatever went overboard lingered. On the other hand, after all his vomiting, his stomach was so empty he did hot think it would be his problem for several days.-
The cup of water was passed around, and they were each given a biscuit. 'One biscuit?' Ben demanded.

'One biscuit, young fellow,' Landles said. 'That'll keep us going. As I said, it may take a day or two.'
'We'll die of exposure first,' Ben pointed out. 'So we may as well eat.'
‘I’m in command here, young fellow.' Landles grinned at him. 'You don't want to forget that. Now then, we have got to keep our spirits up, and our minds active. We'll have a quiz. You can ask the questions, Ben. You're a sixth-former.'
'Go bugger yourself,' Ben said.
'I'll remember you said that, young fellow. All right, what about a song. Corinne? You start us on a song.'
Corinne sat in the bottom of the boat, her legs drawn up beneath her nightdress. 'My mum's dead. Don't you understand? My mum's dead. And you want me to sing.'
'You don't know she's dead, girlie. She was probably pickled up by some other boat. She's just over the horizon.'
'She's dead.' Corinne started to cry, noisily and with her whole body. Landles scratched his head, lay back in the stern and closed his eyes.
Michael crawled forward, lie's not really a bad chap, Ben,' he whispered. 'He's trying to take care of us.'
‘Him?' Ben asked. 'You don't know the bastard.'
'What did he do, Ben? To you and Corinne?'
'He whacked us. Whacked me. And Corinne. Can you imagine it?'
'Yes,' Herbert said. 'But why did you let him?'
'He gave us a choice between being whacked by him and having a chat with the captain. What would you have chosen?'
'Gosh! But to whack Corinne. Why, she must be seventeen.'
'Fifteen,' Ben said. 'She's a big girl.' 'You can say that again. Did he make her take down her pants?'
'No. I wouldn't have stood for that. But he had her skirt up. I'm surprised he didn't burst his flies. He's a nasty little devil.’
'He can't be a devil.’ Patrick had a literal mind. 'Not when he prays like that.'
'Prayers,' Ben said scornfully. 'A fat lot of good that's going to do us.'
'If God can't help us, then who will?' Michael asked.
'Where was God when the ship went down, Mike? When all  those other kids were drowned?'
"Maybe they weren't drowned,' Patrick said. 'Maybe they were all picked up.'
'You saw them drowning, Patsy.'
Which was certainly true. Michael felt scared, and since getting into the boat he had not really been scared. He had believed Landles, that they would be picked up. He crawled back amidships, and sat down to think about it. God had to be involved, somewhere, and He had to have a reason. So: Those other kids had been drowned because they were wicked. All of them? And Corinne's mother? Had they all been down in cabins pulling each others' pussies? That was unlikely. So: God had drowned those other kids because they were good. That was it. Only the good die young. Mother was fond of saying that. God let the wicked live on, maybe to give them another chance, or maybe just because He wasn't interested in them any more. Not interested in Michael, any more. He began to shiver.

v
In the middle of the afternoon it became almost warm, although they still couldn't see the sun. They had each had another biscuit and half a cup of water for lunch, but Michael remained both hungry and thirsty. He didn't want to go forward with the boys. He didn't want to go anywhere. He just wanted to lie in the middle of the boat, and think of Mother. It was the first time he had thought of Mother since leaving Southampton.
Cynthia crawled across the boat to sit beside him. 'She's still blubbering. You can't see it, but she is. She's all cut up.'
'Wouldn't you be?'
'I don't know,' Cynthia said seriously.
'Why didn't your mum come with you?'
'She's an actress. She stayed in London because she's making a film. It's her biggest role yet. She's very beautiful, you know.'
'Oh?' That was hard to believe, looking at Cynthia. ‘What about your dad, then?’
'I don't have a dad.'
'Everyone has a dad.’
'I don't. That's what Mummy says, anyway. She says I just happened along. One night, she said, she stayed out late, and a couple of months later there I was. Something to do with the night air. Why isn't your mother along?'
Michael watched Landles sit beside Corinne, begin to whisper at her. 'She had to stay with my new father,'
'Gosh. You mean you have more than one?'
'No, stupid. I did have one, but he went away, and Mother got another. He's a pilot in the air force, you see, and they haven't been married very long, so Mother thought she should stay.'
Tm glad,' Cynthia said, 'that you don't have a mother or a father either. Like me. Fm glad I'm not the only one.'
It was dusk again. Landles sat up. 'Time for evening prayers.'
'You know where you can put your prayers,' Ben said.
'Now, look, son,' Landles said. I don't want to be hard on you. We're all in this mess together, and we live or we die together. But any ship can only have one captain. And I'm the captain of this particular ship.'
'Who says so?'
'I say so. I'm the only, responsible person on board.'
'You? Responsible?' Corinne, looked up. 'You listen to him, Ben. I suppose you think it's just a lucky chance we're all in this lifeboat. Just us?'
'You shut up. girlie,' Landles snapped.
Corinne ducked under his arm, crawled forward. 'You boys shouldn't be here at all,' she gasped. 'He grabbed me when I came on deck, jumped into the boat with me, released the bow rope so we'd lie at that funny angle and everyone else would be afraid to come in with us. He was trying to let go the stern, and muttering about him and me getting away together, when I saw you, Ben. He wanted me to shut up, to stop calling to you. He wanted to float off, just him and me.'
'Bleeding little sadist,' Ben said. 'Talk about sex. Oh, we know all about you, Mister Landles. You ain't fit to be in command of a cracked potty.'
'Why, you ...' Landles got up and started forward. Cynthia raised her head. Michael couldn't be sure whether she did it on purpose or as a result of trying to get out of Landles' way, but her legs came up as well, and caught the steward across the shin. He lost his balance, plunged over the thwart. Ben was coming aft, Herbert at his side. Landles tried to raise his head; and Ben lifted his right leg and stabbed downwards with his heel, hitting Landles behind the ear. Landles fell into the bottom of the boat.
The children crowded round. 'Gosh,' Cynthia said. 'You are strong, Ben.' 'Big deal.' Herbert said. 'What's to be done now?'  'He was right, you know,' Corinne said. 'He was in command.'
'Captains at sea have the power of life and death,' Cynthia said. 'He can have you hanged, Ben.'
Ben was staring at the steward. 'Nasty little bastard.'
'But what's to be done!’ Herbert asked again.
'He's waking up!' Patrick cried.
Michael was once again aware of an immense excitement. Something was going to happen. Something tremendous. Something unforgettable. Something even bigger than touching Corinne's hair.
'You'd better hit him again,' Corinne said. 'Him and his prayers.'
Ben hesitated, and Landles slowly raised his head, then put down his hands and pushed himself upwards, and crouched, in the centre of the boat, the children in a circle around him. 'I'm going to have the law on you,' he muttered. 'All of you. Public-school boys, by God. Young ladies. Little tarts, more like. You'll all wind up in reform school. Then they'll tan your hides. God, they'll tan your hides.'
Ben kicked him in the stomach. It happened so suddenly they were all taken by surprise. Landles gave a gasp and - clapped his hands to his belly, bent over, retching.
'Go on, Ben,' Corinne screamed. 'Hit him again.'
Ben stood above the steward, and then hesitated. 'No,' he said. 'Why me? Why me, only? Why not you too. Herb?'
'I'll hit him.' Herbert held Landles' ears, brought up his knee under the steward's chin. Landles had been going to speak, and bit his tongue. He gave a moan and fell backwards, blood dribbling down his chin.
'I'll help.' Corinne came forward. She stood above Landles, kicked him in the groin, raised her foot and stamped between his legs. 'Horrible little man.'
'Now you three.' Ben was panting; there were streaks of blood across the whites of his eyes.
'Me?’ Patrick cried.
'Come on!' Ben shouted. 'Or I'll whale the tar out of you.'
Patrick licked his lips. He crawled forward, got up, kicked Landles in the thigh.
'You can do better than that,' Corinne jeered.
Patrick kicked Landlcs in the face. Cynthia bent over him and drew her nails down his cheeks, leaving red scars. There was blood on her fingers.
'Now you, Michael.'
He knew he was going to be sick. Even if he had nothing in his stomach, still he was going to be sick. He ran forward, kicked Landles in the ribs, once, twice, continued to the gunwale, sprayed the sea with bile.
'Now we're all in it together,' Ben said.
'We're not you know,' Herbert pointed out. 'The kids are too young, by law. It's you, and Corinne, and me.'
'Oh, my Lord,' Corinne said. 'Ben? What are we going to do?'
Landles moaned, and moved, trying to get up.
'You have to chuck him over now,' Herbert said.
'But knock him out, first,' Corinne said. 'Please! I couldn't bear to watch him drown.'
Michael hung over the side. This can't be happening, he thought. I'm going to wake up any moment, and I'll be in my bunk on board. But God had turned His back on them. God had drowned all the children He wanted, and taken them up to Heaven. For Michael and Ben and Herbert and Patrick and Corinne and Cynthia there was no more God. He wondered if the others felt that way too. and turned round to look at Ben and then at Corinne, and knew that they did.
'Give me a hand,' Ben said. Herbert and Corinne helped him drag Landles to the gunwale. The three children stared. Landles' eyes were open, but he did not seem able to focus, and blood was still seeping from his torn tongue.
'He mustn't float,' Corinne insisted.
'Then he has to be dead when he goes in.' Herbert said.
'Hold his shoulders.' Ben picked up Landles' head, banged it on the gunwale. Blood dribbled from the steward's temples, pooled in the bottom of the boat. Ben panted. 'Is he dead?'
Herbert shook his head.
Ben hit the head again, and again. 'He must be dead.'
Herbert felt Landles'breast.'I think so.'
'Do it, do it, do it,' Corinne screamed.
'And afterwards?'Herbert asked.
Ben looked down at the dead man, at the blood on his hands. 'Come on,' he said. 'All of you. Put your hands in this blood.'
Corinne gazed at him, and her tongue came out, as it had done just before she had caned Michael. Then she thrust her hand forward, quickly, a darting movement, and sat back and gazed at her red fingers. Cynthia drew a finger across Landles' head, and then another.
'Come on, Mike,' Ben said.
Michael retreated to the stern of the boat. 'No,' he said. 'No. Not me. No.' Ben came aft
'No!' Michael screamed. 'I. . .I'll jump over.' 'Go ahead,' Ben said.
The water looked black, and colder even than the previous night. Michael closed his eyes, and Ben held his shoulders and dragged him forward. And then his hands were wet Both of them, one after the other.
'Now swear,' Ben said. 'All of you. Say after me. I swear, by the blood in my veins, by the brains in my head, by God and by the Devil, by my mother and by my father, by my every hope and my every fear, that I shall never tell a soul what happened on board this boat, never, ever, but will say that Landles died of a bruise he got when the ship sank. I swear it, or may the worms eat out my stomach while I'm still alive.'
They repeated the words. Michael kept his eyes shut. He kept them shut until there was a loud splash, and for a while after that. He kept them shut until he felt a soft arm go round his head, and his head was pressed into a softer softness, a twin softness, punctuated by two chilled points of hardness. Corinne had taken off her life-jacket.

The Widow

'Good morning to you,' Michael said.
'Good morning, Mr. Baird,' replied the class.
He surveyed them, they surveyed him. The first day of a new term, when it was also the first day of a new school year, was a day of reconnaissance, on both sides of the blackboard. It was an exciting day, with its promise of new relationships, which might be good, which might be bad, which might be disastrous, which once or twice had been memorable. The teenagers of the Lower Sixth, having been at school for several years now, were as aware of this as their history master, and their excitement was compounded by their awareness of the examinations looming in front of them, to pass which they would need the help of this man.
Last year's Sixth had promised they would find him to be different, now they had reached the top. He did not look any different. This year he was forty. This was obvious from the grey wings to his black hair, and from the fact that the hair itself had receded slightly from the already high forehead. But there was no stoop from his six feet one inch of height, and the old sports jacket strained across his shoulders. He owned a dinghy, and sailed a great deal, on the reservoirs, on the Thames itself. Rumour had it that lucky, or intelligent, boys, and even girls, were sometimes, invited to crew.
More intelligent than lucky, the new Lower Sixth decided. Because he was intelligent. Everyone in the school had heard how he had been offered a post at a public school, and had refused. This was a feather in the cap of Blueton Comprehensive. Some people said it was because he liked matching himself against slum kids. This was too condescending to be true. Others suggested he liked the East End of London. Which was too absurd to be true. One or two pointed the finger at Miss Ogilvie. Which was nonsense, because all he had to do was marry her and take her with him. Surely. His fellow teachers nodded wisely and accepted that while he was in a class of his own as a schoolmaster, he was just too lazy to move: his mother had left him a comfortable private income, allowing him to escape the economic pressures common to the rest of them, and his little boat was his only known extravagance.
But of his intelligence there could be no doubt. The high forehead had a slight bulge, the nose was straight and long, the chin square, as was the mouth; they seemed to widen together when he smiled. His eyes were grey, and were the most interesting thing about him. They were warm, friendly eyes, most of the time. Certainly they were emotional. Past sixth-formers had been sure they had observed them twinkling during certain heated discussions. Vigorous argument by his class made Michael Baird happy. But the eyes also contained trapdoors, which sometimes descended and left their victims impaled upon a cold stare. It was a look which made even a sixteen-year-old used to fighting his way out of Upton Park every Saturday afternoon feel uncertain. Michael Baird's eyes were the most potent disciplinary weapon in the school.
'These, then, were the Lower Sixth's immediate reactions, as Baird well knew. He was delighted with his new class, as always. His other pupils, even those in the Upper Fifth, were incidental to his job. The fourteen young people now seated in front of him were his vocation. If they reached the Lower Sixth at all, they were capable of work, and ambition, and therefore interest. And if, having reached the Lower Sixth, they elected to take history, they were young people who thought rather than relied upon formulae. They were also adults, in everything but the eyes of the law. Michael Baird did not like children.
This class consisted of nine boys and five girls. The boys wore great mops of hair, sideboards, jeans and windcheaters. They were enormous, and at least six of them shaved. Boys were growing bigger earlier, as if boys, collectively, had not always been big enough. The girls were endless lengths of pale leg, in September stretching all the way from crotch to ankle, crossed, lounging, eagerly, pressed together. And above the legs, hair, like the boys, but much prettier, black or brown or yellow, reaching past the shoulders, straight and carefully brushed to keep it so. Girls were growing sexier. As if girls had not always been sexy enough.
He sat on the edge of his desk. 'Our brief is the understanding of three centuries,' he said. 'Fifteenth, sixteenth, seventeenth. The three most important centuries in our history. Someone tell me why.'
A blonde girl held up her hand. 'Because all of our thought, our culture, originated in those centuries.' Her face was long, her features wide. Her blue eyes looked sleepy. But she had splendid legs, long and slender, and, Baird decided, a body to match. And a mind as well.
'Right,' he said. ‘You are... Andrea?'
'That's right, sir.' She blushed. 'My friends call me Andy.’
'I prefer Andrea. But she is right, you know,' he said to the rest of the class. 'Our entire subconscious, in the twentieth century, is governed by the thinking of the seventeenth century, and the two before that. It was in those centuries that European man first started to think at all. He thought a great deal of very good stuff. All our scientific theories and achievements of today are based upon the discoveries of Newton, and Galileo, and da Vinci. All our political thinking stems from Hobbes and Hampden and the Bill of Rights. We still take our literature from Shakespeare. Perhaps, only in music have we completely discarded the seventeenth century, but, even so, the very idea that there could be such a thing as profane music only began in the seventeenth century. On the other hand, our ancestors also went in for a great deal of thoroughly unpleasant thinking as well, and perhaps have bequeathed even more of that. So, by understanding what motivated them, we shall understand what basically motivates us, whether we want to admit it or not. I'm talking about the masses, not the odd few who by luck or by birth or by sheer brains got out of the muck. So now I want someone to tell me what was the greatest influence on thought during the three centuries after 1400.'
A hand went up. 'The capture of Constantinople by the Turks.'
'What makes you choose that?' 'Because it drove the centre of intellect westward, thus stimulating the Renaissance, and creating an atmosphere in which men could think.'
'And your farm labourer went to Rome every year to admire Michelangelo painting the Sistine ceiling. What that chap had heard of Rome he didn't like, and he had never heard of Michelangelo.'
Another hand. 'What about the discovery of America, sir? It made Europe more outward-looking.'
'Quite true. But it only started halfway through our period, and again, it affected only a very small part of the community. No doubt it affected more Englishmen than any other nationality, but we happen to be considering all of Western Europe.'  "What about the Reformation, sir?'
'You're getting a shade warmer. The Reformation, and the religious upheavals leading to it, certainly affected everyone's life, the way each person looked at God. But this was a conscious happening. It was the outcome of a subconscious upheaval, a subconscious battle between the forces of good and evil, which has always been going on inside, the mind of man, but which in those three centuries bubbled out into the open in Western Europe. And we feel its effects still, in our laws, in everything we do or say or think or read. The physical manifestation of that struggle was the witchcraft heresy.'
He paused, and the class gazed at him, uncertain whether or not to be amused.
Tell me what witchcraft is, Andrea?’
‘A belief in the devil?'
'Good Lord, no. To be a good Christian in the Middle Ages you jolly well had to believe in the devil. Witchcraft was essentially a pact with the devil to renunciate Christ Of course, it never actually happened to anyone. It was the most important non-event in the entire history of mankind. Let me tell you about it.'
He got up, began to pace the room. He spoke in a quiet, confident, utterly absorbed voice. And the class found themselves also utterly absorbed. 'Man, thinking man, and this means leading man, influential man, which in turn, at that time, implied religious man, has always envisaged devils. For one thing the devil has always provided a convenient scapegoat for his own obscene thoughts, and even obscene actions. Christianity, with its accent upon celibacy, its insistence that sex should be used for procreation only, and never, ever enjoyed, made devils more important than in any other religion, and more useful than ever, and because the monks were on the whole a learned, somewhat pedantic lot, they were not content with vague shapes or tears; they gave them names. Thus when St. Augustine had a succession of wet dreams he decided he was being assaulted nightly by female devils, to which he gave the general name of succubi.'
The class relaxed, almost visibly. Last year was right, after all. This man was going to talk to them as adults.
That is item one,' Baird said. 'A ready-made nomenclature, even a ready-made literature. Nothing to fill it, outside of the Church, as yet. But the Church had problems. Schisms, differing opinions, and, worst of all, a real millstone hung around its neck, the concept of the millennium. We've always been inclined to think in figures. Why, God alone knows. So the millennium came and went, and nothing happened, except that a large number of people began to wonder what it was all about, and if it was about anything important at all. Panic in Rome. Plus a reasonable political ambition. Out of the two of which came the Crusades. Smite the heathen, hip and thigh, and maybe pick up Constantinople and those Greek oddbods at the same time. Trouble was, the heathen didn't smite easily. The main accomplishment of the Crusades, as a matter of fact, was to introduce a new concept of luxury, and it was effectively a sexual luxury, into Western Europe. Which wasn't what the Church had in mind at all. But the mood was there, and like most leaders everywhere, the Church wasn't very good at changing its theories. It was stuck on this crusading idea, and it was getting a little better at selecting enemies it could beat. It started on its own deviationists. The biggest one was against the Albigensians.’
He returned to his desk, sat down. 'But, like warmongers everywhere, the medieval popes went overboard. They really had to work people up, and the doctrinal points involved in the Albigensian heresy were a bit obscure. Doctrinal points always are. It was far easier to understand the unclean bit. The Albigensians were supposed to be of Bulgar stock, and the word for Bulgar was bouggre. It's stayed in most languages, ours as well. So they were all sodomites, men, women, children and pets, and every decent fornicator and adulterer could work himself up over that. So there we have a literature, and now we have something nasty. Deviationist sex. Soon there was a third. As a series of laws and regulations governing witch trials were developed, a sinister trend became implicit. To be convicted of witchcraft meant confiscation of property. And to be accused of witchcraft was to be convicted. It became a business, feeding upon itself, requiring fresh victims every month, every week, soon every day. And it lasted for three centuries. The pattern was always the same. Some lonely old woman was arrested, tortured into confessing she was a witch, that she had made a pact with the devil, and most important, that she had attended the sabbat, and had there seen other people. These people she had to name, and they had to be real people. The names wanted were usually indicated to her by the inquisitor. And once accused, the victims, men, women, children, nobles or peasants, were subjected to torture, which went on until confession, always to be accompanied by more naming. It was an endless process of judicial murder and extortion.'
He paused, smiled at them. 'Now you may say, but .surely there had to be some glimmering of truth in all these confessions, because they all confessed to roughly the same thing. This was the most damnable part of the business.’
‘They all confessed to the same things because they were all asked exactly the same questions, and all they were required to do, and, incidentally, all they were able to do, after several hours or even days of torture, was say yes. A nod was sufficient. The questions they were asked, even the order in which they had to be put, was laid down by the Church, and every one had to be answered or the torture went on. In Germany, after a while, the questions were not even listed on the trial papers. They were represented by numbers, the inquisitors knew them so well. Only the answers were appended. Oh, the witches, in the faint hope of escaping some of the torment, were inclined to embroider where they could. But even the embroidery fell into a pattern. Thus while all female witches were forced to admit intercourse with the devil, and were all made to say that the experience was unpleasant, the unpleasantness differed. Older women, who had been married, or at least known men, said the devil's semen was always ice cold and therefore unpleasant. Young girls, with possibly a built-in fear of men, and a total lack of knowledge of male anatomy,
usually concentrated on hideous organs, half steel and half-flesh, armed with prongs which caused the most exquisite agony.’
'Now, of course, there was some real evidence around to give the Church something to bite on. The fourteenth century, when all of this started, was also the century of the Black Death. Whole communities were cut off from their neighbours, sometimes for considerable periods of time. In their isolation many of them undoubtedly went in for unusual group activities, and in their fear many of them mingled pagan ritual with their Christian ceremonies. But classical witchcraft, the sabbat and the orgies and the pact with the devil, the flying through the air and the slaughtered babies, existed only in the minds of the inquisitors. What I want you to remember is that these were the most learned, the most influential, minds of the time. They were also the most powerful. No matter who you were, short of a king or a ruling prince, you could be accused of witchcraft, and the result was inevitable. But even worse, because only they knew the true sequence of events I have outlined to you, they could convince other men, even those more intelligent than themselves, simply by flashing confession after confession after confession. And those very few men who realised the absurdity, the criminality, of it all, were in no position to object to it, because they were immediately liable to accusation themselves. Shakespeare believed in witchcraft. He used it kindly in his plays as a rule, even Macbeth, you know, deals more with sorcery than witchcraft, but he had to accept it, and fear it. James I wrote a book on it. But no matter who you were, this was the theme which governed your life. What governs us nowadays? Deep in our private minds? Well, perhaps if we are politically inclined, we worry about whether we arc too far left or too far right Perhaps if we are Roman Catholics we worry about the birth-control issue. Perhaps if we are old-fashioned we worry about the permissive society. What do we risk? Occasionally we may have a jolly good row with some of our closest friends over issues like these. That's all the risk we ' take. But we all have our private sexual thoughts, our dreams, our nightmares; the very word originated from the witchcraft delusion of being ridden by succubi. Three hundred years ago those private fantasies could take you to the stake. Worse, whether other people found out about you or not, because you believed, because you had to believe, you put yourself in fear of eternal damnation Just by thinking what you could not help. I want you all tare-member that, to have it in mind as we go through this year, as we study each century and each man and woman and child who lived in that period, that these thoughts, these fears, these delusions, were present at the back of the mind of every single one of them.' He stood up. 'That'll do for starters. Any questions?'
A hand went up. 'Joan of Arc was burned as a witch, wasn't she, sir?'
'She was convicted as a recanted heretic. But the punishment was that for witchcraft A couple of hundred years earlier she would not have been burned at all. And it is interesting to remember that to the common man she was a witch, not because she heard voices and denied some of the authority of the Church, but because she wore men's clothing. The same deviationist theme, you see.'
The boy was grinning. 'Is it true that when she was burned, sir, her clothes went first, almost before her body was touched, and thus to all intents and purposes she was burned naked?’
Michael Baird's head rose. The class, starting to giggle, subsided into silence. The trapdoors were in place. "That is quite true, boy, according to some eyewitnesses. What is your name again?’
'Laurence, sir.'
'Well, Laurence, I find your interest, and your knowledge, gratifying. But it is still rather superficial According to the official record of the execution, the bales of straw were piled so high around the stake no one saw her burned at all. The classic painting of Joan perched several feet above the crowd is pure fiction. To broaden your understanding of her life and death, I'd like you to deliver to me, next Monday morning, a five-thousand-word essay on Joan of Arc. And I want facts, Laurence, nothing but facts. You can obtain a transcript of the trial from the library.’
Laurence opened his mouth as if to protest, gazed at the master, changed his mind and sat down.
'If your essay is good enough,' Baud said, ‘you shall read it to the class. If it isn't, of course, you can always rewrite it. There is the bell. Good morning to you all’
'Good morning, sir.' They trooped to the door, whispering amongst themselves. Baird smiled at them. He had hooked them, as he had hooked every class before them. They would listen, now. They might even learn.
'Please, sir.'
Andrea stood in front of the desk. Perhaps her face was not as bland as he had supposed. Last year she had been so pale and thin as to be almost invisible. But now the blue eyes had woken up and there were pink spots in her cheeks .as well. Her hands were clasped in front of her. 'Yes?'
'Have you ever buggered anyone, sir?'
Here was an unexpected counter-attack. Baird gazed at her, and her tongue came out to circle her lips.
'I... I didn't mean to be rude, sir. It's just that.. .they all say you're a queer. You know, a man of forty, unmarried ...
Still Baird gazed at her.
'It's not that I have anything against it, really,' Andrea said. 'I... I'm just interested. I'm interested in everything. Every sort of experience. You know, sir, I... I just wanted to know.'
Then I take it that you are not a virgin, Andrea.'
The long face closed. 'You'd report me, if I told you’
'You've already told me. And so long as you don't get pregnant in my class, you can do what the hell you like. I'm concerned with your brain, not your belly. But I'm afraid you're way ahead of me. I'm not a queer. At least, not more so than the next chap.'
'Oh.' Andrea nodded. 'Are you mad at me?'
'I might just get around to admiring your directness, given time. And when I can convince myself that the class didn't put you up to it.'
'Oh, no.' The long blonde hair waved to and fro. 'They didn't Honest Mr. Baird. But why? Tell me why? You're handsome, and ... and everything. Why don't you marry Miss Ogilvie? You date her.'
‘I’ll give it some thought. But if you don't run along you'll be late for your next class.'
'Oh. Oh, yes.' Andrea walked to the door, hesitated,
glanced at him over her. shoulder. 'You could have me,'
she said softly. 'Any time.'	
The red Sprite pulled into the kerb.'Lift?’	
Baird opened the door, sat down, stretched his legs and found, as usual, that he couldn't, quite.
'Leave the engine in place, do.' Joan Ogilvie put the car into gear, moved off. 'How?'
'Same as usual, I think. I've had the usual advance. Bit earlier than last year. And I have the usual one-upper roaming around. But I think on the whole they're an intelligent bunch.'
'I never see much of their intelligence.' Joan concentrated on the traffic and Baird concentrated on her. Her features were pert rather than pretty, and she had several bad habits, such as smiling with only one half of her mouth, and often failing to look at you when speaking. But both the smile and the brown eyes were genuinely warm. Her brown hair was cut short, and rode her head like a boisterous sea. Her legs were sturdy, her body was solid, She wore a white nylon blouse, which after a day of teaching domestic science was half out of her skirt; loose buttons gave glimpses of more nylon underneath, and of flesh as well. She had large breasts. No doubt in twenty years' time she would be pleasantly stout, at best; at worst distinctly fat. But in twenty years he would be thinking about retirement, and she would be just forty-five. 'Which one proposed?'
'Andrea Burman. I don't think she had marriage in mind.'
Joan Ogilvie nodded. 'I know Andy. Quite a good background, really. But that doesn't mean a thing, nowadays. The ones with the good backgrounds feel that they have to get down to the lower level somehow, and they usually succeed.' She pulled into the side of the road.
Tea?'
'If you have change for the meter.' . 'I think I can manage.' He fed the machine, opened the door for her. After ten years Mrs. Hollihan was not bothered about women in Mr. Baird's room; occasionally she wished there could be more of them. Baird allowed Joan to get several steps ahead of him; schoolmistresses' skirts had to be at least knee-length. He smiled. The first day of term always left him sexed up. All those legs, all those pubescent breasts, all that eager cleanliness. It usually required a month to reduce them to their proper level, to have seen each one spitting into a paper handkerchief or writhing with menstrual gripes. To know all their smells and their voices and their giggles off by heart. But the first fortnight was a time for dreams, asleep or awake, for a personal orgy, a sating of the mind and the body and the emotions. Oh, three hundred years ago he would have been a fit subject for the torture chamber.
Joan was busy with a kettle- and the gas ring. 'You're low on sugar. And you don't have any biscuits.'
'I'll get some tomorrow.' Baird took off his jacket, picked up his mail, thumbed the envelopes. Bill, bill, bill, circular, circular, letter. Square envelope, strange, upright hand, half printed.
Joan set the table, deftly, efficiently. It would no more occur to her to sit in an easy chair with a cup of tea perched on her knees than it would occur to her to stand on her head. He frowned. Standing on heads was one of his taboo subjects, for thinking.
Perhaps she was pedantic. She was also matter of fact, sensible, straightforward. She was modern. And she had attractive buttocks. 'Please, sir. have you ever . . . ?' It would be delicious to indulge in every variety of sex with Joan, backwards, forwards, sideways, and upside down. But sex with Joan, sex with any woman, would require mental intercourse as well. And that would involve talk, about sex, about past sex and future sex, and about other things as well. For him, sex would require confession.
‘Tea.' She remained standing above the table, carving bread. He got up, stood behind her for a moment, so close he was almost touching her. She turned her head, looked up at him, mouth slightly open, and turned, in his arms. 'She's a sexy little bitch, isn't she?’
Baird sat down, watched her pour tea.
'First day gets to me like that, too,' she confessed. 'Every pair of jeans from the Lower Fifth up turns into a vast codpiece.' She sat opposite him, buttered bread. 'But just now I really thought that I was about to be kissed.'
'So did I.'
'You're an odd fellow, Mickey Baird. You're just too much the classical schoolmaster to be true. Chips had nothing on you.' She held her cup in both hands, drew tea into her mouth via a long upper lip, frowned at him. 'Would you like to climb aboard, Michael?'
'Would you like me to?'  "Oh, yes. I feel we've known each other long enough to be honest about that. Don't you?'
'And where would that leave us?'
She nodded. 'Historians do not make good lovers. I know. Sexual intercourse is not a matter of yesterday or tomorrow, Michael. It's a matter of right this moment. But since you ask, I'd say it would leave you a much more satisfied man, and probably a much more satisfactory man. Less introspective. I'm afraid it would change me quite considerably. I've had my moments, but my trouble has always been a slight failing as regards nerve, and I'm just too big, and strong, to be raped.'
'And that doesn't bother you ?'
'It bothers me more that you and I are about the biggest squares going, and we're supposed to be educating kids who've forgotten more about sex than we will ever learn. Anyway, I'd rather like you to be the first.'
He finished his tea, got up. 'I've an idea that one thing would lead to another. I think people should either get married very, very young, when they are both innocent, or very, very old, when they both have experienced everything.'
'You're not pulling the September-January bit?'
'I'm saying that you could never know me, Joan. And what you found out you might not like. Forty years is a long time to be around.'
'If it wasn't you, I'd say I was on the point of hearing yet another ghastly experience from Vietnam or Malaya. But you did your National Service at Catterick. Oh, I forgot. You were torpedoed during the war. You saw your school friends drown. How old were you, ten? - Darling, you can't carry that weight to the exclusion of all else right to the end of your life.' She left the table. 'Would you like me to make it easy for you?' Her fingers played with the top button of her blouse, released it almost as an afterthought. She kissed him on the mouth. It was a passionate kiss. She had seen what she wanted, and she had watched their friendship ripen into intimacy. Now she judged the moment right to pluck the fruit.
And she was right, of course. He needed the anxious, questing tongue of a real live woman to drive away the succubus. But was it fair for him to take what she offered, when she knew nothing of the succubus? Could know nothing of the succubus? Must never know of the succubus? Could he share, and keep that secret?
'Don't you open your mail?' She sat on the arm of his chair, her embarrassment concealed beneath their long friendship.
'Not when it looks that uninteresting.'
She passed the square envelope to and fro under her nostrils. "This one has a scent.'
'I imagine it's an invitation to a wedding. Last year's lot, and the year before, and sometimes even the year before that. Nine times out of ten there's a shotgun in the vicinity, and a great deal of forced jollity.'
'And you don't like jollity at all?'
'Not that kind.' She should be naked by now, and lying beneath him. She would have cabbage breasts, a pouting belly, wide thighs and a bristling love forest. It could all belong to him, have already belonged to him.	
She slit the envelope. 'It's an invitation, all right. But not to a wedding.'
He caught a glimpse of the thick black band. 'Don't tell me one of the little darlings has gone and died.'
Joan Ogilvie frowned. 'It says, '"You are invited to attend a memorial service for Assistant Steward Morris Landles, late of S.S. Tautenay, who died gallantly thirty years ago. The service will be held at four o'clock on the afternoon of Saturday, 23rd September, in Maladay Parish Church, Maladay Village, Surrey." Not even an R.S.V.P. Or don't they put R.S.V.P. on things like this.' The glanced at him. 'You were on the Tautenay, weren't you?'
'Yes,' Baird said.
'And you knew this man Landles?' 'Yes.'
She got up. 'And you're going to the service.'
He seemed to awaken from a deep sleep. 'I don't know.'
'I've never heard of Maladay Village. But it can't be far. Tell you what, we'll go down together. I've nothing on, Saturday afternoon.'
'No,' he said. 'No.' He picked up the card, read it, tore it into several small pieces, dropped it into the wastepaper basket.
Acting on the advice of a porter, he caught a train to Epsom. He bought a first-class ticket, to be alone, and wasn't. But the man sitting opposite read The Times throughout the journey, and never spoke a word. '
Baird soon wished his companion would speak. To take this journey was at once ridiculous, foolhardy, and plain bloody stupid. Corinne was now nothing more than a nightmare, Corinne and Ben and Herbert and Cynthia and Patrick. And Landles most of all. They had sworn their oath, and they had spent the most miserable night of their several existences, and the very next day, incredibly, horribly, the mist had lifted and they had been picked up by a destroyer. The rescue, happening at that moment, had made the most profound impression of all upon him. He could not be sure about the others. They had never spoken of it. They had never spoken of anything, after their rescue. They had all been suffering from exposure, compounded by shock, and had spent the remainder of the voyage in bed, and when they had reached Montreal the two girls had been whisked away, never to be seen again. The boys had been trapped together, but only for a little while. They had gone to different schools, thankfully. Michael had found himself in Nova Scotia, so reminiscent of England with its rain and its fogs. Eventually he had come home, and taken the first course open to him. But he genuinely enjoyed teaching. He had never seen or heard of any of them again.

But wasn't that his real problem? He could feel no guilt, at this distance of time, over what had happened to Landles. . There had been no human beings in that lifeboat, only animals. His fear lay in the knowledge that the event had been shared, that there were five other people, somewhere in the world, experiencing the same nightmare as himself. It was that fear which had kept him a bachelor, limited his friendships, for thirty years. It had been that fear which had prevented him from taking what Joan had offered, yesterday afternoon. It was that fear which had so suddenly come home to roost. But he had always known that one day his fear would come home to roost. Obviously he was on the short cud of a blackmail attempt. But if someone had taken the trouble to unearth Michael Baird, schoolmaster, from all the thousands of people in Britain named Baird, and taken the trouble to ascertain that he was the same Michael Baird who had journeyed to Canada on the S.S. Tautenay, then it did not matter whether he attended the service or not.
But why? The detective work involved would have cost any would-be blackmailer twice as much as he, or she, could hope to exort. He. Or she. Here was the real reason he was on his way to Maladay Village. The card could have come from Corinne Lambert Why she should wish to find him again after all this time was irrelevant. Corinne would be in her middle forties by now, a large, tall woman. But he still wished to see her again. His succubus.
The porter frowned, pulled his chin. 'Well, now, there actually isn't any such place as Maladay Village, any more.’
'Are you sure?' Baird couldn't make up his mind whether to be glad or sorry. Just a hoax, after all. But a hoax perpetrated by someone who knew.
'Well, of course, some people would still remember it as Maladay Village, I suppose. The Maladays used to own a big parcel of land in these parts. But Mr. Carter Maladay sold most of it as building land; they called it the Maladay Estate. Not any more, of course. It's on the far side of the Downs. You want to take a taxi to get over there.'
Baird looked at his watch. It was just after two. 'I can walk, if I choose?'
'Oh, yes, sir, if you want to. Just keep the grandstand on your right, and eventually you'll see the estate beneath you. You can't mistake it, because the old Maladay House is still there, in its own grounds. Looks like a park from up on the hill. But as for the parish church, why, there ain't one.'
'The walk will do me good.' Baird went out of the station, turned up the collar of his raincoat, pulled his soft: brimmed hat over his eyes. The sun had gone, and the clouds were banked. As yet the drizzle was very light, but if it was a long walk there was going to be a great deal of water between Epsom and Maladay Village church. Which no longer existed, if it had ever existed. Was he accomplishing anything? Or was he really performing an act of penance? But he had been invited to do so.
He wondered what Joan thought of it all. What she ted thought of it, last night. She was intelligent enough to know that his refusal of her and the black-edged invitation were connected. She had promised to call him tonight. And what would he have to tell her?
Now he was alone on the Downs, wind-swept and rainswept, each drop of water chilled by the threat of .winter. Baird walked slowly, his hands in the pockets of his raincoat It was a luxury to feel that at any moment he could turn round, and retrace his steps to Epsom, and catch a train' back to London. He could regain the warmth of his two-roomed apartment, and he could telephone Joan, and she would come and cook his dinner. And stay, afterwards, if he asked her to. There was so much to be done, between them. There would be no more disappointments.
But he was not going to retrace his steps. This was a walk he should have made many years ago, if only he had known where to go.
Now there were trees, providing some shelter from the wind, but offering a playground for the rain, which gathered in leaves and on branches to empty occasional, unexpected buckets on his head. And now there were houses as well, charming detached residences, each with its half-acre of lawn and garden and shade trees, each with its double garage and its paved driveway. A nameless street of course. Here one either knew where one was, and was welcome, or one was a stranger, and therefore unwanted.
There was a girl with a pram, despite the drizzle and the wind. She struggled up the hill towards him, her charge concealed beneath the waterproof hood and cover, herself shrouded in a red plastic mackintosh. 'Good afternoon,' Baird said. Tm looking for Maladay Street'
She raised her head, apparently saw him for the first time, smiled and blushed at the same time. Young women always smiled at Michael Baird; they seldom blushed. 'I do not know,' she said, sadly. ‘I have not been here long, myself.'
He decided she was French. 'Thank you,' he said.
'There is the post office, at the bottom of the hill.'
'Thanks again,' he said, and raised his hat.
The lane was crossed by an A-road. The houses continued their genteel way upon the right; on the left a high wall followed the curve of the road. The post office was also a chemist's shop. 'Maladay Street?' asked the woman behind the counter. 'This is Maladay Street'
'I'm told there used to be a village here.'
'Once upon a time,' said the subpostmistress. 'It's on the maps. The old maps. Village? About eight houses and a pub. Now there's houses non-stop from.here to Buckingham Palace, just about. What do they call those things? Conurbations. Nasty word.' She smiled. 'But all around here used to belong to old Salvatore Maladay, and the villagers were his tenants.' She sighed. 'Pictures.'
'I'm not with you.'
'He was an art dealer,' she explained. 'Italian origin, I think. He had a gallery in London. Made a fortune, he did. Something to do with a Titian no one knew existed. But you know what it is. Taxes.'
'They don't get any smaller,' Baird agreed. ‘If there was a village, even a small one, presumably were was a church.'
'Interested in churches, are you? I could tell it at, a-glance. There's an antiquarian, I said to myself. You'll be disappointed in this one.'
‘Ruined?'
'It's not there at all. Oh, foundations, I suppose. A couple of graves. There's always graves by those old churches.'
‘Where exactly is it?'
‘It's inside the grounds at Maladay House. When the Maladays sold this land they built a nigh wall round that part of the place they meant to keep, and they included the church inside the walls, as a sort of private chapel, you see. And then they let the place fall down. A heathen lot’
‘How do I get to it?’
'The gates are just down the road, on the left. They usually keep them shut, but if you ring the bell, Tom Pilling, the gardener, will let you in.'
Tom Pilling. Thank you. I suppose the house itself is empty?'
'Lord, no. Mrs. Maladay still lives there. It would take more than a little misfortune to move her. Mind you, she's not there all the time. Has a flat in town, she does, and another in Monte Carlo. But when she's in England she weekends down here.'
'And Mr. Maladay?'
'Bless you, sir, Mr. Carter Maladay died last summer. You must have read about it?'.
'Oh. Oh, yes, of course I did,' Baird said. 'Silly of me to forget. I just follow the wall to the left, do I? Thank you very much.'
He adjusted his hat, stepped into the rain, hastily retreated to the doorway as a car roared past, scattering water.
'And mind the traffic,' shouted the sub-postmistress.
He thrust his hands back into his pockets, walked along the road. Every possible chance of it being a genuine service of remembrance was now gone. He kicked a puddle, and water scattered over his trousers, soaked his socks. His feet were cold. But that was because they were wet, surely. On his right there was a pair of large gates, set in the high wall. Beyond the wall were trees, clouding the landscape, a pleasant change from the houses on the other side of the road, although no doubt they would be damp. He paused, turned round. But there were houses. He was within a few miles of Epsom. The bastion of the British middle clan. A very long way from a dying man, a pool of blood in the bottom of a rocking lifeboat, six faces etched on the-memory.
He walked down the drive, reached the gate, pressed an electric bell. In front of him the drive curved through the trees, was soon lost to view. There was nothing but trees, and, as he had supposed, they dripped. Presuming the gardener was warming himself in front of a fire with a cup of tea. Baird decided he would have at least half an hour to wait, was surprised when a large young man appeared, hair a curling mass of dampening black, cheeks pink with warmth, shoulders large enough to support an entire scrum, full lips, strangely offset by a small nose and chin, smiling. 'Isn't it wet?’ he remarked. ‘You'll be Mr. Baird.'

IV
Further surprise seemed pointless. 'And you'll be Mr. Pilling,’ Baird said.'Am I late?'
Pillng looked at his watch. 'A few minutes early.' He unlocked a smaller gate let into the larger one, and Baird stepped through.
'How many of us are you expecting?'
'Only you, Mr. Baird.' Pilling closed the gate.
Baird pulled his eat 'You've been waiting out here in the rain, just to let me in?'
'Lord, no, Mr. Baird. I was having my tea.' He pointed through the trees, and Baird saw the bungalow, small, neat, compact and very modern, all glass and wood. 'So if you don't mind I won't come with you. See that path over there? It'll take you through the wood and up to the house. If you follow the drive you'll be walking for hours.'
'I thought I was going to the church?'
'You can go along there, if you're interested in ruins. There's only a couple of pillars still standing. But I would wait until the rain stops, if I were you, sir. And Mrs. Maladay is expecting you up at the house.'
'Mrs. Maladay? Well, then, I suppose I'd better get on. Good afternoon.'
'You'll see me again, Mr. Baird. I have to let you out, haven't I?’
'I suppose you do.' Baird walked past the bungalow. The front door was open, and a young woman stood there, arms folded, leaning against the doorpost. She was unusually tall, dark hair worn short, quite a pretty face in a tight, secretive way, thin body. He raised his hat, but she made no response.
Water dripped from every branch and every leaf, and the ground squelched beneath his feet. The weather was oppressive. But so was this place. And so was Mrs. Maladay. Corinne? Or Cynthia? And what could she want, after thirty years? But what she wanted was no longer relevant. Baird knew what he wanted. To see one of them again, any of them again. To talk. About Landles. About the Tautenay. About each other. To share. Perhaps that was all she wanted, as well. Mrs. Maladay.
The path ended, and he was back on the drive. The house stood in front of him, the curtains drawn over barred windows, reminders of a lonely past. It was a splendid old house, only two storeys high, but broad and deep, sheltering beneath a steeply sloping tiled roof; unlike so many old houses, it was in splendid repair. A white Bentley convertible waited beside the portico.
Baird went up the steps, escaped the rain, took off his hat and dried his face and neck with his handkerchief. He watched the door open. The girl had red hair, a curling mass of it tumbling down her back. And it was a wide, long back. She was at once tall and obviously strong, with magnificent breasts and wide thighs, broad shoulders and flat belly, long muscular legs. She wore a pale blue miniskirt and knee-length black leather boots. Her face matched her body, wide and big-featured. Her eyes were green, and sparkled. Her mouth was wide. She had superb teeth.
'Mr. Baird,' she said. 'How good to see you. Isn't it a dreadful afternoon? If we'd known you were walking I'd have come for you.'
‘I enjoyed the walk. The scenery improved with every step.'
'You don't sound like a schoolmaster. Do come in.' He stepped past her into the warmth. 'You're not Mrs. Maladay?'
‘I’m not one of the world's lucky ones, Mr. Baird.' She took his coat. 'At least, not that lucky. I'm Mrs. Maladay's Girl Friday.' She opened double doors on the left of the hall. 'Mr. Baird.'
Baird entered an intensely hot room; in addition to the central heating there was a blazing fire in the hearth. The decoration was white; white half-panelled walls, white paper above, with a faint design, white ceiling, white crystal chandelier glowing like the sun. The carpet was white, the chairs and settee upholstered in white plush. Presumably, in daylight, it was a dreadfully dull, cold room. But, he realised, it was not meant for habitation. It was a setting, only, like the white surround on a picture. The subject occupied the centre of the floor, both arms outstretched, waiting for him.
He remembered that she had claimed her mother was an actress, and also that she was very beautiful. In which case she had not lied. Next to her tall companion, her own smallness was surprising, but additionally attractive. The midnight hair, straight, long and lacquered, dominated the room. The heart-shaped face was flawless, and rendered more so by the mahogany tan. Her figure was concealed by the crimson kimono which extended from her shoulders to the carpet, but it never occurred to him that it would do anything but match the face and the hair. Certainly the thighs were slender as a girl's.
'Michael!'Her voice was low. He went towards her, and she put one hand on each of his cheeks, pulled his head down, and kissed him oh the mouth, lightly. 'You may serve tea, Imogen’
The girl closed the doors. Cynthia Maladay sat on the settee, patted the place beside her. 'You are disappointed, Michael.'
'Let's say I'm still reeling.'He sat down. 'You were hoping I'd be Corinne. Oh, I know that. Won't I do?'
She leaned towards him, lips slightly parted, and for the first time he was able to look into her eyes. Father's full glass of brandy. Poor old drunken Father. Michael had always been contemptuous of a man who could so lose, himself. But perhaps Father had known what he was doing. Where happiness really began and ended. 'My dear Mrs. Maladay.. .’
‘For God's sake.' She got up, walked to the table, took a cigarette from the silver box. 'Do you smoke?'
'I'm afraid not'
She flicked the lighter, inhaled. 'I forgot. You are a schoolmaster. But to me you are Michael. And I am Cynthia. And if you ever call me anything else I shall scratch your eyes out. Oh, yes, I shall, Michael, darling. I can be a very vicious woman. Corinne is dead. And even if she were alive, she'd be big and fat and coarse and stupid. She never was very bright'
'How did she die?'
'I suppose you could say of a guilty conscience. She got married, you know. To an American. Quite a wealthy man, in advertising. They had a lovely home, and even a couple of kids. And then one day she retired to her bath, cut both her wrists, and that was that. Twelve years ago. She was thirty-three. I went to her funeral. Everyone was terribly shocked.'
'It was a shocking thing to do.'
'Was it? For Corinne?' The door opened, and the girl Imogen wheeled in a laden trolley. 'In front of the couch, thank you. darling.'
Imogen smiled, obeyed, withdrew. . 'Is she your only servant?' Baird asked.
'Imogen is not my servant You could say she is my only friend. Has been my only friend, over the past year. I am hoping to change that'
'Don't you have servants? In this great pile?'
'I didn’t bring you all the way down here to discuss servants. Thomas and Margaret look after the house, and the grounds, if you really must know.'	
'Why did you bring me down here? In such a peculiar way?'
Cynthia Maladay poured tea. 'Sugar? Ben is dead, too. He at least died properly. He was shot down over Normandy in 1944. Or perhaps it is just that his conscience never got around to bothering him. Herbert was killed in a motor-car accident. Only five years ago. Isn't it strange that all three of them should have died violently? If we were superstitious we'd worry about that. Are you superstitious;-Michael?'
'Occasionally. Except that thirty million people got killed in the war, several million commit suicide every year, and several million more get killed by motor cars. I wouldn't call any of those deaths unusual.'
Cynthia put down her cup. 'Do you know how much that relieves me? When you first came in here I said to myself. God what a mistake. He is a schoolmaster, after all. He's not the boy in the cabin, the boy on the boat. But people never change, do they?'
'You haven't,' Baird agreed. 'Except physically.'
'For the better, I hope?’
'I would say you are the most beautiful woman I have ever kissed. Mind you, that's not claiming the earth.'
'And a dry sense of humour, as well. Children never have a sense of humour. It's their great failing.'
‘You haven't mentioned Patrick.'
'Patrick is still with us. He's an accountant. A very successful accountant. Patrick Earlswood. Esquire. I sent him an invitation for last Saturday, but he didn't come.'
'I imagine he thought the same as I, that it was a blackmail attempt. He would have more to lose.'
'What strange creatures men are? Why should I wish to blackmail you, Michael? Or Patrick? How could I, for that matter?'
‘We didn't know it was you.'
'Of course you didn't. How stupid of me. More tea?' 'No, thank you very much. It must have cost you a lot of time, and money, to track us down.' 'I let a detective agency look after it.' She leaned back, crossed her legs, clasped her hands on her lap. The kimono fell back far enough to reveal a high-heeled sandal on a bare, brown, delightful foot. 'As you must have gathered by now, money isn't important to me. I married Carter Maladay, the art dealer. I met him through Mother. He was courting her at the time, but when he saw me he changed his mind. Mother never spoke to me again for the rest of her life, which wasn't too long, fortunately; Of course, Carter was forty-three and I was seventeen, but I felt in need of protection. Perhaps conscience was nibbling away at me. Carter put a stop to that.'
'You didn't tell him about the lifeboat?'
'Darling Michael. I swore an oath, remember? In blood. My God, how childishly dramatic. But effective. I mean that when one is blanketed by wealth and poise and power, all of which Carter had perhaps too much of, conscience becomes an irrelevant luxury. On the other hand, to be married to someone, to do all that sharing, and yet never be able to mention the most important event in my life, to worry about talking in my sleep, was very difficult.'
'I know,' Baird said.
'Patrick never married, either. But you are men. You can protect yourselves, perhaps. Women are more fragile, in their minds. In their needs.'
Which was a ridiculous statement, emanating from the lips of Cynthia Maladay.
'Would you get me another cigarette?'
He brought the box across, and the lighter. Cynthia leaned forward, steadied his hand.
'And yet, so long as Carter lived, I was never lonely. There was never time. Whenever I felt it creeping over me, there was some evasive action I could take. But he died last August'
'I'm sorry.'
'It was rather tragic. You must have read about it' 'I'm afraid not'
'You live in the past, Michael. You're fortunate. It was all rather unsavoury. I'm afraid Carter could no more be satisfied by one woman than you could live on nothing but strawberry jam. God knows. I was never jealous. As a matter of fact, I was glad of the occasional rest He was very demanding. I'm not embarrassing you?' . . 'Not if you really want to talk about it'
'That's why you're here, Michael. I want to talk about it. About everything. He was sixty-five when he died. As randy as ever. But not as young. I kept begging him to take it easy. Still, he died in harness.'
'You're having me on.'
Tou can read about it in the newspapers, darling. Right here in this house. I was away at the time. In and out, in and out, and bingo. Mind you, I don't think he would have had it any other way. But it was very embarrassing.'
'I can imagine.'
She frowned at him, the faintest brown wrinkles between her eyes. 'Are you sure you didn't read about it?'
‘Perfectly sure. You've led an interesting life.' -
'What an odd word to choose. Your schoolmastering is showing. Whatever made you?'
‘I like teaching. And I happen to be able to do it.'
'But why the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries? Oh, I know everything about you. I even know the name of your girl friend. Joan Ogilvie. I wouldn't have thought she was your type. Do you sleep together?’
'No. I chose the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, because I think it was the most evil period of history. Our history, Western European history, at any rate.'
'You mean because of the witchcraft delusion? Do you know, I thought you might have had that reason.' She got up. 'Come with me.'
She held out her hand, and he took it And wondered why. He had not come here to be friends with anyone except Corinne. And Corinne lay in her bath, the blood dwindling away into the warm water. She still did. He was no believer in the after life. Only in the permanence of death, of the moment of death. He had never thought of Cynthia, except in passing, for thirty years. And here he was, taking her hand and following her, blindly. Michael Baird, schoolmaster, and Cynthia Maladay, the art king's widow. Because they shared a memory. A blood memory. But there was no guilt in this sharing. There was enjoyment, in fact a joy, which made it obscene.
Her hand was cold. She smiled at him. 'I have a warm heart'	
She led him into the hall, turned left towards the staircase leading to the upper floor, opened the next door on her left, switched on the lights. It was an extremely well-stocked library, not less than three thousand bound volumes, Baird estimated. 'Every one on the subject of witchcraft,' Cynthia said. 'Carter was quite fanatical about
'Good Lord.' Baird went to the centre case. 'That's the Malleus Malificarum?
'Carter's proudest possession. It's not a true first edition, of course. But it's the English first edition. 1584.'
'Do you have any idea how much that is worth?'
‘I know Carter once turned down twelve hundred pounds. But that was some time ago, and I'm afraid it's not quite in mint condition. Do you read Latin?'
'Enough to get on with.'
'Then do please help yourself. There's an early De la Demonomanie des Sorciers and also a Demonolatreiae. Carter always said Bodin was no good at all, but so much of what Remy wrote was first hand.'
‘You seem to know a lot about it.'
'I spent twenty-two years listening to Carter. And I catalogued his library. Do please take anything you wish. You'll stay to dinner?'
'I hadn't intended to impose.' But his attention was already caught by the book, by the Hammer of Witches most of all.
Cynthia Maladay closed the door on him.

V
She wore a low-cut green satin evening gown from which an unforgettable pair of suntanned breasts swelled with every breath, constantly promising to uncover nipples which he knew would be red and pointed. She discarded her fork to crack the lobster's claws with her hands, seeking out every particle of flesh, sucked her champagne into her mouth and held it there for a few moments before swallowing. The meal was served by Imogen, also wearing an evening gown, in dark blue to set off the glowing red hair, also revealing a wealth of sun-browned flesh. Baird's apologies for his sports jacket were brushed aside.
They occupied three places at the end of a sixteen-foot-long mahogany table, in a dark-panelled dining room across the hall from the library, and connected with the pantry by a swing door. The cutlery was silver, the crockery Spode. There was the inevitable crystal chandelier. The conversation stayed on witchcraft throughout the meal and Baird discovered that both women knew quite as much as he on the subject But at last Imogen removed the: cheese and the port, brought a decanter of brandy and two goblets, placed a box of cigars in front of Baird, smiled at her mistress, and withdrew. The door to the pantry flopped gently to and fro half a dozen times, and settled.
'One could talk forever about the witchcraft delusion,' Cynthia said. 'It is an inexhaustible subject. It has so many facets to be discussed. Will you pour?’
Baird obeyed.
'But I am more interested in the remark you made before dinner, about your personal involvement. You said it was in the evil which surrounded it. But you were not talking about the supposed evils of the sabbat, the pact with the devil.'
‘I was thinking of the evil which must have lurked in the minds of the men who invented the delusion in the first place. The men who ruled, who controlled thought whose control of thought then still influences us today.'
'And you have no doubt at all that they were wrong?'
Baird lit a cigar. ‘Oh, come now, Cynthia.’
She gazed at him, her chin propped on her forefinger. 'Have you never thought they might be attempting to release their own minds? Might be searching after freedom?’
'Benedict Carpzov? Jacob Sprenger? Nicholas Remy? Searching after freedom?'
She smiled. 'I've been meaning to ask you all evening, but I couldn't before. Do you remember the lifeboat? Everything about the lifeboat?'
'Don't you?'
'There is no need to look alarmed. Imogen will not return until I ring for her. Do you remember how you felt when we killed Landles? When we were killing Landles?’
'We?'
She leaned back in her chair. 'You have managed to shift all the guilt on to Ben. And Corinne, I suppose.'
'Not all,' Baird said. ' 'You mean that despite your efforts to dissociate yourself from what happened, you still lie awake at night. But you cannot spend the rest of your life doing that, Michael.

Don't you think it would be better to face up to the facts? Tell me bow you felt?’ 'Ill,' Baird said. 'Bloody ill.'
'You were sick. I felt... it is hard to express. Excited is such a tame word. My heart pounded, I was sweating. I felt that I had nothing in my bowels except air and my genitals seemed to be alive, to have a separate existence of their very own. It is a feeling I have had since, from time to time, just before a sexual experience which I have known was going to be unusually stimulating. But then, Michael, I had not even reached puberty. Now confess to me, did you feel nothing like that?'
He remembered Corinne, and the sheer nightdress clinging damply to her legs, and the tremendous softness which had lain above it. 'No.' He pushed back his chair. 'That was a simply marvellous meal, Cynthia, and I can't tell ‘you how much I've enjoyed meeting you again. But if I'm going to get back up to London tonight I have to rush.'
'Sit down, Michael. And pour me some more brandy. You are not going back to London tonight. You don't teach on Sundays, do you?'
'I have no pyjamas.'
'Neither have I. Or is it that you don't really like me? You didn't, as a boy, if I remember correctly.
The hostility swelled out of his belly. It was composed of so many things. Jealousy, certainly, that she, who admitted to a total involvement in what had happened to Landles. should now be sitting on the very top of the dung-heap guilt-free, while he struggled in the dung itself. Fear, that she should know so much about him, about what even went on inside his mind, about the desires which swirled through his subconscious. Anger, at the immense superiority she had established without even seeming to try. He wanted to hurt her. To make her angry. 'That's right, Cynthia,' he said. 'I don't like you. I never did. I like you less now than before. What you feel, what you felt, about Landles is your business. I wish you joy of it. What you feel about me is my business.'
'Tell me what I feel, Michael.'
'My first reaction to that card was that it was a blackmail attempt. But then it occurred to me that no one could really hope to get anything financial out of a secondary schoolmaster. So then I realised it had to be one of us. And I became quite excited about the prospect of seeing you or her, again. Of course, I hoped it was Corinne. She is the one I remembered clearest. But as I got closer to you, to this house, I realised the truth of the matter. You're just as desperate as I, Cynthia. You always have been, just as desperate as I. So you grabbed a stray millionaire when you were seventeen, sheltered under the pound notes for twenty-two years. But now he's dead, and you're more desperate than ever. You want to share. You have to share. Your body, your mind. You can't live with them alone. So who do you share with? Who can you share with? Only someone off the lifeboat. So you went a-hunting, and came up with me. But I'm not your type, darling. The only memory I have of that lifeboat is horror. Don't bother to ring for Imogen. I'll walk back to the station.' 
" She smiled at him, the brandy in her eyes glittering. 'And you find the prospect so terrible? Supposing that were the entire truth, would you reject the offer of a bed here for the night because you don't like my thought processes? What have you done for sex over the past twenty years, Michael? And you and I are unique. We survived the Tautenay disaster. We committed a murder, and survived that, too. There has to be a reason for our survival, Michael. There must be something important that you and I are destined to do together. So suppose I am offering you this body of mine for the night? It is very beautiful. Far more beautiful than you can even imagine. And it is very experienced, very knowledgeable, very well equipped to make a man happy. And I am not just offering you a choice of one. There is Imogen as well. I do not think she is any better equipped than I, but there is more of her, and perhaps you prefer quantity to quality.' 'Then you did tell her.'
'What an anxious man you are, Michael. She happens to share my enjoyments, as she shares my life. She also does what I tell her to.’ The smile faded. 'Sit down, Michael. And listen to me.’
And he obeyed, without knowing why. Or, perhaps, knowing why only too well.
‘You are right about some things. But wrong about more. I never told Carter anything about my childhood. He was not interested. And we were very happy. He introduced me to freedom. He devoted his entire life to the search for it, Michael. Because no one is free, nowadays. Outside of these walls I am a prisoner, as confined as if I were in Holloway Prison. I can't get into my car, drive to wherever I wish to go, stop it, get out and walk away. I have to find somewhere to park it first, somewhere permitted by law. I have a six-figure income, but the Government tells me how to spend eighty per cent of it. I may think someone is a fool, and a crook, but I can't say so; I'd be in court for slander. Carter hated those rules and restrictions as much as I. He taught me to be free, here in this house. Here we thought, and did, whatever we chose. Now he is dead, you are quite right, I wish to replace him. Imogen is not enough. I am lonely, and so is she. I am offering you freedom, Michael. Freedom, here, to do, to think, to say what you please. So perhaps the death of Landles really did make you vomit. But you were doing what you wanted in the cabin. Some of what you wanted. Not all. You were afraid to do all, afraid we would laugh, afraid some mysterious Cosmos might punish you, afraid you might be found out. There is no mysterious Cosmos, Michael. And in this house no one will laugh at you, and no one will punish you. I want you to try it, Michael. Just for one night Try freedom.'
She got up, a faint swish of satin, opened one of the drawers in the mahogany sideboard, took out a pack of cards. 'Remember Ben's foolish little game?' She dealt the first card, face up, to herself. It was the knave of hearts. She dealt a second card, face up, on to Imogen's place setting. It was the knave of diamonds. She dealt a third card, face up, to Baird. It was the ace of spades.

3

The Coven

Cynthia Maladay leaned forward, looked through the window of the Bentley. 'This is not a very nice neighbourhood, Michael.'
'It's a little seedy, perhaps.' It was gloomy in the back of the car. The fading daylight only reached the front seat, and Imogen. She sat very straight, drove with both hands resting lightly on the wheel. Her hair trailed in red wisps into the back of the car. It was dry now, and presumably at some time during the morning she had washed it. She had not been present all of the time.
'And it is close to your school. You don't run a car, do you?' Cynthia sipped her brandy. 'Supposing I found you somewhere better, at no more cost to yourself?'
'Thank you, no.'
'I thought you would say that. I imagine you would regard accepting assistance from me as a total surrender.' She wore a dark green trouser suit, and he found it exciting. He would not have thought that at this moment he could feel excited about anything, but he had watched her dress, knew that beneath the velvet there was nothing but velvet brown skin. And hard pink nipples and soft pink heat.
'You will have to direct me, now.' Imogen had a remarkably soft voice, no doubt copied from her mistress. Not even pain had made her raise her voice, and when she had wept she had done so silently.
'You will visit us again?' Cynthia asked. 'One night, one day, it is so short a time, and there are so many things to do.'
Could she really sit there, her hair brushed, her face unmarked, her scent as fresh as an ocean breeze? Could Imogen really sit in the front seat, immovable despite the discomfort she must be enduring, driving with, absolute serenity. But then, could he sit here, looking at them both, talking with them both?
'There is a cross-road ahead,' Imogen said.
'Turn right, and then take the. first on the left.'
Baird unfastened the buttons of Cynthia's jacket, drew the left nipple into his mouth, closed his teeth. It was necessary to do this now, to leave the car with her taste in his mouth, her taste and her smell and her feel, or the weekend would recede into a dream, and that would be impossible to contemplate. The breast swelled into his mouth, and he bit harder. The base of her brandy goblet brushed his head as she drank. She did not feel pain. Apparently. Perhaps she did not feel ecstasy, or desire, either, perhaps her sadism and her masochism, her amusement and her anger, were all false. But she could feel passion. The sweat-stained, blood-stained, dirt-stained brown body of last night and this morning had bubbled with passion. The woman sitting here so calmly was no more the true Cynthia Maladay than the man sitting here was the true Michael Baird. He knew that now. He was not sure how far he yet had to go to unearth Michael Baird. But Cynthia Malady knew all about herself.
'Do leave a little for next time, darling.' He raised his head, and she took a tissue from the bar to dry his saliva. 'You will visit me again?' 'If you wish me to.'
'You are a strange man, Michael.' She opened her handbag, took out two keys. 'One for the gate, one for the front door. You are always welcome at Maladay House.'
The car turned the corner. It was over, now. He had a tremendous desire to say no, I do not wish to return to my rooms, to my loneliness, to my fears, to my class and my desires. Let us go on driving forever. Back to Maladay House, at least. Back behind the drawn curtains. But that would be to lose it all. Cynthia Maladay pursued her pleasures in her own way. She no longer sought permanence. 'The fifth house on the left,' he said.
Imogen signalled, pulled into the side of the road, waited. She did not turn her head. He wondered what he was, to her. She had yielded everything she possessed. She had yielded a great deal he had not known that she, or any woman, could possess. She had allowed him to watch her yield more to her mistress, to herself. She could no longer lay claim to a single secret. At least, not in the eyes of Michael Baird. But now she did not even turn her head.  
'What will you do this evening, Michael?'
The same could be said for Cynthia. How was it possible, for three people to have done so much, shared so much, and now say goodbye and return into their own worlds. He shrugged. ‘I shall go to bed, I think. I'm very tired.'
She smiled. 'I too shall go to bed, Michael.' And suddenly it occurred to him that she bad shared nothing, and neither had Imogen. The sharing had been his, and any possession that he had presumed to enjoy had been merely the result of his own innocence. It was a chilling, terrifying thought.
Cynthia Maladay leaned forward and kissed him on the lips, very gently. 'And I shall dream. Will you dream. Michael?'
But now he must escape. Quickly. Now passion, to the obliteration of all else, was being displaced by disgust. 'Yes,' he said. ‘I shall dream.' He banged the door shut behind him, ran into the house, thanked God that Mrs. Hollihan was watching television. As usual. As if God could ever be thanked for anything, ever again.
He climbed the stairs, closed the door behind him, moved to the window, looked down. The white Bentley was gone. It was, after all, a dream. It had to be a dream. He had never been to Epsom yesterday. He had stayed in his flat, all day, and he had masturbated, again and again and again, had given himself over to the wildest and most obscene fantasies a man could imagine, a kaleidoscope of tumbling, sweat-wet hair, black and red. of brandy-liquid eyes, of parted lips and probing tongues, of bruised breasts topped by mouth-wet nipples, of cane-marked buttocks, now spread, now tight, of muscular legs, now spread, now closed, of cavernous crotches, into which man, and woman, had sunk. But no hair. He had, for a moment, forgotten this. Flesh so smooth it might have been plucked, it had been shaved that very afternoon. They had known he was coming, they had known he would stay. But then, they bad shaved him as well; last night 'It is our fetish,' Cynthia bad said, handling a straight razor with, exquisite delicacy.
Why? The why, for Cynthia and Imogen, was lost in the past, in a journey which must have begun years ago, and in which,he was nothing more than a road sign. But why had he surrendered, and then enjoyed? That was absurd. Any man, surrendering so completely to the beast within himself, would then enjoy. But how many men ever released the beast? Ever dared to release the beast? It was tempting to go back to the Tautenay. The Tautenay, and his self-repression and loneliness. He had pursued a dangerous course for too many years—how dangerous he had not even recognised—creating within himself a volcano of suppressed lust. And Cynthia had removed the lid. It was as simple as that.
He went into the bedroom, undressed, examined himself. Because he had been brought up in a Christian morality, he expected to see disease, a withered, useless, impotent organ, a ring of sores. Yet punishment must follow. He would awaken in three weeks' time to pain and disgust. There was Christian morality for you. Only the innocent contract syphilis. The innocent and the ignorant. Cynthia Maladay was neither. And neither, now, was Michael Baird.
Knuckles on the door. Baird turned, heart pounding pulled the dressing gown from the hook.
'You look as if you'd just seen a ghost,' Joan said.
'Sorry. I was dreaming. Come in.'
Thank you? She entered the sitting room, took off her coat. On Sunday evenings she affected trousers and a loose cardigan, was scenically at her worst. Baird closed the door. 'Did I interrupt you in the middle of something?' she asked.
'Only contemplating a bath. It's, too late for tea. There's beer.'
Tm willing.' She sat down, crossed her knees, watched him taking out the two glasses and the quart bottle. ‘I called you, last night.'
‘I’m sorry. I got held up.'
She drank, uncrossed her legs, crossed them again, the other way. 'You're acting very strangely. I mean, staying out all night isn't exactly usual, is it? And just now you didn't seem at all pleased to see me. Silly me, I suppose. This reminds me of the very first time I ever came up here. Do you remember those ghastly silences?'
'Yes. I'm sorry, Joan. I suppose I'm tired.'
'I can see that. What happened?'
'Nothing happened.' He had said it too quickly.
Joan frowned. ‘You did find Maladay Village?'
"Yes
'And the church?'
'It had been pulled down. It was just a come-on, really. I suppose to make sure I was the right Michael Baird.' 'But it was someone off the Tautenay." 'That's right. A girl.'
Then she's no longer a girl. She's a very beautiful, very wealthy woman. Cynthia Maladay. ‘
His turn to frown. 'However did you .-..?'
'I spent yesterday morning in the library. While you were investigating the real thing. I bet you stayed the night'
'You'd win. Don't tell me you're jealous?'
'Of course I'm jealous,' she shouted. 'I’m just green. How could I ever compete?'
'If I were you, I wouldn't even try.' It was a time to lie, convincingly, and, above all, accurately. 'Her late husband. Carter Maladay, was a witchcraft buff. You should see his library. Two, maybe three thousand volumes, all on the occult Do you know, he even has a first edition of the Malleus Malificarum’
'I suppose everyone suffers from something. But bow did you get on to that subject seeing as how the poor old git is dead? Don't tell me, your girl friend is a witch.' 'You'll have to ask her yourself, some day. We got talking about my job, about my interests, and we discovered that Maladay and I had one or two things in common. Anyway, by then, as you can imagine, we had run out of chat, so she turned me loose in the library and wandered off. And before you could say how's your father, it was dinnertime. You know how easily I get absorbed in books. So I suppose she felt she had to ask me to stay.'
‘Following which she just had to ask you to bed.'
He got up, poured the last of the beer. 'She offered me a, bed, yes. It's the way these people live, darling. Time, place, means nothing to them. We finished eating about ten, and it seemed natural to her that I should stay the night. There's nothing more to it than that Now really, what do you imagine a woman like Cynthia Maladay could possibly see in me?'
‘I think you're very handsome. I bet she does too. Anyway, what was the idea of the whole business?'
Baird shrugged. 'It was rather a flop. She had got the idea that all of us children from the Tautenay should get together. Regimental reunion, sort of thing. She sent out a lot of those cards. I was the only one to turn up.'
'And you don't think she's on the make? Michael Baird, as I may have said before, you are just too goddamed innocent to be true. Did you talk about dear departed Carter?’
'She mentioned him. I didn't want to press her.'
'You missed a good one there. I was telling you I spent yesterday morning at the library. I spent yesterday afternoon in Fleet Street. You've met Tom Bradley?’
'The reporter fellow?'
'That's right. I got him to tell me all about Carter Maladay. The way he died. I mean the bits which were just rumour as well as what actually got into the newspapers.’
Baird sat down again.'Tell me.'
'Hooked you, have I? Well, it seems that while your Cynthia may be quite a looker, she's a bit of a cold fish, Nice to have on the arm, but not on the turn. Our Carter kept a stable. As a matter of fact, he just could not keep his hands off anything in a skirt.'
'It's a weakness I suppose one can indulge, when one is a millionaire.'
'Anyway, he finally went so far as to employ a female chauffeur. I suppose she would be called a chauffeuse. One more bottom to pinch. And apparently your friend didn't object'
'She told me she occasionally felt like a rest' 'I thought you must have talked about more than broomsticks. Trouble was, the new lady wouldn't play, no matter how hard Carter tried. But she was too good-looking to fire, and he was a patient man. So at last there came the weekend the whole family was going away for their various holidays. Being Maladays they didn't go together, of course. Mrs. M. was off to Sardinia, while Carter was supposed to be going up north to shoot grouse. I say supposed advisedly, because he never showed up. Not that this bothered his huntin', shootin', fishin'. fornicatin' friends, because he was always doing things like that' 'So what really happened?'
'Well, apparently the chauffeuse drove Mrs. Maladay to the station, put her on the train, and returned to the house to drive Carter up to Yorkshire. The servants had left already, and the house was empty, except for Carter. He was still in his room, finishing his packing, because one of his little eccentricities was that he never employed a valet, or anyone to look after his clothes except himself. Our heroine naturally went up to collect his bags and take them down to the car. She entered his bedroom, and he promptly nipped round behind her and locked the door. After which, no doubt rubbing his hands together and removing his trousers, he headed for girl and bed. But she seems to have been a spirited type, fought for her virtue tooth and nail, her immediate objective being to get hold of the key. Carter realised this particular victory was going to take time, and by now he seems to have been quite beside himself with passion. Do men ever really get beside themselves with passion?'
'Often,' Baird assured her. 'So what happened?'
‘He threw the key out of the window.'
Baird turned to her, frowning. 'But the windows at Maladay House...'
'Are barred. And the doors are solid oak, in case you didn't notice. So there they were, and there they stayed. And stayed and stayed and stayed. Mind you, Carter's gesture appears to have worked. Our girl decided she wasn't going to die a virgin. And did they have a tumble. She must have been quite something, because despite the rather grim situation in which they were, they kept at it. But what with no food, our Carter couldn't stand the pace. He had a heart attack and dropped dead on the third afternoon. This was August, remember? You don't want to forget that’
'Good God! No wonder Cynthia was a bit reticent about it. What happened to the girl?'
'Remember August. She could open the windows, and she could even shout, if she wanted to. But the house is bang in the middle of thirty acres, and the gardener had gone on holiday too. Your friend Cynthia was away for three weeks, and the first servant wasn't due back until two days before the lady of the house. As it turned out, however, Cynthia didn't have a good time on the Emerald Coast, and came back after a fortnight. Also, as it turned out, she thought she'd pop down to Maladay and get a book or something. Naturally she didn't expect anyone to be there, so she caught a taxi from the station. And did she get a surprise. The car was outside the front door instead of in the garage, and Carter's hat and coat were still in the front hall. She ran upstairs, found the locked bedroom. door, telephoned the police and the fire brigade. They broke the door down.' ‘And the girl?'
'She was still alive, believe it or not. She'd had water, of course, because all the bedrooms at Maladay House have their own bathrooms. But nothing to eat. And constant company.'
‘So she was as mad as a March hare.'
'As a matter of fact, no. At least, not so as anyone would notice. She really didn't seem too terribly aware of the thing on the bed. And by now it was a Thing. - Anyway, she was removed to hospital, nursed back to health, and gave evidence at the inquest. And again, believe it or not, she seems to have been totally composed, related everything that had happened in a most matter-of-fact way. Some strength of character, there.'
'You may be right. What happened to her, afterwards?'-
‘Search me. Presumably she went back to Denmark, or wherever it was.’
‘You mean she was a foreign type?'
'Going by her name. What was it now? Imogen Ericsson.'

II
Michael Baird found teaching an utterly absorbing profession, from the point of view of time no less than interest Even knowing his subject backwards, he approached each day's lesson carefully, selecting and editing words and subject-matter. And always there were tests and theses to be read and corrected. Once the term got under way, the school became bis whole life. There was very little room for dreaming, even when the dreams contained more reality, than they should.
He walked to and fro in front of his desk, his hands in the side pockets of his jacket. 'And so you see that the Black Death was possibly the most important social event in the history of Europe. The very existence of labour, as anything more than a collection of individuals looking for a job, bad never occurred to man before. That there would be a shortage of it was incredible. That the shortage could be so acute that the labouring man might actually be able to pick and choose was criminal. To the employers, that is. But the Black Death introduced over four hundred years of acute labour shortage. Four centuries is a very long time, you know. Sixteen generations. Certainly, by the end of that time it was impossible for anyone to remember that there had ever been any other conditions. So once the laws of serfdom had been abolished, society developed in a very free and easy, very pleasant manner. Management did what it liked, and labour worked for it as long as it liked, and then moved on. There was always a job going. And as only in Britain and the Scandinavian countries was serfdom fully abolished before 1800, we bad the best of the bargain. In that happy labour-management relationship, relatively happy, at any rate, lies the roots of British greatness in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.'
What were his feelings, now. What had been his feelings from the beginning? Guilt had lasted for a few minutes, only. He could not even be aware of the faintly self-conscious shame which invariably followed a visit to a brothel. He had been seduced, by two beautiful, passionate women, for the satisfaction of their own senses. He had never doubted this. But he did not even feel disturbed at having been selected as the goat. He had wanted, too. He had always wanted. His life had been a long sexual repression, compounded by the conditions under which he worked.
What he wanted, what he had always wanted, perhaps even what he had always needed, had been unthinkable, for so very long. Until Cynthia Maladay had said, think it. Do it Enjoy it. There was the dream quality. Nor could he feel that he was unique. Men dreamed, men wanted, men lusted, and men turned over and went to sleep on their other side, or mounted their wives and while indulging in the most straightforward of sexual activities gave themselves over to terrible fantasies. But this was begging the real question. Imogen Ericsson, the girl he knew, had spent ten days locked in a bedroom with a dead man. As Cynthia Maladay also knew.
The class began to stir. He smiled. 'Where were we?
Oh, yes, labour. It wasn't until the nineteenth century, then, that we again reached a situation where there was more labour than available work. I know it is common to blame the industrial revolution for the start of all our labour troubles, but like the Reformation, this was merely an outward manifestation of the true situation, which was the first sign of the population explosion. And, of course, the first symptoms were artificial. You can point at minor outbreaks of militant labour in the late eighteenth century, but these were isolated pockets directed against the more obvious of the early machines. European labour discovered its true situation immediately after the Napoleonic Wars, when almost every nation was bankrupt, most of them were devastated, and the capital investment needed for the expansion of industry was lacking. Out of that recession there came the student revolts of 1848, and the Marxist philosophy. People thought they were face to face with an utterly new phenomenon, whereas in reality they were only just regaining normalcy. There are no figures for unemployed before 1300, but you study the politics of the period, or take a long, slow read of Chaucer, and you will have to conclude that the percentage was far above our acceptable two and a half per cent. More like ten, I would estimate. But then, you see, we had no social conscience. You either took what work you could, or you joined the first private army which came along, or you starved. Or, more likely, you begged. Begging was a well-organised profession.'
Besides, he realised, whatever relationship now existed between Cynthia and Imogen was irrelevant to him. That they did have a relationship, and were willing to share it with him, was sufficient for his dream, for that expedition into the passion-heaven which he was already anxious to repeat. There was something else nagging at his subconscious. At his memory. He felt like an expert in a television quiz, presented with an object and told this is your subject, Mr. Baird. We should like you to tell us what it is. His subject. The death of a middle-aged lecher.
‘Not today,' he said. Today we not only regard a permanent pool of unemployed as an artificial means of balancing our budgets, but at the same time feel that it is all - our fault that this situation exists at all, that we must somehow alleviate the condition of our unemployed, pay them an ever-increasing dole, provide them with ever better leisure facilities. As usual, we are flying in the face of the most essential of natural laws, the law that only the fittest shall survive. And what is worse, while we are worrying ourselves sick, and rightly, about the dangers of atomic
(
rower and the problems of pollution, we are totally neglecting the biggest problem of all. The problem of leisure. You chaps may not like to accept this, but man is essentially a working animal. The last time there was a large percentage of the population with not enough to do, prior to 1300, was the most superstitious, brutal, ignorant period of history. - Out of it came the witchcraft delusion I was talking about last week. We arc returning to that state right now. As the population grows, we invent machines to make people work less. Man may be able to cope with a forty-hour week, although you would not think it to look at the disorder around you. He may just be able to cope with a thirty-hour week. Anything less than that and he is finished. The playboy with too much money who drinks and drugs and whores himself into lunacy or an early grave is no longer a creature of fiction. He's right outside those gates, at least every third person you meet. Think about it. That means five of you, if you're not careful. Good afternoon.'
They filed out, glancing at him and smiling, muttering amongst themselves. He had made them think again. Perhaps he had frightened them again.
Andrea was last, as usual. She paused in front of his desk. 'That was brilliant, Mr. Baird. You should go in for politics.' She waited while he picked up his coat, went to the door. ‘I wanted to apologise for that essay.'
'It wasn't very good, was it?' He opened the door for her, followed her into the corridor.
'I don't think it was as bad as you made out. I could hardly read it over for red scratches.' She opened the outer door for herself. ‘I don't suppose you could take five minutes to explain them to me?' 'I might.'
'This afternoon? Oh, bother. I'm playing tennis.' She glanced at him. 'I could come along afterwards. Say about six.’
There was a secretive quality about her eyes. She also had her dreams, her fantasies. 'All right, Andrea,' he said. ‘I’ll expect you about six.'
She smiled at him. 'Oh, good. I really would like to do well at history.' Her gaze drifted past him to the street. 'Well, there is something.'
He knew before he turned. The white Bentley convertible was park at the kerb. It was a splendid afternoon, and the top was down. Both women wore headscarves, and dark glasses. The Riviera had come to Blueton High Street 'Excuse me, will you. I'll see you later.'
Andrea's mouth was open. 'You mean they're friends of yours?’
He hurried across the quadrangle, aware of glances, stares, smiles, sniggers, whispers. 'You really shouldn't have come here, Cynthia.'
She was wearing the green velvet trouser suit Tm offering you a lift home, darling. I want to talk with you. Get in.'
Clearly it had not occurred to her that he might refuse. It no longer occurred to him either. She was there, and Imogen was there, and there was no longer any necessity to dream. He sat beside her.
'Aren't you going to kiss me?' she asked.
'Not right now, if you don't mind.'
‘I think you should put the roof up, Imogen. That was a stunning child you were with.'
'Do you really think so? I hadn't noticed.'
'You are a strange man, Michael. Was she your Miss Ogilvie?'
'Good Lord, no. She is a pupil of mine.'
'And I always supposed schoolmasters led dull lives. I'm surprised you can spare the time for old cows like me.'
The roof had descended, and Imogen reached up to lock it in place. Baird took Cynthia's face between his hands, kissed her on her opened mouth. It was too tame. He wanted to hurt her, as he had hurt her the last time they had kissed. He wanted to watch her face twist with agonised ecstacy. He wanted to own her, as he had owned her once, for a night.
As she knew what he was thinking, what he was remembering. 'And how have you spent your week?'
He leaned away from her. 'Thinking.'
She nodded, opened the bar. poured two glasses of brandy. 'You've been reading old newspapers. What conclusion have you come to?'
'Seeing you again reduces all newspapers to grubby bits of paper.'
She sipped brandy, watching him from her matching eyes. 'You are deep, Michael Baird. Do you know, even after last Saturday night, I wondered if you would be worth following up? Do you sleep with that girl?'
'I'd be fired on the spot'
'And that frightens you? Oh, you have so much to learn. Take my advice and seduce her. She has magnificent hair. And long legs. And you will feel her breasts growing under your hand. Pass her up, and you'll regret it all your life. Now listen. I am giving a dinner party next Wednesday night I wish you to come.'
'I suspect I'd bore your friends, darling.'
'You'll wow them. And you'll have lots to talk about. You are not the only man I have entertained at Maladay since my husband died. Not the only woman, either.'  'You gave me a different impression last Saturday.'
'Because I wanted you to stay. Now I can be frank with you. I can ask you to share more fully. I want us all to get together. All the people who believe in freedom.'
'I can hardly wait'
'I told you, there will be other women there as well. And you will never guess who else. Patrick Earlswood. He came down to Maladay only two days after you, asked about the church, came into the grounds.'
'And then the house.'
'But of course. Thomas is very good at remembering names. The fact that Patrick was ten days late was not relevant You'll enjoy meeting Patrick again.’
‘I’m sure I shall, Is it white tie?'
'Now you're angry.' She reached across the seat, took his hand in both of hers, imprisoned it, and then brought it against her blouse. His fingers sought the buttons, and then the flesh. It was cold, and therefore tumescent 'Jealousy is a petty emotion, a result of an inability to share, to be free. I am not jealous of Miss Ogilvie. Have you told her about us?'
'I told her I had met you again. That's all.  She knows we were on the Tautenay together.'
'And have you seen much of her, this last week?'
'I have seen nothing of her at all, since you ask.'
'I have interfered with your romance. I am sorry, Michael. I will make it up to you, I promise. But you are right. It is white tie.’ 'That lets me out.’
'Of course it doesn't.' She opened her handbag, took out a bundle of five-pound notes. 'Five hundred. Go to Saville Row. I have no doubt there are tailors just as good elsewhere, but only in Saville Row will you find someone to make you a suit in a week.’
'My dear girl, I can't accept money from you.'
She smiled at him. 'You've taken everything else, Michael. I want you to be there, and I want you to look your best.'
The car stopped. He gazed at the money, hesitated. ‘No suit of clothes could cost five hundred pounds.'
'There are all the accessories to think of.' She took his hands once more, pressed them into her lap, leaned forward. Her opened blouse flapped disturbingly. 'Now listen to me, Michael. As I say, the primary purpose of this dinner is a meeting of our little club. Our first Annual General Meeting. But as yet it is a very small club. There are only six of us, in fact. I would like to expand.'
'To thirteen?'
'Now you know very well that the coven of thirteen was a myth invented by later writers on witchcraft Your true coven, as envisaged by the inquisitors, might number several thousands. Certainly there is no limit'
'But you agree the whole thing was envisaged, never actual.'
Then we should be grateful to such active and far-seeing minds. We shall start our expansion on Wednesday, I hope. There is a seventh person coming to dinner. My daughter.'
'Your...?'
'Well, my stepdaughter. Carter was married before, you know, and his wife gave birth to this child shortly before they separated. Naturally she never got on very well with her father, and she abhorred me, but after her mother died she and Carter became partially reconciled, mainly because she had no money. The upshot was that he left her an income in his will. Quite a good income, as a matter of fact. Twenty-five thousand a year. We met for the first time in several years at dear Carter's funeral, and she actually spoke to me. Such a lovely girl. Long yellow hair, and true Maladay features. I adore long yellow hair. I think that girl you were speaking with outside the school had magnificent hair, but Oriole's is even lovelier.'
'And you want to suck her into your little cesspool? Has it occurred to you that you are a very nasty piece of work, Cynthia?'
‘You should learn to be honest with yourself, darling. What did you have for lunch?'
'Sausage and mashed potatoes.'
'I had a steak. And do you know, all of that, your sausage and my steak, is at this moment being converted into faeces in our respective bellies. There is too much purity in this world, Michael. Too much dishonesty. The words are synonymous. Yes, I would like to get Oriole into my bed. I would like to watch while others put her there. I would like to watch her wriggle with pain. It is not only that she is beautiful. There is something else. You will understand when you meet her. But she will have to be handled with great care. I am relying upon you.'
'I can't see me attracting any member of the jet set.'
'You don't understand the youth of today. They have the most profound respect for true intellect as against mere education. You have intellect dripping out of your ears, and Oriole is more susceptible than most, as she considers herself intelligent as well. Remember, she is yours for that night. All yours, if you handle her properly. I will send the car for you at seven on Wednesday evening.' She raised his hands, warm now with the pressure of her body, to her lips, kissed them. 'Dream of me.'
Imogen Ericsson sat, both hands on the wheel, her titian hair lying on the back of the seat. She never moved. It was incredible how elated he felt in the company of these two women. The elation of unrestrained evil, of knowing that however hideous his secret thoughts, he was not alone in them. Not any more.
‘I shall,' he promised, and got out. This time he stood on the pavement and watched the Bentley move off. Then he went upstairs, poured himself a glass of beer. Dreams into reality. And what was wrong in it? Nothing he could do would change Cynthia Maladay, or Imogen Ericsson. Or their other friends. And it might just be amusing to see Patrick again. So he was jealous, that Patrick would have shared what he would have preferred to keep to himself, and would share again. But then, Patrick would be just as jealous.
But now he was to be used to seduce an innocent. Which was nonsense. No young woman who was also a Maladay and was receiving a fortune to fritter every year could be innocent. He was already excited at the prospect of exploring new territory.
He finished his beer, glanced at his watch. It was after five. He ran downstairs to the telephone, dialled.
'Yes?' Her tone was cool.
'Mike. Can you come round this evening?'
'There's a surprise.'
'I'm sorry about last week, Joan. I really am. It's just that I've been terribly busy. But I really would like you to come round this evening.'
'Convince me.'
He sighed. 'It's this damned girl. You know, Andrea Burman. She's coming at six to discuss her last essay. I know this sounds stupid, but I'd like a chaperone.'
'You mean Mrs. Maladay didn't stay?'
No time to be angry, now. 'No. If you must know, she was only inviting me to a dinner party.'
'Well, we are moving into high society. I suggest you get her to come and chaperone you.' The receiver crashed.
Baird replaced his more slowly, watched the front door open. The legs were long and white, the tennis skirt so short it was merely a flap over the pleated white pants. 'Oh, hello. Mr. Baird. The game was so lousy I came along early.’

III
Mrs. Hollihan was a small, grey-haired woman who bustled. She even managed to bustle when drinking tea. When presented with her favourite lodger in tails and a white tie she sizzled like an angry bee, clothes brush in one hand, small mirror in the other.
'You look simply splendid, Mr. Baird. It's so long since I've actually seen a man dressed like this, except on the telly. I didn't know anyone wore them, nowadays, except for dancing contests.'
'It's a club I've joined,' Baird explained. 'The idea is to try to recapture some of the old values.' Which, he supposed, was true. Very old values. All the way back to Dionysus.
‘1 think it's such a good idea.' She brushed his shoulders. 'And the suit is such a perfect fit. Wherever did you hire it?'
'I had it made.'
'Good heavens. Of course, I suppose you'll be wearing it again. But it must have cost the earth'
'It did.' He placed the silk hat on his head, tilted it very slightly. 'Voila!'
'Oh, Miss Ogilvie should see you now. She hasn't been around here recently, has she?'
'No,’ Baird said. 'She hasn't, has she? There's the bell.'
Imogen Ericsson wore the dark blue evening gown of their first night together, under a wild mink jacket Mrs. Hollihan made a gasping noise in the background, and Imogen smiled at her. It occurred to Baird that Imogen's smile was frightening. She had smiled when she had first seen him, and had made him feel uneasy. After that she had not smiled again until she had lathered his groin.
‘Do you mind if I sit beside you?' he asked. 'It's lonely in the back.'
'I should enjoy it' She opened the door for him, went round the other side and got behind the wheel. The huge car glided away from the kerb. 'There are cigarettes in the glove compartment Oh, I forgot you don't.' As usual, she sat upright, both white-gloved hands on the wheel, gaze following the beams of the headlights.
'You enjoy driving,' Baird said.
‘Love it'
'Nothing else?'
'A great deal else, Mr. Baird. Haven't you guessed?'-'Don't you think you could try calling me Michael, in the circumstances?'
'Only Mrs. Maladay may call her guests by their Christian names.'
Baird nodded. - It fitted the pattern of their peculiar relationship. 'How long have you worked for Mrs. Maladay?'
'Two years. That is, I worked for Mr. Maladay for a year, and then for Mrs. Maladay for this last year.' It was the first time she had ever spoken quickly. He wondered why.
'And why did you stay on? Oh, I understand that now you are in love with her, but surely not when Mr. Maladay died?’
‘I stayed on because she asked me to. And I am not in love with her, Mr. Baird. Love has nothing to do with sex. I enjoy her company. She is a very exciting person, as you know. She also pays me very well, allows me to charge all my clothes to her accounts, and permits me to drive the finest motor car in the world. Your question should rather be, how could I have ever considered leaving her employment.’
'Silly me,' Baird murmured. But just for a moment she had been flustered, because she had not made it clear that she bad originally been employed by Carter Maladay. He closed his eyes. He sat in a chair, beneath the glow of studio lights, facing a desk. Between himself and the desk there was a table, and behind the desk there was a man wearing horn-rimmed glasses, fingers rippling across a card index of questions and answers. 'Now, Mr. Baird,' said the quizmaster. 'Consider this.' He nodded to the side of the studio, and two men came forward, and placed a scene on the table. A scene from life. A recent scene. A man, elderly, still vigorous, but not so vigorous as once upon a time; a girl, tall and strong and red-haired; wrestling on a bed, in a locked room, with a barred window. Wrestling, until the girl surrendered, after having fought for a year. 'Now, Mr. Baird,' said the quizmaster. 'Although this is a modern scene, it does belong to your subject. We should like you to identify it. To what does it belong? From where does it originate?'
‘I think you should be awake when we arrive,' Imogen said.
He opened his eyes, discovered they were already out of London. 'Supposing I said to you, let's forget this dinner party. Let's go out somewhere, by ourselves.'
'I could not possibly agree, Mr. Baird. Mrs. Maladay would be angry.'
'I imagine she might. Well, suppose I asked you to stop the car in a layby, and make love to me, now. It would not take long, and you are going to make love to me, some soft of love, later on, in any case. Aren't you?'
'After dinner. Surely you can wait until then?'
"Then will be different. Then will be ugly. Supposing I wished you, not as a creature to be tormented, but as a woman. Supposing I said that since that Saturday night I have found myself falling in love with you. Thinking of nothing but you. Supposing I told you I only agreed to come to this dinner party tonight in order to be near you?' - At last her head turned, just for an instant; in the darkness of the car it was impossible to see her face clearly. 'Do you love me, Mr. Baird? Could you, now? Could any man, knowing me?'
'Yes,' he said, and wondered if it could be true. Why was he doing this? He was impelled by jealousy, certainly. If he was only to be one in a crowd, to Cynthia, then he would pluck Imogen from that crowd, secretly, to be his. That, and more. This girl was the answer to the question, the scene on the table. Given time. But love her?
The Bentley was slowing, and she was looking ahead again. They were, momentarily, in open country, as they neared the Downs. 'I have never been loved, by a man,' she said, half to herself.
Try me.'
'I should like to, Mr. Baird. I should like that very much. I should like to be with you, and talk with you, and listen to you. But you would wish to screw me.'. . Sometimes. That is natural, for a man and a woman, in love.'
'Yes,' she said, almost fiercely. 'This is natural. As it is natural for you to wish to torment me, for me to wish to hurt you, for us to seek ways to humiliate each other, to leave our marks, one upon the other. I would wish something unnatural, from the man who loved me. There is no time, now. Mrs. Maladay is expecting us, and she knows how long it takes to drive from your apartment to Maladay House. But I have the evening off, sometimes. I could come to see you, perhaps.'
'I should like you to, very much.'
The Bentley gathered speed again, the road began to slip away behind them. What was he doing to this girl? Perhaps she had never known how to be innocently happy, how to be anything other than aroused, to want and to endure, and to enjoy both the wanting and the enduring. But at least she was secure in her private bell. Now he had picked, a little hole in that wall of wealth and comfort What could he offer her in return?
The car came to a stop. The gates loomed in front of them. Imogen opened her door. ‘I’ll do it.' Baird offered.
'Of course you will not do it, Mr. Baird.' She walked in front of the car. into the glare of the headlights, a tall, strong, red-haired young woman in a mink jacket, a startling sight to be seen opening a pair of wrought-iron gates. But they slipped backwards without effort, and she returned towards him. She was, after all, quite beautiful. Not when taken feature by feature, but in the way she moved, the tremendous health and strength which exuded from every muscle, every stretch of her powerful legs. 'Now, Mr. Baird,' said the quizmaster. 'As this is your subject, we should like you to identify this scene. Oh, yes, you are right. The girl Imogen Ericsson is certainly involved. Her strength and her power are important, too.' But she was not strong enough to resist rape.
She sat behind the wheel again, and the Bentley swept round the drive to join its inferiors, a DB Six and a Ford Executive. 'I see I'm the last, as usual.'
She smiled. The best are always the last, Mr. Baird.'
Cynthia herself opened the front door. 'Darling Michael. Come in here and let me look at you. You are simply magnificent. I have never seen a more handsome man. Don't you think he is striking, Imogen?'
'Yes, Mrs. Maladay.' Imogen closed the front door, took Baud's hat and coat.
Cynthia took his hands. 'Have you seduced that little girl yet?'
'I'm afraid I haven't.’
'Michael! And I know she adores you. Can't you think of her? Waiting, pining away, continually disappointed? How can you expect her to pass her examinations?'
It occurred to him that she had summed up Andrea this last week with uncanny accuracy. 'A man must dream, Cynthia. Knowing you. dreams become increasingly hard to come by. One is reduced to remembering, and anticipating.'
She laughed. 'Ah! But there is a danger here. Did you not know? When you first dream of breasts, you are becoming an adolescent, when you dream of legs and bottoms, you are becoming a man, but when your dreams turn to adolescent legs and bottoms, you are growing old. And you are a long way from growing old, Michael. Now you must come and meet the others. And don't look so nervous. Would you prefer to have a drink first?' 'I can manage.'
She wore a gold lamé gown, cut to the nipple as usual, and to the first swell of the buttocks; presumably there were wires somewhere. Her heavy tan covered a complexion more flawless than he remembered; the liquor she had already imbibed had added a sliver of pink to her cheeks. Her amber eyes were glowing with amusement and anticipation. She was utterly beautiful, utterly charming. To consider what might be going on inside her mind was unforgivable.
' She opened the door. ‘I want you to meet Michael Baird. Margaret and Thomas Pilling. You've met Tom already, Michael'
Pilling was, smiling, holding out his hand. Pilling? He wore a suit of tails and held a glass of champagne in his left hand.'Welcome back, Mr. Baird.'
'Did you meet Margaret?' Cynthia asked.
The tall, thin woman wore a long, tight-fitting, high-necked yellow gown. 'We exchanged glances,' she said. Baird took her hand, wondered if he should kiss it.
'And this is Patrick. Haven't you both changed?'
'Hello, Michael.’ Patrick Earlswood was below average height, although still several inches taller than Cynthia. He was .just beginning to run to stomach, but only there. His features were sharp, built around a pointed nose, tight lips, a thrusting, angry chin. He looked aggressive, perhaps the defensive aggression of the small man, Baird thought, and then decided against it. There was nothing aggressive in the greeting, and the clasp was firm, dry and friendly. It occurred to him that Patrick Earlswood was not jealous, not even uneasy, at having shared so much with the Pillings, of knowing that they knew so much about him. But then, Thomas Pilling was not jealous either, as Margaret Pilling was not jealous of her husband. He was the odd man out.
'Good to see you again,' he said. 'Remember those games of chess we used to play?'
'You always beat me.' Patrick smiled, relaxing the tight lips. The smile was genuine, because it reached the eyes, but was not a customary relaxation of his features. 'Cynthia tells me you're the brains of this party, too.'
‘I’ll have him give us a lecture,' Cynthia said. 'And now I want you to meet my stepdaughter.'
Oriole Maladay wore pink chiffon, off the shoulder, certainly, but modest enough for a convent when, compared with her stepmother. She was taller than Cynthia, and probably had at least as good a figure, Baird decided. Her flesh was so pale it seemed translucent; her throat and the tops of her breasts were a mass of thin blue veins. Her hair, as described to him, was a true golden yellow, and she wore it past her shoulders, not absolutely straight, as Andrea's, but with a slight wave which added to its attractiveness. Her features, presumably, were Maladay, and in strong contrast to Cynthia's, set in a long face, just as small, but rounded instead of crisp, with full lips and clear blue eyes, perhaps the slightest hook to her nose, and a disproportionately large chin. Her face could claim almost as much beauty as her hair and dress and body, but it was spoiled at this moment by her expression of utter contempt as she surveyed the room, and with which she now regarded Baird. 'The schoolmaster.'
'I've told her all about you,' Cynthia said. 'Now you must have a drink, Michael.' Imogen stood at her elbow, carrying a tray of full glasses of champagne. 'And yours looks empty, darling.' She moved away.
Oriole shrugged. 'May as well, I suppose.' She sipped. 'Cynthia certainly believes in mixing the professions. And the classes.'
. It occurred to Baird that she was making a statement rather than trying to be rude. 'Perhaps she believes in a classless society.'
'Oh, don't we all, Mr. Baird. Believe in it, I mean. Do you have a cigarette?'
Baird rescued the silver box from the table.
'Thank you. Cynthia tells me you study witchcraft.'
Tm interested in it.'
'Daddy has the most fabulous collection of books on witchcraft.'
'I know. Your stepmother very kindly let me look at them one day. And what do you study, Miss Maladay?' For the first time her gaze, which had been flickering
distastefully over the room, came to rest on his face. 'Why, "life, I suppose, Mr. Baird. Humanity.'       \
'Riviera Man,' Baird suggested. 'Once rare, but now an ever-increasing species, only to be limited and prevented from flooding the earth to the exclusion of all others by increased taxation.'
She frowned. 'Are you a Socialist, Mr. Baird?'
'I believe in Socialism, Miss Maladay.'
The frown continued to gather for perhaps a second, and then faded from the pale brow. She smiled. 'Do you know, I think I am going to like you, Mr. Baird?' She seemed more surprised than he. 'I'll tell you a little secret. When I came in here tonight I was appalled. I know Cynthia doesn't really belong to decent society—I mean, who would have her—but to be reduced to entertaining your own servants to dinner. I almost felt sorry for her. Almost.'
'But not quite, I'm sure, darling.' Cynthia smiled as she joined them. ‘I think Imogen is trying to tell us that dinner is ready.'

IV
The main course, as usual, was lobster. Baird wondered whether Cynthia Maladay indulged this fancy so regularly because of the expense, because she gloried in her quite remarkable digestion, or because she regarded it as an aphrodisiac. He thought the last might be the case. To eat lobster, and drink champagne, when surrounded by half-naked, pulsing femininity, and for her, no doubt, by flawlessly dressed, eager men, was to induce a quality of accelerated sybarism. Especially when they all knew why they were here, wondering what new obscenities she had selected for their evening's entertainment. All except one. But then, she was the promised obscenity.
Although the table was set, the guests took their choices from the laden sideboard, moving about the room, and sitting as they felt the urge, or the need. There was a great deal of champagne. And sitting, moving, eating, they watched Oriole Maladay. She could hardly be unaware of their interest. But she revealed no embarrassment, ate sparingly and delicately. She could not, however, avoid the champagne. Her glass was kept full, and with the house, as ever, as close as an oven, she emptied it constantly.
The meal dragged, and yet hurried on. Margaret Pilling produced a decanter of port and a tray of glasses; Imogen supplied the brandy. These were placed in front of Cynthia.
Oriole stood up, uncertainly.
'Brandy, darling?’ Cynthia asked. 'And do sit down. I do not believe in separating the sexes, even for a few minutes. There are cigars in that drawer, Patrick.'
'Then you'll have to excuse me,' Oriole said.
'I won't,' Cynthia said. 'Sit down.’
Because full bladders are also sexually aware, irritating and exciting all at the same time. True sexual enjoyment is based upon an awareness of every possible organ, all at once. It is only dulled by a comfortable, sleepy, after-dinner relaxation, a feeling of peace with oneself and with the world.
Oriole Maladay sat down.
'Now then,' Cynthia said. ‘I think we should play an after-dinner game to help our digestion. A nice, exciting after-dinner game. Who has any ideas?'
They had all been briefed. 'What about forfeits?' Thomas Pilling suggested.
'Oh, what a super idea!' Imogen cried. ‘I do adore forfeits.'
'Forfeits.' Oriole sighed.
'It really can be quite exciting, darling,' Cynthia said. 'But you must promise to pay. We must all promise to pay.'
She looked around the room, and the heads nodded. Baird found himself murmuring agreement. Oriole's shoulders raised and fell. 'I'm not even wearing stockings,' she said.
'We never claim clothes? Cynthia said. 'Shall I deal?’ The cards had been placed in front of her by Imogen. She dealt them face up, as usual, the club two to Margaret Pilling, the spade nine to Tom Pilling, the heart queen to Imogen, the diamond four to Patrick, the heart ace to Baird. 'Well, there's a start' She dealt the heart knave to Oriole.
'First blood!' Margaret cried.
Oriole picked up the card. 'Is this good?'
'You pay the first forfeit,’ Imogen said. 'And Mr. Baird calls it.’
'Oh?’ Oriole gazed at him. But the forfeit was written on the ace, in a small, neat hand. 'I'd like to shave you,' he said. 'You'd what?’
Cynthia clapped her hands. 'Oh, I think that's a splendid idea. You really are brilliant, Michael. I told you he'd be brilliant, Oriole.' She was more excited than Baird would have thought possible.
'I'm afraid I don't understand,' Oriole said, in genuine bewilderment. 'Shave what part of me?'
'Your pubes, darling,' Patrick said.
'I think you should lie down in the middle of the table,' Cynthia said. 'Margaret, clear a space for her. Imogen, we'll need soap and water, and you can bring down my razor. Oriole, darling, it would be better if you were to take everything off or your clothes may just get spoiled.'
'You must be round the bleeding twist.' Oriole swept the table with her gaze. 'All of you.' She stood up. 'I am going home.'
'But, Oriole,' Cynthia said, 'you promised to pay.'
'You did, you know, Miss Maladay,' Pilling said.
Oriole's glance may well have scorched his skin. 'I don't even like to mix my drinks.' She walked to the door. 'Don't bother to see me out.’
Pilling glanced at his mistress, but Cynthia gave her head a quick shake. The door closed.
'So much for that,' Patrick said. ‘I feel quite let down.'
'Go after her, Michael,' Cynthia said.
'I'm afraid I'm not the forceful type.'
‘I don't want you to drag her back, darling. I don't want you even to try to persuade her. But I would not like to lose touch. And you do owe her an apology.'
‘I owe her an apology? Oh, very well.' He ran down the hall. The front door was swinging on its hinges. Baird reached the Aston Martin as its engine came to life. Oriole's window was open. ‘I say, Miss Maladay,' he shouted. 'Just one moment.'
She glanced at him, put the car into reverse. He caught the window, ran beside her. 'I would like to apologise. Most sincerely.'
She turned the wheel, but left her foot on the brake. ‘Why?'
'I'm sorry I embarrassed you.’
'Are you?' She frowned. 'Yes. I think you are. Cynthia put you up to it, of course. Get in.' 'Get in?' 
'You are going to see me home, aren't you?'
Baird sat beside her. Oriole Maladay gunned the engine, and the car raced down the drive. The gates had remained open. 'I just don't understand how she could imagine I'd go through with it,’ Oriole said, half to herself. 'There are cigarettes over there. Light me one.'
Baird obliged. It saved him having to look at the road. Oriole drove very fast, and he concluded that each set of tyres lasted her about six weeks.
'She just wanted to humiliate me,' Oriole muttered. 'But why ask me down at all? And why did you go along with her?'
'Perhaps I don't see it as being quite so personal as you do.'
'Ha! I suppose you've laid her on a dining table and shaved her gut.'
'Actually, no. But she's done it to me. It's something that fascinates her. It's a facet of witchcraft, you know.'
Oriole glanced at him; the car swerved. 'And you let her? You're her lover.'
Tm sure I'm not the only one.'
'And I put you down as a square. Just goes to show how one can be mistaken.' The Aston Martin screamed to a stop, sliding across the road. 'I just have to pee. Come with me.’
"That's not consistent.'
‘I don't like being alone in the bushes, darling.' She hitched up her gown, squatted, extended her right hand. Baird held on to it. 'And I don't want you to think I'm a prude. For God's sake, sex is all there is. But it's a private enjoyment. It's the only private enjoyment left, don't you think?'
'There's a point of view.'
She stood up, swayed against him. 'You can kiss me if you like.'
Baird tasted lobster and champagne, fairly attractively mixed.
'What does pubic hair have to do with witchcraft, anyway?'
'It's a basic ingredient of their medicines and love potions.'
'Ugh! You don't mean Cynthia believes in that stuff?' 'Cynthia believes in nothing at all. Except Cynthia.' 'That's true. She did for Dad.' 'Come again?'
'Oh, she did. Poor old sod.' She released him, pushed her way through the bushes. 'You know, if you really want to play barber with puss you're absolutely welcome, Mr. Baird. I like you. I really do. But spread my legs for that bitch's enjoyment I will not do.' She sat behind the wheel.
'Would you like me to drive?' Baird asked.
'Do you?'
‘I have a licence.'
'Ah, but you've never driven this baby.' : 'My experience runs about as high as two litres.'
'I'll drive,' she decided. Conversation lagged. Baird was too busy preparing for hospital and Oriole kept her tongue between her teeth. Eventually they arrived at Curzon Street 'You're coming up,' she said. 'It seems to me you and I either know each other too well, or not well enough.'

V
The bathroom was twelve feet square, tiled in pink. The bath itself was of the short, wide variety, enamelled in pink. .The water was cold, and Margaret Pilling squealed and screamed with alternate breaths. The others panted, and -laughed as they worked. Tom Pilling washed his wife's hair, smothered her face with soap; Greek God Gone Berserk. Imogen had the torso, soaped and slapped, squeezed breast and nipples together before biting: Greek Goddess Playing With Nymph. But a strangely lifeless Greek goddess tonight Patrick had the lower half. He soaped more thoughtfully, drew the most screams and gurgling laughter from his victim. Satyr Bathing Diana. Or, better yet, Mephistopheles At Work. He was a remarkably Satanic little man, the image assisted by the pointed face and the isolated paunch amidst the general emaciation of his small body, and by the looming size of his genitals.
Cynthia sat by herself, on the stool, knees drawn up. chin resting, a compact bundle of wet velvet brown flesh and dripping black hair. Isis Thinking.
As an exercise in sexual stimulation, the evening had been a disaster. Where the Pillings on their own, or Patrick on his own, had been exciting, together they were all too anxious to get into the act. And the bathing business was juvenile. It had been suggested by Pilling, who bad a water fixation, and, already bored, she had elected to be first Now she was almost dry, but still half drowned, and still sore. She enjoyed pain, when it was stimulating. This pain was the dull bruising of a rough and tumble. There was nothing sexual about that
So there was something to remember. Shared orgies were a waste of time. One needed to be the constant centre of attention, and to be the centre of too much attention involved considerable pain, and possible injury. Therefore the orgy must be inflicted upon a single human being. A human being who would be prepared to endure. Or who would not be able to object
Of course, she mused, it might have been different had Oriole stayed. It could well be just that she knew all of these people top well, knew how they would react, exactly what would follow their reaction. Oriole would scream differently, and move differently. It might even be a pleasure to bathe Oriole. Certainly it would be possible to find something pleasurable to do with her.
But Oriole had not stayed. And Michael had not come back. She wondered if this was not the true cause of her irritation. Tom was a splendid figure of a man, but it was all muscle. There could be no doubt that Patrick was intelligent, but he explored everything she offered like a child, eager to press on to the next. There was depth to Michael. He was innocent, certainly. Innocent in what he did. But not innocent in his thoughts. She wondered if some of Michael's thoughts might not stretch even farther than her own.
And he had not come back. Of course, being Michael, with his extraordinarily limited attitude to money, he might just not have considered spending the taxi fare.
Margaret Pilling rolled out of the bath, landed on the floor, dripping, laughing and panting at the same time.
'Oh, what dirty water,' Imogen said. 'I'm not getting in there.’
'Then we'll change it.' Pilling pulled out the plug.
'Your turn with the soap, Cyn,' Patrick said.
'You have it' She opened the door, walked down the corridor, her bare feet sinking into the carpet Children, she thought. Bloody children. There had been more sex in the cabin of the Tautenay. Certainly most of the parties she had been to with Carter had ended with more excitement, more investigation.
She went into her bedroom, pulled on a pair of boots, wrapped herself in her full-length mink, added a mink hat over her damp hair and a pair of gloves, went downstairs. There was less noise from the bathroom, now. Because they were bathing Imogen. Imogen had been unenthusiastic all evening.
She got into the Bentley, turned the heating on high, drove out of the gates. Yes, she thought. He's deep. Perhaps he is too deep. He could be a disruptive force, in my little circle. My little circle. Her first attempt at growth had been a dismal failure. But there would be others. More successful.
She drove fast over empty roads; it was past midnight Blueton High Street was the most deserted of all. She turned off at the lights, glided to a stop in front of a darkened boarding house. Even the street lamps had gone off.
She locked the car, went up the steps, pressed the bell and again and again. It was a chilly night, and the air got in between boots and coat.
The handle turned; Mrs. Hollihan wore a flowered dressing gown and looked angry. 'What's the matter then? .What's the matter?' Her gaze took in the several thousand pounds of mink with which she was confronted, moved past the woman to the several thousand pounds of car. 'Ooh!' she said. 'Have you had an accident mum?'
‘Is Mr. Baird home yet?'
'Mr. Baird? Oh, well, I don't think he has come in, yet, mum. It's not like him to stay out this late. But he went out to dinner with some club. All dressed up, he was.'
‘I’m his sister,' Cynthia said. 'Do you mind if I wait’
'I never knew he had a sister.’
‘I’m the family black sheep. Do you mind if I come in? I'm freezing.'

'Oh. Oh. yes.' Mrs. Hollihan stepped aside, and Cynthia entered the hall, looked around her, remembered to smile.
‘I’ll wait in his room, shall I?'
'Oh. Oh, yes.' Mrs. Hollihan peered at her. 'You've the same colouring, haven't you,' she said in a relieved tone. 'Shall I take your coat?'
"Thank you, no. Where do I go?'
'It's the door on the landing, Miss Baird. He has two rooms, and his own bathroom, you know.'
‘I am glad.' Cynthia climbed the stairs, looked down and smiled. 'And I'm not Miss Baird, Mrs. Hollihan. I'm Mrs. Maladay. My husband is dead.'
She opened the sitting-room door, switched on the light She turned on all the gas fires, closed the windows tightly, drew the curtains. She opened the cupboard in the little kitchenette, found nothing but beer. On top of champagne? But perhaps it would meld into a sort of brown velvet She poured herself a glass, sipped and shuddered.
Some of the chill had left the air. She took off her coat and boots, got into bed, worked her legs to warm the sheets. She waited.
He came home at a quarter to two. He opened the door, slammed it behind him. 'You have Mrs. Hollihan patrolling the hall like a sentry. Why?'
‘I wanted to see you. Have you been with Oriole all this time?’
He took off his scarf. His clothes were sufficiently rumpled to have been removed at least once that evening. 'As a matter of fact yes.'
'Was she fun?'
'In a terribly normal way. I imagine you would have been bored.'
'I do not think so. She is very beautiful. Don't you agree?'
He drank some beer from her glass, began to undress. 'Very beautiful.'
• 'How I envy you,' Cynthia said. 'And did she surrender absolutely?'
'Absolutely. She even offered me her razor. It was not the operation she objected to, it was having it performed in public'
'And did you?’
'Remarkably, I find my women more sexy the way nature intended.'
‘Meaning you do not find me sexy?'
‘You are a special case. Are you going home, now?'
'Good Lord, no. I am waiting for you to come here and prove to me how sexy I am.'
'Darling, men don't go to bed with their sisters.'
'My brother would, if I bad one. It's one of the great tragedies of my life that I've never been able to commit incest. Even my father pushed off when I was three. I think my stepfather had some ideas, but I didn't fancy him. He was greasy. Do come to bed, Michael, darling. I promise I'll lie flat on my back and not move a muscle, if that's what you really prefer.'
'I'm afraid the truth of the matter is that your darling daughter has had all I have to give, right now. As you should be able to see.'
'All you need is a little stimulation. At least come and sit beside me.'
He hesitated, shrugged. 'If you'll promise to keep your hands to yourself.'
‘I promise. Michael. What happened between you and Imogen, on the way down to Maladay?'
She had taken him by surprise. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'
'Oh, yes, you do. She's been odd all evening.'
He sighed. 'Well, if you must know, I propositioned her.'
'Imogen?'
'I asked her to skip the dinner and come out with me instead.' ‘Whatever for?'
'It was just an idea, darling. To see if she had any mind of her own.' 'And does she?'
'She turned me down. Said you wouldn't like it. Now let me ask you a question.' 'Anything you like.'
He gazed at her for several moments, then shook his head. He took her face between his hands, as she liked doing to him, and kissed her on the mouth.
'There,’ she said. 'I was right after all You wouldn't even have any trouble with a narrow virgin, right now. What was your question?’
‘I've changed my mind.'
'Oh? Very well But you really were very, very naughty with Imogen. And equally naughty with Oriole. The whole concept of the Coven is that we share. But I'll forgive you, if you'll give me a present.'
'I doubt whether I'd be able to afford anything you might fancy.'
'It will cost you nothing. I know I will never get Oriole to join us now. So I will have to put up with a substitute. I would like that girl in your class.'
He stared at her. 'Just like that. I come, I see, I snap my fingers.'
'Oh, don't be ridiculous. Nobody is going to force her. I just want you to bring her to our next meeting. She adores you. I could tell it from the way she looked at you. And she is pretty. She is not so good-looking as Oriole, but I think she may be even more interesting, because she is innocent.'
'She isn't, you know.'
'So she's been laid. I'm talking about her mind. Do you know, a woman who has only had a little bit of sex is the most innocent of all. Before, it is all ignorance. Ignorance is never attractive. But afterwards there is awareness, added perhaps to disappointment. Can this be the great event for which she has been preparing since puberty? Surely there is more to it than that. Even if she is fortunate enough to enjoy orgasms at will, yet it soon becomes commonplace. New experiences, new excitements, these arc what she is looking for. But I would never force her, Michael. Like Oriole, she would be free to walk out of the house.'
'Only Andrea would stay. Sorry.'
'You mean you won't?'
'Darling, I don't have any doubts about what I am. But I do draw certain lines. My kids are there for me to manipulate their brains, not their bodies.'
She sat up, hands folded on her lap. 'And it was such a little thing.' She shrugged. 'Ah, well. It just goes to show. Don't expect me to respect your principles, Michael. If there is one thing I truly abhor, it is principles. You're saving that child for yourself.'
'You do talk a lot of rubbish. All right, so I'm stimulated. Move over.'
She put her hands on his chest. 'Not yet. I have something else on my mind.'
'Who now?'
'You. I have decided to make certain changes in my life. Our lives. The life of the Coven.' 'Such as?'
'I am going to get married again. To you.' He laughed. 'You're pissed.'
'I have only been drunk once in my life, and that was at my first wedding. A Coven needs a head. A male head. A devil, for the faithful to kiss his backside. I need the constant companionship of a man. I know that now.'
'Snip-snap go the fingers. So I'm elected. Sorry again, darling.'
'What do you mean?'
'Let's say I'm not the marrying kind.'
‘I am offering you a great deal of wealth, the unlimited use of my income, in fact. If you don't mind, I'll keep the capital in my hands. It's just my suspicious nature. I am offering you Maladay House. I am offering you me. And Imogen. Margaret Pilling as well, if you like. She may not look much, but she can be quite exciting.'
'And I am refusing,' Baird said. 'I love you dearly, Cynthia. I really do. You reappeared in my life at just the right moment, when I was half round the bend with loneliness and suppressed desire. You have allowed me to indulge every obscenity I can ever have dreamed of. I think that is good for man. It may even be essential for man to wallow in sheer filth every so often. Maybe much of what is wrong with us is this constant effort to live up to some sort of a standard, even if it's only a personal one. Maybe Christianity, all religion, has a lot to answer for there. And the average man's trouble is that he can't find a woman to indulge him. I'm lucky, and God knows I'm aware of that. But if you don't mind, I'm going to hang on to my soul, for just a little while longer. It might just come in handy. Now move over.'
'No.' She rolled across the bed. She was aware of anger. Real anger, for the first time in years. So much anger that she wanted to be alone, to enjoy it, to plan. ‘I do not want to screw you, any more.' She walked past him, and he caught her wrist. She looked down at him. 'If you do not let me go, Michael, I will scream. Schoolmaster accused of Incest. That will be worth reading.'
He released her. 'You're being childish.'
'And you are a coward, Michael Baird. A coward and a hypocrite. Oh, you enjoy being with me, doing what I do. But you wish to reserve the right to withdraw, when you are ready. When you have had enough.' She sat on the settee, laced her boots, got up again, put on her mink, adjusted her hat.
'Have I formally been expelled from the Coven?' Baird asked.
She smiled at him. 'Why, darling, what a ridiculous idea. I have offered you everything I possess, and you have chosen otherwise. That does not mean we cannot still be friends, cannot still share. Who knows, in time you may even wish to change your mind. Ciao.'

The Sabbat

Yacht clubs begin to look sad in October. There is still a great deal of activity, as owners lay up their boats, as the more experienced, or the more foolhardy, leave theirs down in the hopes of November sailing. The funereal emptiness of Christmas and January has not yet arrived. But in October there is an awareness that the season is drawing to a close.
This sailing club was not even licensed. It was nothing more than a room, with showers and lockers at the rear, and an extensive dinghy park on either side. A wide concrete slipway led down to the waters of the Thames, and to extensive areas of glutinous black mud, as well. On the far side of the river there were houses, huddled close, smoking. But a short sail upstream discovered more attractive country; there were still houses, but these were more widely spaced, and there were trees.
Baird clipped the canvas cover over his boat, stretched. His back had discovered a vague ache. He put his hands on his hips, surveyed the little craft with a frown. He had never laid up this early before, preferring to sail down to the beginning of December. There was nothing else to do with his Sundays. There had been nothing else to do with his Sundays. But he had not been on the water this term. And even though he had not heard from Cynthia for a fortnight he would not be on the water again this term.
He closed the door of the shed, walked along the slip. He wondered why he had refused her. Partly because of his anger. She had proposed to him in the most outrageous manner, establishing at the very beginning that she was buying. And it had followed her equally outrageous assumption that any attractive pupil of Blueton High was hers for the taking. And then there had been Oriole. He had come straight from the bed of an attractive, wealthy, healthily heterosexual young woman. His own normalcy had been in the ascendant, just for that night. Of course, he would grow tired of Oriole and equally, of course, he would never grow tired of Cynthia. As if he would ever be given the chance to do either. Cynthia was the sort of woman who would stay angry for some considerable time, and Oriole, being a normal young woman, would be waiting for him to call her. He had thought of it, several times. But that night she had been drunk, and whether she liked it or not, sexually stimulated. That she would be expensive to entertain was certain.
And then there was Carter Maladay. There would be always Carter Maladay. To marry Cynthia he would first have to dispose of the scene on the table, the scene to which the quizmaster kept returning, now with growing impatience. But the key to that scene was Imogen Ericsson, and he had not heard from Imogen either, for a fortnight She was the most tempting, as well as the most accessible. Unless she had already been punished, had had Baird exorcised from her brain and her emotions. He wondered what it would be like to be punished by Cynthia Maladay, when to be entertained by her involved such unusual sensations.
'Good morning to you, Michael.'
Edward Coleman was some years older than himself, a distinguished-looking man, although he was by no means tall, because of his thick head of white hair, and his heavy brown eyes. He was a psychiatrist by profession, and therefore a listener rather than a talker. But it was impossible ever to forget that he was there. During the long repressed years Baird had several times considered visiting him professionally. But not since September. 'Good morning to you.'
'You haven't laid up already?'  'I'm afraid so. It's going to be one of those terms.'
'Oh, what a shame. Well, if you do feel the urge to get out one Sunday, take Lucy.'
"Thanks, Ted. I will.' Baird opened the gate, stepped on to the road, turned for the bus stop; it was an hour's journey to Blueton.
'Mr. Baird!' Andrea Burman ran along the road. She wore jeans and a loose sweater which flopped up and down. Her hair scattered behind her.
'What on earth are you doing out here?"
'I wanted to speak with you. I knew I'd find you at the sailing club on a Sunday morning.'
'You nearly didn't.'
She leaned against the wall, panted. 'You're usually here for the day.'
'Not this day.' He waved his hand, and the bus pulled into the side of the road.
'May I come back with you?' Andrea asked.
'I think you better had.' He climbed the stairs to the upper deck. At eleven-thirty on a bleak Sunday morning the bus was empty. They went to the front seats.
'I seem to have spent all day riding about on a bus.'
'Why?' He glanced at her slyly. 'Don't you approve of my comments on your last essay?'
‘I wanted to thank you,' she said seriously.
'Now, why should you want to do a thing like that?'
'For the invitation.' She spoke hurriedly. 'I was beginning to think you didn't like me. And I do so like you. But, of course, if you didn't like me, you wouldn't have mentioned me to her, would you? And I know how careful you have to be, me being still at school. But I am sixteen, Mr. Baird.'
'Just draw a long breath,' Baird suggested. 'And hold it.' He felt in his pocket, found some silver. 'Two to Blueton High Street, please.'
The conductress gave change, looked at Andrea, then at Baird, obviously wondering if they were father and daughter, decided against it, sniffed, and returned to the lower deck.
'Now, let's start all over again,' Baird said. 'What invitation?' 'I brought it along.'
It had spent the last hour in the hip pocket of her jeans, was bent and warm. But it had once been a large gold-rimmed card. The lettering was also in gold.
Mrs. Cynthia Maladay and
Mr. Patrick Earlswood request the pleasure of the company of Miss Andrea Barman at the celebration of their wedding at Maladay House
 On Saturday 17th October at 6 pm
Even Andrea's name was printed in the gold type. Certainly it had come from Cynthia.
‘I got it this morning,' Andrea said. 'Didn't you get one?'
'My mail hadn't arrived when I left. You're not going?’
'Of course I'm going, Mr. Baird. It's the most exciting thing that's ever happened to me. I mean, when you think of her clothes, and that car! I can hardly wait to see her house. I suppose you've been there?'
'Yes,' Baird said. 'Andy, it's not terribly usual for sixteen-year-old girls to be invited to the weddings of perfect strangers, all by themselves. What do your parents think?'
'I haven't shown it to them. I wanted to tell you first'
'Why?'
'Well. . .' Her tongue came out and circled her lips. 'I thought . . . well, that she was your mistress, Mr, Baird. I thought that was why you weren't interested in me. But if she's marrying someone else, well, then, that can't be it, can it? I wish you would tell me what the trouble is. Do I have bad breath? Aren't my breasts big enough? I worry about them awfully. I even took a course of exercises, once, but it didn't do any good. Or maybe you think I'd tell. I'd never tell anyone about us, Mr. Baird.'
'You don't have bad breath, Andy. And I'm sure your breasts are just the right size. And it never occurred to me that you would kiss and tell. I merely happen to be your schoolmaster, old enough to be your father, and . . .' He hesitated.
'I hope the third reason makes more sense than the other two.'
'Let's say I'm not a very nice person. I might add, neither is Mrs. Maladay.'
"Now I know you're just putting me off. You're the nicest master in the school. Everyone agrees on that. And anyone can look at Mrs. Maladay and see she's just perfect'
Baird sighed. 'Just perfect. That does rather sum her up. Anyway, it's academic. Your mum will never let you go.'
'Listen, Mr. Baird. My mum does what she likes, and I do what I like. It's an arrangement we came to, six months ago, when she found Larry in my bed one night.'
‘It was Larry, was it?'
‘I know you don't like him, Mr. Baird. Now you can like him even less. And he hasn't had a go at me in weeks.'
'He must be positively rabid. Doesn't your dad have any say in the matter?'
Not him,' Andrea said contentedly. 'He wanted to take his belt to me. Me, mind you. I scratched his face. And I walked out. They were so upset when a policeman found me sleeping on a park bench that they agreed to be good. They even didn't report it to school. They have this idea that an unhappy childhood turns you into a delinquent. They got it off the telly’

'And you, having enjoyed a happy childhood, are in no danger. But you like boys?' 'Men,' Andrea corrected. 'Who doesn't?' 'Mrs. Maladay doesn't, much. Not half as much as she likes girls.'
'Oh, really, Mr. Baird. What a thing to say about your friend. She's getting married, isn't she?'
'Doesn't mean a thing. If I were you, I'd decline with thanks.'
'You have got to be joking,' Andrea said. 'You mean you didn't ask her to invite me?'
‘I asked her not to, as a matter of fact.'
‘You mean she wanted to, and you tried to put her off? You mean she fancies me? Oh, you are terrible, Mr. Baird. I'm. going, all right. I've never seen anyone so, well, so everything. I'd lie down for her, any time.'
'Andrea...'
Tm going, Mr. Baird.' She had a peculiarly stubborn face. 'What I wanted to ask you was, as you're going too, I suppose, if you'd give me a lift there and back. It's a long way down to Surrey, and I don't even know where Maladay House is.'
Baird gazed at her wide, eager face. He should have known better. You don't put off girls like Andrea Burman by hinting at peculiar sexual habits. You don't put anyone off, really. He nodded. 'All right, Andy. We'll go together.'
'Oh, you are a darling, Mr. Baird.' She looked over her shoulder to make sure they were alone, then put her arms round his neck and kissed him on the cheek. 'I'm sure we're going to get together eventually, Mr. Baird. Why fight it?'

II
Michael Baird surveyed himself in the mirror, frowned. This was only the second time he had worn this suit, and he had had to have it cleaned after his encounter with Oriole Maladay. It had cost a small fortune, and did not appear to have been a particularly good job. But his invitation had specified a white tie. The Coven was gathering, to elect itself a devil. No, the devil had already been elected, by the goddess. The Coven was only required to confirm her choice.
He wondered why he bothered. Or, if he bothered, why he did not disrupt their proceedings by appearing in canvas sailing trousers and a roll-necked sweater. Did he fear Cynthia's displeasure that much? Did her displeasure mean anything, now that she was marrying Patrick? Or was it because he knew that her marriage to Patrick would mean nothing to her relationship with the rest of the Coven, and for him, at least, it had now been three weeks.
Or was it because he was squiring Andrea Burman? Here was a dangerous thought. But his surging libido, forced into dormancy for thirty years and then reawakened and released with maximum effect by Cynthia Maladay, was no longer capable of being subdued. And as Cynthia bad said with such anticipation, Andrea had a questing innocence which was irresistible. She was the other side of the coin to Cynthia, perhaps even to Imogen. She was a dream coming to life. A dream who fancied him.
Of course, she had to remain a dream. Sexual licence can only be permitted between consenting adults, equally eager lechers. Andrea was waiting, hoping to be bewitched. She'd rub ointment between her legs without hesitation, immediately discover herself a broomstick on which to perch, and then away she'd fly. Was he going to be broomstick or chaperon? But this was a wedding, not an intimate dinner party. Weddings demanded certain additional trimmings, certain evidences of sanity.
There was a knock on the door. He discovered his heart was pounding.
'Surprise!' Joan said. 'My God, I'm going blind. Is that what they wear to weddings nowadays?'
'To this wedding,' he said. She had apparently been bowling, was wearing a track suit, and was attractively sweaty and earthy. 'And I am surprised.'
'Well, actually, I only found out about it this morning. So, in the circumstances, I thought I'd come round and apologise. Maybe she did just want to talk over old times.'
'And I'm glad you came, believe it or not.' - 'Although, having seen you, maybe I should commiserate. Maybe you just didn't have enough to talk about. Either way, I'm happy about it. Does that make me a forward young hussy?'
'Darling, you don't know the meaning of the word. But as you're here, how would you like to give us a lift to the station?'
'Don't tell me Mrs. Hollihan is going too?'
'Not Mrs. Hollihan. And the little blighter said she'd be here at four.'
'Here I am, Mr. Baird.' They had forgotten to close the door. Andrea Burman wore pink silk, very short, and black stockings, matched by her black cowboy hat and black gloves. She carried a white cloth coat over her arm.
'Well!' Joan said. . Tor God's sake,' Baird said. 'We're going to a wedding, Andy, not a pop festival.'
‘I think Mrs. Maladay will like this outfit,' Andrea said. ‘I think she's a modern woman. Why, hello, Miss Ogilvie.'
'Well,' Joan said again. 'Pardon me for intruding.' She banged the door behind her.
'There goes our lift to the station,' Baird said. 'I'd better go down and ring for a taxi.'
Andrea was peering at herself in the mirror. 'Isn't she a bad-tempered woman. Anyone would suppose she had something to be jealous about.'
They reached Epsom just after five, caught another taxi. Andrea leaned forward, gazing out of the window. 'You just have no idea how excited I am, Mr. Baird. Were you having me on when you said she was a lesbian?'
'Only in degree. She's omnisexual. And inclined to be insatiable. People to her are just phallic symbols.'
'Do you really think she fancies me?'
'I imagine it's an idea knocking about the back of her mind. How do you feel about it?'
'I don't know, for sure. I come over all hot at the very idea. I mean, I've never been with a woman. I haven't, really. I mean, we've sort of undressed and looked each other over. You know. But that was more to see if we all looked the same, all felt the same. And we were such children.'
'Last year, was it? Anyway, you're not going with a woman now, Andy. You happen to be attending a wedding, only because I haven't been able to think of a way to stop you, short of breaking your pretty little neck. But I may as well tell you, I intend to warn Cynthia off. And if you show the slightest inclination to linger after the cake is cut I will break your pretty little neck.'
He received a sidelong glance. 'There'd be an easier way to stop me, Mr. Baird. Ooh! Is that Maladay Estate?'
They were driving beside the wall. 'This is it, darling.' He had a sudden memory of exactly how he had felt just before leaping from the deck of the Tautenay into the lifeboat. He looked at Andrea, who was gazing at the trees with a lost expression. Of course. Corinne. His succubus.
There was only one other car parked outside Maladay House, a Mini Traveller. Pilling opened the door. 'Mr. Baird. How good to see you. And this will be Miss Burman.'
Thomas is Mrs. Maladay's butler, amongst other things,' Baird explained. 'And don't tell me we're the first to arrive, for a change, Thomas?'
'You're the last, Mr. Baird. Come in.'
The ceremony was to take place in the white drawing room. Margaret Pilling was here, wearing the evening gown of their last night together, as was Imogen, and Patrick Earlswood, talking with the parson, an earnest-looking man with a bewildered expression.
"Glad you got here,' Patrick said. 'This is the Reverend Mr. Morton, Michael. Mike and I are the oldest of friends, Reverend, and between us we've known Cynthia since we were children. You're going to be my best man, Michael. Hang on to that.'
It was a thick gold band, absolutely plain.
'And this is Andrea!' Patrick said. 'You don't mind my calling you Andrea, do you? I must say, you look simply charming.'
Andrea smiled; she was obviously incapable of speech.
'Champagne, Mr. Baird?' Imogen held the tray. 'And for you, Miss Burman.'
'No other guests?' Baird asked.
'No, Mr. Baird. Just the family.'
'I thought you were going to give me a ring?'
Her eyes were cold. 'Was I, Mr. Baird?' She removed the tray.
'She's Mrs. Maladay's chauffeuse, isn't she?' Andrea whispered. 'I recognised her hair. Isn't she stunning? Should I have worn a long dress, Mr. Baird? The trouble is, I don't have one.'
'I don't think what you are wearing matters the slightest,' Baird said.
'Andrea Burman, is it?' Margaret Pilling asked. 'Mrs.., Maladay has told us so much about you. Miss Burman. I hope we're going to see a lot of you, down at Maladay.'
Andrea drank champagne. 'Why do they all look at me in that way?'
'How would you describe it?'
'Well... as if they wanted to eat me.'
'Probably because they do.'
He watched Cynthia enter the room. She wore a decolletaged evening gown, of course, and to show her contempt for the normal concept of marriage it was pure white satin, with not a decoration of any description. Her hair was uncovered, but she looked as virginal as any nun. 'Mr. Morton,' she said, in a low voice which dominated the room. 'How very good of you to come.'
Mr. Morton seemed to have a permanent flush. 'It was my pleasure, Mrs. Maladay. But I must say I do find the arrangements rather unusual.'
'In what way?' Cynthia sounded genuinely upset.
'Well ... the clothes, I suppose. And it is customary to serve champagne after a wedding, not before it. Or,' he added as he saw Imogen bringing another full tray, during it.'
'Marriage is a joyous event, surely. People should look
their best, and feel their best. Don't you agree?’ She frowned at him, and his flush deepened.	
'Oh, yes, of course, Mrs. Maladay, I was only thinking of more conventional weddings. And may I take this opportunity of thanking you for that so generous gift to our restoration fund. I shall write you a formal acknowledgement, of course.'   	
'Please don't bother Mr. Morton.' Cynthia swept past him, arms extended. 'Michael!' She leaned forward, allowed herself to be kissed on the cheek. 'I haven't seen you for ages! I haven't seen anyone for ages. I've been in bed with a beastly cold. I caught it the other night through going out immediately after a bath. And then there have been all the preparations for the wedding, endless trouble. And this is Andrea. You are even more lovely than I had hoped.'
Andrea licked her lips. ‘I can't tell you how glad I am to be here, Mrs. Maladay.'
'Cynthia, darling. Cynthia. Or you'll only be confused, because any moment now I'm going to change Maladay for Earlswood. But I'm so happy you came. I'm sure Michael tried to dissuade you.'
'As a matter of fact I did,' Baird said.
'You are naughty, Michael. You wanted to come, didn't you, Andrea?'
'Oh, yes,' Andrea said.
'And now you're here, you are going to enjoy yourself. We may as well get started. Mr. Morton?'
The ceremony was quick and to the point. Mr. Morton appeared to be in more of a hurry than anyone. Baird wondered if it was possible for a man of God to feel when he was in the presence of the devil. The parson sat at the table and filled out the marriage certificate in a trembling hand.
'It should have been you, darling,' Cynthia whispered in Baird's ear as he kissed her cheek. 'But I just couldn't wait.'
‘I’m sure Patrick will do. My backside isn't really suitable for kissing.'
'Sssh.' She frowned. 'Not while Mr. Morton is still here. Do we all sign it now, Mr. Morton?'
'Just the bride and groom, and two witnesses.'
'Michael, I want you and Imogen to be my witnesses.' Cynthia held out her hands for them. Imogen signed first, Baird beneath her. She did not look at him.
'And now that's over,' Cynthia said. 'Maladay House has a master once again.'
'You mean you and Mr. Earlswood will be living here?' Mr. Morton asked politely.
'Oh, yes. It's much nicer out here than in Patrick's stuffy flat. Anyway, he won't need the flat any more. He's giving up his accountancy business. Aren't you, Patrick?'
'I'm becoming one of the landed gentry,' Patrick said. 'I always did favour early retirements. Assuming one can occupy one's time adequately.
 'On, I'm sure you will find plenty to do at Maladay,' Mr. Morton said, and flushed. 'Well, I must be going. It was my very great pleasure, Mrs. Earlswood.'
'Do you know, for a moment I didn't realise you were addressing me,' Cynthia said. 'Mrs. Earlswood. I like it. You'll take a glass of champagne before you go, Mr. Morton, just one.'
Imogen was waiting at his elbow with her tray,
'We want you to give the toast, you see,' Cynthia said.
'Oh! Well . . .' He raised his glass. 'I should like us all to drink the health of the bride and groom. May they enjoy a long and happy and prosperous life.'
'As I'm sure we shall.' Cynthia took the glass from the parson's hand, put her arm round his shoulder, escorted him to the door. 'It was awfully sweet of you to come, Mr. Morton. And don't forget, if any more beetles start coming out of the woodwork, all you have to do is give me a ring.'
'You really are most terribly generous, Mrs. Earlswood.' He ran down the steps. Cynthia remained standing in the doorway, watched him get into the little car and drive off. Her guests watched her, the anticipation exuding from them like sweat. At last she closed the door, turned to smile at them. 'He really is a dear. And it would be a shame if his church were to fall down. And now, I think we shall all toast ourselves. And then I shall try to get to know you better, Andrea.' She took the girl's hand, led her back into the living room. 'You are a gorgeous child. I know we're going to be friends. I want you to look upon Maladay House as your second home.'
Andrea drank some more champagne, and Baird watched pink flushes gather in her cheeks. She glanced at him, nervously. 'I should love to, Mrs. Earlswood.'
'Cynthia, you silly girl. You must remember.'
'Cynthia.' Andrea summoned a smile. 'And where are you going for your honeymoon?'
'Going? Why, nowhere, you darling. Could we possibly find a better place than Maladay House? Besides ...' She stood in front of the fireplace, turning to face the room. 'The six of us here have learned that the true secret of happiness is sharing. We share everything. We should like you to join us, Andrea.'
'I... I should love to, Cynthia. If you really want me.'
'What a silly question. But there you have another reason for Patrick and me to spend our honeymoon at Maladay House with you all. Honeymoons, perhaps more than anything else, should be shared. Don't you agree, Andrea?'
'I... oh, yes.'
'Another time, Cynthia,' Baird said. 'Andy and I have to be getting back to town. My word, it's nearly seven.' 'Don't be absurd, Michael. He's always playing little jokes on me, you know, Andy. He has a perverted sense of tumour. Will your parents be worried?'
'Well . . .' Andrea's tongue circled her lips. 'I could telephone them, tell them I'll be late.'
'We'll both telephone them,' Cynthia decided. 'And tell them that I want you to spend the night here. It's such a wearisome drive back to London. I'll take you up myself, tomorrow.'
'Stay the night? Here? Oh, I couldn't. I mean, I don't have my things.'
'You can use my toothbrush, darling. You won't mind sharing my toothbrush, will you? And Michael hasn't brought his things, either.'
'Because Michael isn't staying either,' Baird said. 'Come on, Andy. The only telephoning you and I are going to do is for a taxi.'
'Michael!' Cynthia's voice was suddenly brittle, and Pilling had moved round to block the doorway. He was a very large young man. And a very fit young man, Baird decided. 'I'm sure Andy wishes to stay. And I do think you should too, as you brought her.'
'Please let's stay, Mr. Baird,' Andrea said.
•'Listen,' Baird said. 'I tried to warn you. These people are... well...'
'Yes, Michael?' Cynthia asked. 'What are we? I'm sure we'd all love to know.'
 Baird sighed. 'Just take my word for it, Andy. If you stay here you'll regret it for the rest of your life.'
'Or look back on it as the most memorable experience of your life,' Cynthia said. 'And if you stay, it will be only the first of a great many such experiences. Each more memorable than the last. Would you like to stay?'
Andrea hesitated. For the last time. Then her head flopped up and down. 'Yes. I would. I'd like you to stay too, Mr. Baird.'
As he wanted to stay, to watch, to participate, with every nerve in his body. His penis was erected, his heart was pounding, his brain had dissolved into an obscene whirlpool. A lamb, going to the slaughter. But going willingly, a lamb with long blonde hair and long thin legs and a long slender body, waiting to be possessed, anxious to be possessed.
'Besides, darling,' Cynthia said, 'I particularly want you to stay, because you will be able to tell us if we do anything wrong.'
'I'm not with you,' Baird said.
'Well, after all, one of us does not get married every day. I thought we would celebrate the sabbat, to signify the happiness of Patrick and myself. And we can have the mass as well. After all,' she put her arm round Andrea's shoulder, ‘we have all the necessary ingredients.'

IV
There was a great deal of champagne. It was the answer to a problem. Baird supposed that he could open the front door and walk out. Pilling would not stop him, provided he went alone. He could catch a train back to London and his flat. He could even telephone Joan and attempt once again to make it up. But his mind would remain at Maladay House. And however much he now hated himself, be would hate himself more were he not there when it happened.
And so he drank champagne. He sat on the settee, and Patrick sat beside him. Patrick talked, about various things. Nothing important. About people they had known. About Ben, and about Herbert, and about other boys at school. Patrick had not wanted to talk before, to Michael. Tonight he wanted to talk. Because Patrick was also excited, also anticipating. Patrick? For the first time Baird wondered what Patrick was doing here, had been doing here from the beginning. Now, of course, he was sitting pretty. But what about the first time? To what element in Patrick had Cynthia first appealed? Surely not to repressed sex.
Imogen kept their glasses filled. She never spoke, and her smile was also absent. Baird wondered what she thought about them, about her mistress getting married, about Andrea, about Baird most of all. He wondered what he thought about her. He wondered about everything, this night. He wondered why they should sit in the white drawing room, so patiently waiting for the right word from their mistress. Were they all so afraid of losing the benefits she could bestow?
He got up, uncertainly. Patrick, in mid-sentence, went on speaking, perhaps unaware that Michael was leaving. Andrea and Cynthia were gone, and so were the Pillings, no doubt preparing the banquet. And even Imogen was temporarily absent. Baird opened the door, lurched into the hall. Behind him, Patrick spoke to an empty room.
Imogen was in the dining room. She opened bottles, expertly, poured without losing a drop. She turned at his step, gazed at him. She was an incredibly beautiful woman. She was the true goddess. She said, "You are drunk, Mr. Baird.'
'Not drunk,' Baird said carefully. ‘I am stimulated. Not only by drink. By you. By everyone. Even by Margaret.'
'I'm sure she will be glad to hear that.' She finished pouring, picked up the tray. Baird stood in front of her, took a glass of champagne. She waited for him to move, and he stretched out his left hand, hooked his index finger into her decolletage, pulled it forward, and poured the champagne between her breasts. She had taken the bottles from the refrigerator, and now he stepped back to watch the drink seep from beneath her skirt on to the parquet floor.

But she never moved. 'Why did you do that, Mr. Baird?'
‘I felt like it,' Baird explained. 'Isn't that why we're here? To do what we feel like, whatever we feel like, to whoever we feel like?'
'Of course, Mr. Baird. But please do not drink any more. If you do, you will not be able to ejaculate. You will not even be able to erect.'
'Darling, I shall never be flaccid again. I promise you that.' He took the tray from her hands, placed it on the dining table. 'Would you like me to show you?'
'Of course, Mr. Baird.'
He sat her in one of the chairs, stood in front of her. ‘You were going to call me.' 'I changed my mind.'
'You mean Cynthia changed your mind for you.'
She raised her head to look at his face. 'She indicated that she would be displeased, Mr. Baird. But it was not merely that. For a man who claimed to be in love with me, you behaved very oddly, going off with Miss Maladay, and spending the night with her.'
'I told you, I could no longer bear the thought of sharing you, of seeing you shared.'
‘I enjoy being shared, Mr. Baird. It is emotionally safer than belonging to one person. But if you wish to belong only to me, why, then, I will be happy to oblige you.' Her fingers were cold, but the more stimulating for that. And soon they were warm, and, as ever, expertly deft. She needed no more than sixty seconds, and then she washed him in champagne, and now at last she smiled at him. ‘I think that was a mistake. You will not enjoy the evening as much as you should. Perhaps, at your age, you will not now be able to enjoy it at all.'
He sat down, gazed at her. Hell hath no fury. Unless the woman is already in hell.
'Oh, there you are,' Cynthia said from the doorway. 'What have you been up to? ‘
'Mr. Baird couldn't wait,' Imogen explained.
'It is this constant repression of yours, Michael, which builds up inside you until it becomes uncontrollable. Now if you had only the sense to seduce that charming young girl, you would be much more in command of yourself. Well, come on. We have telephoned Mrs. Burman, and she seems perfectly happy to leave Andy in my care for the night. So do let's get started.' She left the room. Imogen went to the door, looked over her shoulder.
"Aren't you coming, Mr. Baird?' She held out her hand for him.
He got up, touched her fingers, felt them close. Now they were again’ cold, and faintly sticky from the champagne. But then, so was he.
Patrick and Andrea waited in the hall. They were also drunk. Andrea giggled when she saw him. ‘I’m terribly excited. Aren't you excited, Mr. Baird?'
'Yes.' He watched the Pillings come out of the pantry, also holding bands. The only one of them definitely not drunk was Cynthia herself. But then, as she had said, she never got drunk. She was unlocking the door under the stairs.
'Down here are dear Carter's wine cellars. We don't keep such an extensive stock, now, because we don't entertain as much as we used to.' She switched on the lights, went down thirteen steps. Patrick followed, holding hands with Andrea. Imogen's fingers were tight on Baird's. The Pillings came last, also holding hands. Couples. Exploring. Following their guide into the pit.
'So I made a few changes.' Cynthia's voice, so quiet, issued up to them. Baird discovered himself in a large room, surprisingly high-ceilinged and stone-floored, painted in white and brilliantly lit. It was fitted out as a gymnasium, with oars, a bicycle, weights and dumb-bells, a horse and parallel bars. This is Imogen's relaxing room. She spends several hours each day down here. She has a passion for physical fitness.'
Baird glanced at the red-haired girl. Her nostrils were spread, and the big vein in her throat was throbbing.
"These three doors on the right still lead to wine rooms.' Cynthia waved her hand. The first is French, the second German, and the third spirits. Brandy, mainly. The fourth door leads to our own private chamber.' She walked down the room, followed by her six guests, or would accomplices be the better word? Baird wondered. At the end she unbolted the fourth door, led them on to a small balcony, from which steps led down to a still lower level, some eight feet beneath the rest of the cellar. This was a large room, painted black, and also carpeted in black, lit only by red shaded strips, which truly created an impression that they were entering bell itself. In the centre of this lower room was a large table, covered with a red cloth, and laden with every imaginable variety of cold food as well as two dozen bottles of champagne, each in its own ice bucket. Beyond the table there was yet another pit, this one shallow, and filled with coal and wood, awaiting only a match. It was also, Baird decided from the smell, soaked in petrol. At the far end of the room there were two raised daises, one behind the other. On the first there waited another table, smaller than the buffet, shrouded in a black velvet cloth. On this table there were two candles, presently unlit. On the second, higher stage, which was on a level with the balcony on which they stood, was a high-backed wooden chair. The throne of the devil.
'Wait here.' Cynthia went down the stairs, walked past the dining table, stepped on to the dais, turned to gaze at them, her white gown shimmering, shaded pink in the red half-light. 'Will you close the door, please, Thomas,' she said. Thank you. Now we are alone, the seven of us, in the bowels of the earth. We have no communication with the world of men, and it has no communication with us. This is our world, our universe, and here we need obey only our own laws. If anyone present feels himself, or herself, too weak to endure our customs, too timid to enjoy our pleasures, let him, or her, depart now, and never return to Maladay House.'
The silence was deafening. Baird watched Andrea's fingers clamping on Patrick's arm, felt Imogen's nails eating into his own hand.
Cynthia waited a full two minutes, and then she picked up a box of matches from the black-covered table, struck one, lit a taper, which she inserted into a base, perhaps made of lead. Baird thought. This she held in front of her until the taper was a glowing torch, and then she leaned forward, tossed it into the pit, and immediately stepped back.
There was a flash of yellow flame, followed by a tremendous blue heat, which soon dissipated, to leave a red mass, seething and leaping, smoking, but the smoke was sucked into a vent Baird had not previously noticed, situated immediately above the fire, and no doubt connected with one of the upstairs flues. There was no escaping the smell, which pervaded the entire room. But this was Cynthia Earlswood's sabbat; not the gloomy gatherings imagined by medieval madmen. In place of the foul stench always associated with the devil's fire, this scent was perfumed, cloying and titillating all at once, and yet distorted and made sufficiently ugly by the lingering smell of the petrol.
Beyond the fire, Cynthia was almost invisible. But because of the fire, and the smell, and the room she had designed and caused to be built, her presence was everywhere. And her voice was everywhere, too. She said, 'Patrick!'
Patrick Earlswood released Andrea's hand, went down the stairs, walked silently over the black carpet, past the table, and round the glowing fire, up the steps and on to the dais to join his wife. He waited beyond the black-covered table while she attended him, stripping him from the waist down, following which he climbed on to the second dais and sat on the throne, a grotesque figure, as she had intended, because he still wore shirt and waistcoat and white tie, and tail coat.
'Behold,' Cynthia said. 'The mighty symbol of male supremacy. Now your master requires your homage. Advance as you are summoned.'
From the table she took a large book bound in red leather, and, turning, knelt before her husband. 'Here is the roll of your followers, oh, master. As I am the first of those who worship you.' She bent forward, kissed his penis, after which she took her place, standing on the left of the chair.
'Come forward, Imogen,' Patrick said.
Imogen went down the steps, walked slowly across the black carpet and round the fire, mounted the farther dais, and followed the example of her mistress, rising to stand on the right of the throne.
'Come forward, Andrea.'
Andrea hesitated, made to glance at Baird and changed her mind. She went down the steps, moving even slower than Imogen, checked again as she reached the fire. But she was involved. As involved as any of them.
'Come forward, Margaret.'
Looked at in the cold light of reason, this was ridiculous, Baird decided. But then he always obtained a strong feeling of absurdity from reading accounts of the sabbat. He did not feel ridiculous at this moment. The darkness, the slowly increasing heat from the fire, and, above all, the company, the beauty of the women and the virility of the men, all combined to mount an excitement which had almost the potency of inhaling a drug, turning the bead, alarming the senses, preparing the nerves for coming delights.
'Come forward, Thomas.'
So, once again, Cynthia had accomplished what might have been thought impossible, assembled her followers and bent them to her will, and invited them to take one step farther downwards. It had to be downwards, the road to hell. There could be no ascent in this business. And now, at last, she had increased her numbers by one. And in future she would choose more carefully. There were great numbers of lovely young women, and lovely young men. Who lacked the force of character of Oriole Maladay. She would accumulate them and she would dominate them and she would entertain them, and herself, with ever-increasing explorations of the human subconscious, the most evil whirlpool in all existence. And where would it end? How far would she go, how far could she go, before it was necessary for even Cynthia Earlswood to call, enough?
'Come forward, Michael.’

V
They dined, standing around the table, moving, touching, eating as and when they felt the urge. But appetites were limited, at once by the excitement and by the warmth of the fire, for even if the flames had died down, in the airless room the heat accumulated until they felt they were in the interior of an oven. And Cynthia had here followed closely the confessions of those earlier witches, and served only saltless meat. But there remained a great deal of champagne to be drunk.
They danced, to a sudden gentle whisper of music from a concealed stereo, set into action by a concealed switch. There was nothing unusual or even obscene about the dancing. Baird could nave been in any discotheque in London. Except for the ever-mounting heat. The constant movement made clothes unbearable. White ties and coats were discarded, shoes and shirts and underclothes followed. Evening gowns were already scattered about the floor. Andrea's cowboy hat was trodden underfoot. Margaret Pilling was the first to reach nudity, a long lean figure, swaying and sighing, now illuminated by the fire, now receding into the gloom. But they all followed her example. Andrea danced with her eyes half shut, discovering herself in a society of which she could only previously have dreamed, and yet .so absorbed in the sexuality with which she was surrounded that it did not seem to occur to her that she was different to them, at this moment. And still the heat increased, and their hair became dripping masses of dampness, and the air was filled with sweat and perfume, and the carpet became wet, and there was enough water flying about to suggest that it was raining.
The music stopped. It was time to move on, to the last and most exciting part of the evening. Baird, standing still at last, swaying from sheer exhaustion, saw the list swirling through his head. The Assembly; the Homage; the Banquet; the Dancing; and, lastly, the Intercourse with the devils. But how could Cynthia possibly further titillate six people who already knew every secret of the other? J By the introduction of a seventh. She mounted the dais once more, and clapped her hands. Patrick returned and sat on his throne. Imogen and Margaret each grasped one of Andrea's wrists.
 'What's going to happen?' the girl asked. 'Tell me what's going to happen?'
The two women urged her towards the dais.
'Mr. Baird!' she shouted. 'What are they going to do to me? Michael! Don't let them hurt me!'
Baird and Pilling followed the two women, the wriggling girl, round the fire and to the foot of the steps.
'Cynthia!' Andrea begged. 'Don't let them hurt me.'
'Hush, child.' Cynthia advanced to the edge of the upper dais. 'Do you not wish to become one of our company? To participate in our joys and our adventures?'
'I...' Andreas' knees gave way as Imogen and Margaret pressed on her shoulders, and she knelt. ‘I think so.'
'Then you must know that pain is nothing more than a part of pleasure. Pain, and humility, and surrender, are as important as pride, and brutality, and mastership, in the experience of the ultimate fulfilment. In time you will be permitted to practise all of those upon us. But at this moment I can see that your mind is too young, too inexperienced fully to partake in our activities. We must deal with your mind first. It must be emptied of thought, of fear, of nope, of love, of hate. Only then can it be receptive to our true spirit'

Andrea's head popped back and forth. 'Yes,' she gasped. 'Yes. I have no fear, Cynthia. No hope. I do not love or hate. I wish only to be one of you.'
'You must also learn not to lie, never to lie, to the other members of the Coven,' Cynthia said. 'We, and we alone, shall decide when you are ready to become one of our number. Thomas!'
Pilling walked round the women, climbed on to the dais containing the black-covered table. He reached under the velvet cloth and extended four leaves, each a plank of wood no more than six inches wide and two feet long, stretching from the corners of the table to form an X with a solid centre. The arms each locked into a socket, and these Pilling carefully tested. Then he opened a drawer in the table and took out four thick leather straps.	
'Ladies,' Cynthia invited.	
'No,' Andrea said. 'You're not going to hurt me. Please Cynthia. Please, Mrs. Earlswood.'	
Imogen and Margaret dragged her up the steps.
'Will you look after her legs, please, Michael,' Cynthia
said.	:
The only alternative was to turn and flee, and to do that now, to leave Andrea here by herself, was unthinkable. Thus the defence mechanism protecting his mind from madness. But the truth was that were he to leave this chamber, unfulfilled, unrelieved, he would go mad. He wanted to partake; the sadism latent in every man was bubbling out of his subconscious to take control of his whole being. He swept Andrea's feet from the ground, tucked them under his arm; her head twisted to stare at him, mouth opened, tongue gyrating round her lips, while her knees jerked and her ankles pulled.
Imogen and Margaret carried her forward, laid her on the table. She attempted to roll, was held and turned on to her face. Pilling had moved round to the head of the table, and now he extended the girl's right arm, placed it flat on the matching extension, rested the leather strap on her wrist and passed it through two slits in the wood, secured the buckle underneath so that she was held immobile. The same was done with her left arm, and then he came down the table to secure each ankle, so that she was spread-eagled on her face, body held firmly by the pressure on her limbs, but yet with sufficient room to continue writhing. Her head also turned from side to side, and then settled a wide-eyed gaze on Cynthia, who had stepped behind the throne to bring out a bundle of switches.
'No,' Andrea shouted, her voice reverberating round and round the closed chamber. 'Let me go. No, I won't'
'Six strokes each.' Cynthia dealt the canes as she might have dealt a pack of cards. 'I think you may have the honour of the first blow, Michael, as she is a pupil of yours. I'm sure you must often have wished you could bend her across your desk.'
Baird took the cane, gazed at the heaving pink and white flesh beneath him. Yes, indeed he had. How much had he wanted to do this, how much more had he wanted to do? And how much more was he now going to be permitted to 'do? He swung his arm, and the sound of the blow burst through Andrea's shouts, to be followed by a high-pitched wail. The sacrifice had begun.
' Gradually her screams and her movements subsided. The six people moved slowly round the table, each in turn delivering one blow upon the upturned buttocks whenever they came level. Andrea collapsed into tears and gasps, and her muscular spasms became only winces. But yet her total Subjection was only beginning. The caning finished, she was released and then reclamped on her back to be shaved. Cynthia attended to this herself. Following which she was force fed with an entire bottle of champagne, a refinement of the water torture, Baird supposed. And then she lay, exhausted by pain and by drunkenness and by anticipation.
'I think she is ready, now,' Cynthia said. 'And once again, Michael, I decree the honour to be first to you.'
There was no question of refusing what was offered. There was no question of his will being strong enough to deny the demands of his body. He knelt on the velvet table cloth, between the parted legs, looked down into the gasping, vacant face, the opened mouth, the closed eyes. But now the eyes opened as well, and the mouth smiled. ‘I knew it would be you, Mr. Baird,' Andrea whispered.
Dawn broke over Maladay Park. An October dawn, grey and misty. There was no wind, yet the leaves whispered downwards, singly and in pairs, like people slowly accumulating outside a church. It was Sunday morning, a time to think of church. A time to think of so many things.
It was also cold. At least, it looked cold, outside the house. Cynthia Earlswood stood at the barred window of the white drawing room, gazing at her estate. She wore a dressing gown and slippers, and her black hair was brushed into close clustered perfection. There were dark patches beneath her eyes, caused by a combination of sleeplessness and too much to drink, but her eyes themselves were clear, and her face was unblemished. She was mistress of all she saw, of all that lay behind her and before her, above her
and beneath her. And yet there was no contentment in her gaze.
She watched the white Bentley sweep round the drive, ghost car emerging from the mist. She went into the hall, opened the front door. The air seeped through her single garment, goose-pimpled her flesh. She inhaled.	
Imogen came up the steps, and Cynthia stepped aside to let her into the house. Imogen closed the door, kept hep mink jacket on, slapped her hands together. She wore nothing under the coat, and her thighs were blue. 'There is Something the matter with the heater. I will take it to the garage tomorrow.'
Cynthia walked ahead of her, into the pantry. A percolator sizzled on the electric stove, and she poured two cups of black coffee. 'What did he propose, this time,'
Imogen sat in a straight chair, knees together, both hands round the cup. She shivered as the heat reached her system. 'He did not say a word, until we were at his home. Then he said, "That girl was innocent." Then we stopped, and he got out and went into the house. He never even said goodbye. He is a strange man.'
'Yes,' Cynthia agreed. 'Do you know, I always assumed that inside every apparently good man there was a bad man trying to get out, and all that was necessary was for him to be released. But now I wonder if inside every apparently bad man there is not a good man trying to get out. It would be odd if by encouraging him to be worse than he naturally is, I released something good in him.'
Imogen finished her coffee. 'If you have nothing further for me, Mrs. Earlswood, I shall go to bed.'
'You are fond of Michael. Imogen?'
'He is one of us, Mrs. Earlswood.'
'I meant fonder than that.'
Imogen hesitated. 'I like him best of us all, Mrs. Earlswood.' She went upstairs.
Cynthia drank her coffee. Then she also went up the stairs, along the balcony, opened a bedroom door. Andrea Burman lay in the centre of the huge four-poster, on her face, both arms wrapped around her pillow. Her pale yellow hair was scattered across her shoulders. Cynthia stood above her, frowned at the red weals on the pale buttocks, the other marks, put a hand down, stroked the serrated flesh, moved her hand up the deep curved back, through the hair to the nape of the neck. Andrea, under sedation, sighed, wriggled deeper into the bed, and smiled in her sleep. Possession. There was no question about that now.
She closed the door softly behind her, went into her own bedroom. This was decorated entirely in crimson, a haunting cavern, inducive of nightmares and wild fantasies, illuminated by brilliant white lighting. Cynthia drew the curtains, allowed the sunlight to enter. Patrick blinked. He was not an impressive figure, in bed. He was too small, and was dominated by the size around him, the vast areas of sheet and blanket and pillow.
He was not even terribly sexy. But then, she realised, he had never been terribly sexy. Even on the first night. Yet he had come, and he had taken what she had offered, with sufficient enthusiasm. She had thought him ridiculous. She still thought him a ridiculous, an ineffectual little man. A suitable second husband for Cynthia Maladay.
And now suddenly she wondered, how well she knew him, how well she understood his motivations. If she understood them at all. It was a disturbing thought.
'God!' he said. 'I've a head like a bursting balloon.'
The devil should scarcely call upon God when he has a hangover.' Cynthia took off her dressing gown, sat beside him.
'You're a very funny girl, Cyn.' He closed his eyes. This is the first morning of our married life.'
'There'll be a great many others, darling.' 'There is nothing quite like the first. I think you owe me a duty.'
He turned over.' After last night?'
'Last night was nothing. I cannot understand it We did everything conceivable to that girl, short of shedding her blood. And yet I am not satisfied. Not even tired.'
'You're a galloping nympho, darling. You may as well face facts.'
'You are using words. I am a human being. I like love, the act of love, in every form. I like being caressed. Last night was an exercise in stimulation. This morning I am just a woman. I wish my husband to make love to me. Gently, but with passion. Let us share a little orgasm, Patrick.'
'Darling, I'm Patrick Earlswood, not Samson. Not Casanova, either. I had enough sex last night to last me a week.' He grinned. 'Did you know you can sometimes take on an uncommonly vicious expression?'
‘I sometimes feel uncommonly vicious.'
'Well, work it out of your system, old girl. Go and beat Imogen. Or better yet try imagining. Imagine you're an inquisitor, and I'm some poor bastard of a heretic, lying on the rack. What would you do first?'
‘I never dream.' She frowned. 'Do you?'
'Oh, I dream, darling. I dream about torture and death. I dream about torturing you, when you're being unusually bitchy. I'd like to have you on a rack, Cyn. Sometimes.'
'Perhaps I'll let you, one day.’ She went along the corridor to Andrea's room, stood above the girl once again. Everything conceivable. Short of letting blood.

The Ultimate Pleasure

'Good morning, Mr. Baird.' 'Good morning, Mr. Baird.' 'Good morning, Mr. Baird.' The class filed into the room, took their scats.
Baird grunted a response, continued to study his book, listened to them whispering. This was normal, the sibilants and the giggles. They all had their little secrets. Was there more, this morning? How much did they know? Girls like Andrea could not experience what she had experienced on Saturday night and not reveal something. He very nearly had not come in at all. But that would merely have postponed the unhappy moments, have encouraged the tongues to wag faster.
Now he must raise his head and look at them. Look at her. Have her look at him. And then continue with the lesson, with his assured, confident, knowledgeable teaching, asking them always to remember the evil that lurks within man, has always lurked within man. And woman.
He stood up, closed his book. 'Now, this morning,' he said, and allowed his gaze to roam slowly from right to left; certainly they all looked the same. He had taught them to listen, because they wanted to hear what he had to say. 'We are going to discuss ...' He arrived at an empty desk, felt a surge of relief, instantly followed by a shock of alarm. She could very easily have been injured during the festivities, without any of them being aware of it. 'Hello,' he said. 'The term's first casuality. Has the 'flu got to us?'
'Andy's left,' Laurence said.
Baird stared at him. But he knew nothing. And if he didn't, then neither could anybody else. Besides, he was talking drivel. 'Don't talk drivel,' Baird said.
'But she has,' Laurence insisted. 'She's quit school.'
'In the middle of term?'
Laurence shrugged. 'Mrs. Burman sent me with a letter to the boss this morning. It seems Andy's been offered this smashing job. Forty quid a week and all found. Forty quid! I'd have thought you'd know about it. Mr. Baird. She's gone to work for that friend of yours.'
'Mrs. Maladay?'
'Well. Mrs. Earlswood. She was married on Saturday. Didn't you and Andy go?'
'I'd forgotten. Well, well. So Andy has decided to take the bird in the hand. No, Larry, I'm afraid I'm not Mrs. Earlswood's confidant. What exactly is Andy's new job?'
'Search me. Some kind of companion, I think. Anyway, apparently she and Mrs. Earlswood called on the Burmans yesterday afternoon. In that bloody great Bentley of hers. And they fixed it up then. Andy was to start immediately. She's left already. Think of it, Mr. Baird. Forty quid a week just to entertain a rich bitch. Isn't that more than you earn?'
'I'm afraid it is,' Baird agreed. 'And I entertain all of you. Come to think of it, chaps. I don't think I will lecture this morning. I want you to study the Fall of Constantinople. It's in the book, starting on page one hundred and seven. I'm going to step out for a while. When I come back, I want each of you to tell me what effect it had on Western Europe. And I don't want any of that nonsense about inspiring the Renaissance.' He went outside, hesitated in the corridor, listening to the immense hum of the working school around him. Six hundred boys and girls, of every age from eleven to nineteen, and three dozen masters and mistresses, of every age from twenty-three to sixty-one. All perusing their studies, considering their futures. All consumed with sexual urges ranging from the casual to the bestial, carefully kept under control, all promising themselves that one day, just once in their lives, they would release those urges, for an hour, perhaps two, and then once again clamp them under control. All normal. Six hundred and thirty-six normal people. But only six hundred and thirty-five this morning.
Did it matter? Could it matter, now? She was gone. There would be no getting her back. And she was there to be enjoyed, whenever he wished. Together with Margaret Pilling and Imogen. Together with Cynthia Forever Cynthia.

He went upstairs. 'Good morning to you, Helen. The boss free?'
Helen Barnard was large, grey-haired, efficient. 'He's out.' She frowned. 'Aren't you with the Lower Sixth?’
'They're old enough to work on their own. I wanted to ask about Andrea Burman.'
'There was a letter from her mother. It seems the girl hasn't been able to get on too well in the sixth. And then she was offered this fabulous job. It is fabulous, you know. Two thousand a year to be some sort of a home help. Even if she winds up scrubbing floors, that's quite a wage.'
'And you approved?'
Mrs. Barnard took off her glasses, leaned back in her chair. 'What did you expect us to do, Michael? The girl is over the legal school-leaving age, she wanted to go, and she has her parents' consent. I've been on the telephone to Mrs. Burman, of course. I explained that not only was it very unusual for a girl to leave, virtually overnight like this, but also that it was a very great shame in Andy's case. She got tremendous marks in her O-levels, you know. So she's finding the A-course a bit tougher. That's not exactly unique, either. I explained all of that, and pointed out that there is no security in housemaiding. But Mrs. Burman didn't seem terribly interested. I got the idea that she was glad to get Andrea off her hands. I don't know why. She's never been in any trouble that I know of.'
‘I understand she's a swinging chick, in her own way,' Baird said. T came up because far from finding it tough, she was showing more aptitude for history than any of the others. As you say, it's a shame. You don't have the Burman address, by any chance?'
She looked in her file, wrote it down on a sheet of paper. 'It won't do any good, you know.'
'Supposing I could talk some sense into them, you'd be able to treat it as two or three days' absence?'
'Supposing.' Mrs. Barnard replaced her glasses. 'You're really interested in the girl.'
Baird smiled. 'I don't like to see lives thrown away.'

‘You'll have a cup of tea, Mr. Baird? Mrs. Burman might once have looked like Andrea. More disturbing was the thought that one day Andrea would probably look like Mrs. Burman, a tall, haggard woman, hair a pale desert of mingled grey and white, complexion a jaundiced yellow, the long, straight nose which so beautifully decorated Andrea's face consumed with a permanent sniff. ‘I’ve heard so much about you.' The sideways look was also Andrea's. ‘She had a real crush on you, Mr. Baird.'
Schoolgirls get these things, Mrs. Burman. Her interest in me probably arose because she's so keen on history. That's why I'm here. It seems a shame for her to leave school in the middle of term like this. I believe she's doing quite well enough in her other subjects as well.'
Mrs. Burman placed the cup of tea at his elbow, sat opposite. 'And then what, Mr. Baird? She'd study to be a teacher, I suppose, and qualify after a year or two, and go out to work for perhaps twenty pound a week, if she's lucky. She's earning forty, now. I'm just giving you her point of view.'
'She's only earning forty quid a week for as long as she's employed by Mrs. Earlswood. Which could end tomorrow.'
Mrs. Burman shrugged. 'There's no arguing with Andrea, Mr. Baird. I expect you've found that out. Anyway, isn't this Mrs. Earlswood a great friend of yours? That's what Andrea said.'
‘We knew each other as children. Now, well, as I imagine you've gathered, we don't move in the same circles.'
'She's still very fond of you, Mr. Baird. She said so. I think Andrea may be on to a good thing. And if it doesn't last, that's life, isn't it? Andrea'll find another job.'
Baird sighed. 'With no qualifications?'
'She'll have to make her own way, Mr. Baird. But that's what she's always wanted to do.'
Baird finished his tea. 'There's another point, too, Mrs. Burman. The fact is, Mrs. Earlswood is a very charming, very wealthy woman, but she is . .. well, unusual.'
Mrs. Burman gazed at him.
'I mean, I know she's just got married, but this is to another very old friend. We were all children together. She feels she needs a man about the house. To put it frankly, she likes having pretty girls about the house.'
Mrs. Burman chuckled. 'It takes all sorts to make a world, don't it, Mr. Baird?'
'This doesn't bother you?'
'If a touch of the homos prevents our Andrea having to have an abortion before she's eighteen, I'm all for it, Mr. Baird. The trouble with you schoolteachers is, you don't know what us parents have to put up with. You look at Andrea, and you say to yourself, there's a pretty girl, intelligent, good at my subject, and you feel you've got the future headmistress of Roedean or something sitting in front of you. But out of school they're all right tearaways. Andy's had boys in this house, Mr. Baird, and in that bed of hers upstairs. Ruined the springs, they have. And the boys were from that school of yours, too. I could tell you a thing or two would open your eyes. But there's no talking to them, nowadays. There's no punishing them, either. You just have to let them find their own level, I say. And if this Mrs. Earlswood has a real interest in Andrea, maybe the job will last, eh?' Mrs. Burman studied the carpet. 'She's promised to send home ten pound a week.'
Baird put down his cup. ‘Yes. I'm sure you're right, Mrs. Burman. I just thought I'd drop in, and see how you felt about it. But if you're not worried . ..' He closed the front door behind him. It was a rapidly cooling October evening, but he took out his handkerchief and wiped his face and hands. There was a telephone booth on the corner. He looked up a number, dialled.
'Dr. Coleman's office.'
'Is the doctor still there?'
'He's just leaving. What name is it, please?'
'Michael Baird.'
'Just one moment, Mr. Baird.' There was a short silence. 'Michael! How good to hear from you. Don't tell me this is a professional call?' 'I'm afraid it is, Ted.'
'Hm. I tell you what, why don't we get together this evening and have a drink? Then I can hear your problem, and decide whether it is up my street.' ‘Won't that be an imposition on your spare time?’ 'Think nothing of it. It'll be cheaper, too. I charge twenty-five guineas an hour in the office. This way it'll only cost you a few short whiskies. Why don't you come along to the Turk's Head, just up the road from the sailing club, say in an hour.'
'Thanks.' Baird hung up. He stepped back on to the street, watched the drizzle sweeping towards him. An hour. He did not wish to go home, to stop, or to think. He was doing now what he should have done a long time ago. But he was shutting the door on a part of himself, as well. All for the sake of a long-haired, long-legged juvenile delinquent, who certainly would never thank him.

They found a vacant table in a corner. Coleman filled his pipe while Baird obtained the drinks from the bar. 'I must say, you're looking very well on your problem, whatever it is,' the psychiatrist said. 'What are we going to talk about?'
‘Sex.'
'You're not seeking instruction, I hope.'
‘I want you to tell me why I should be worried about what happens to a sixteen-year-old girl who has a weakness for spreading her legs.'
Coleman struck a match, held it above the bowl, sucked. 'You'd be amazed what a hackneyed problem that is. Pregnant?'
‘Not so far as I know.'
Coleman frowned.'But you were the first?'
‘Goodlord.no.'
The psychiatrist took the pipe from his mouth, drank some whisky. 'You have slept with this girl?' ‘We have had intercourse.'
'Of course. She's a pupil of yours. Dangerous ground, old man.'
'She was a pupil of mine, Ted. But she would never dream of spreading it around; it would be difficult to remember me apart from all the others.'
‘If she's that way inclined, my advice to you would be to let her get on with it' Once again he frowned. 'You don't imagine you're in love with her?'
'No. She's a sexy little bint, but the circumstances of our . . . What is the word they use? Relationship? They were unusual. I'm disturbed by the lack of power of anyone, apparently, to stop her. By the lack of interest in what happens to her. I want to find out what eventually happens to her. Is she at all representative?'
'Very much so. The Permissive Society.’
'So tell me where it ends.'
Coleman shrugged. 'None of this lot has been going long: enough. A few years ago I'd have said, off hand, the street. That no longer applies.'
'Supposing straight sex doesn't come into it. Supposing she is totally under the influence of a pervert, a pervert in a manner I couldn't even begin to convey. Just think of every unpleasant perversion you can, and that's it.'
'You know this man?'
'She happens to be a woman, and I know her Very well.' 'Would I be right in assuming this perversion isn’t mere homosexuality, but involves fetishism and sadism?'
‘Yes.’
'Unusual pattern, in a woman.'
'She started very young, had the time, and the money, to experiment.'
'And you're more interested in what happens to her than to your nymphet.'
‘You’re the Psychiatrist Ted’
'She certainly sounds an interesting female. But women sex fiends are rather unexplored territory.' 'I'm sure you have some ideas.' 'You won't find them very encouraging. I think I'd apply the same rules as we do to men. First thing, we must remember that sex, the sexual act, is a violent act. However well disguised at times, it remains an act of aggression. One partner mounts the other, however anxious they both may be to indulge. The point is that the sexual urge, rather like the appetite, is active, in contrast to the urge to sleep, which is passive. In the human, the greater the libido, usually, the more active the person.' 'I'm with you, so far.’
'Now let's consider what has been regarded as a normal sexual pattern up to now. Your average pre-1950 man, shall we say. His testicles came down about eleven, he began to ejaculate, and he became aware of sex. From that moment he was governed by his hormones, although he might not even be aware of it. Progress was rapid. At sixteen he was at his most potent. But he couldn't use it. Granted, if he belonged to what we used to call the working classes, he usually managed to find a vagina lying around somewhere. In the middle classes he had to go in for masturbation, either on his own or homosexually. He was restricted not only by law. but by taboos. The wraps weren't taken off until be was past eighteen, more often than not well into his twenties. And most often this was done by marriage.
"The next most important thing to remember is that there are two distinct kinds of sexual urge. One is a natural cycle, rather like having a leak. Physiologically, of course, sperm is manufactured all the time, and if not used it is absorbed back into the system. But psychologically the sexual urge builds up all the time. It is conditioned by every pair of legs you pass in the street, every film you see, even by non-human sexual implications, running water, waving grass, the feel of velvet. This build-up, if not released, makes itself felt after a while. A man, or a woman, has got to have  sex. But it's any sort of sex. This I call personal sex. The other I call induced sex. This is sexual love. It occurs when we encounter some human being who so attracts us that we want sex with them, and only them. It is far more urgent than personal sex, and has the power to submerge it. But, of course, it is necessarily transient, even if it lasts for several years. Personal sex begins at puberty and ends with death.'
'Have another whisky,' Baird suggested.
'One more.' Coleman refilled his pipe. 'As a rule, our hero managed to bring his personal sex and his induced sex together about the middle twenties, in marriage. And at last he could take off the wraps, wife willing, and indulge in one or two variations on the theme. This lasted maybe ten years, if he was lucky. At the end of that time, both wife and ordinary sex, even if occasionally slightly stirred, were no longer interesting. But he was still a young man, still liable to be influenced by his group culture, by the laws and the conventions around him, and the business of seeking sex elsewhere was accompanied with roughly the same traumas as when he was first looking, as a teenager. The breakthrough seldom occurred before forty, and then for a while, of course, the sheer thrill of accumulating a mistress, of becoming a regular at a brothel or a call girl's flat, took him through a few more years. Until he realised that all cats are grey, and all orgasms involve exactly the same physiological patterns.'
Coleman sipped his drink. "Then the rot set in. And by now it was aggravated by two other factors. A slight physiological decline in sexual capability, usually accompanied or even induced by a certain amount of ill health, and, in direct contrast, an increase in the induced sex ratio. The two are connected, of course. When you are a young man to work in an office surrounded by mini skirts is merely a pleasant way to spend the day. No doubt you have a mini skirt of your own knocking around, and whether you have or not, you feel quite sure that you could get hold of any of those others, if you put your mind to it. When you're a middle-aged man you may no longer have a private mini skirt around, or if you do you're in a permanent state of protective jealousy about her, and you also have a suspicion that you might no longer be able to catch and hold any of those others. The aggression which has always been channelled into your sex now starts to come out in other directions, depending upon the development of your libido. Maybe you do nothing more than become a bad-tempered drinker, or a tough executive, or just get apoplectic in traffic jams. But if you really are sexed up, and you have the money, you can hire a pretty girl and beat her bottom. When it gets a bit farther on, however, we have the sex criminal, or the would-be sex criminal, too basically moral to commit a sex crime, who just curdles inside. A lot more ulcers are caused by suppressed sexual desires than by business worries.'
'You know,' Baird said. 'I didn't bring you here to analyse me.'
'Of course you didn't, my dear fellow. But women go through exactly the same cycle, even more complicated in their case by the fact that their physiological sexual ability is still increasing in early middle age. And they are, as a rule, less able to do anything about it. There is a theory, to which I subscribe, that a great many of the cancers are caused by frustration and repression. That is not relevant to this discussion. The point I'm making is that we have a very large number of people, many of them in very important positions, in a highly unstable sexual and emotional state. After all, only one man in every thousand who picks up a little girl has to go all the way and murder her. And these are the only ones we hear about The saving grace in the whole situation has always been that this sexual boredom, this frustration with not being allowed to get anything more out of orgasm, has seldom, up to now, been allowed to set in until early middle age, and thus any tendency to violence is limited, by the age factor, by the health factor, by the shortage of time left’
'You discount love in all this?' Baird asked.
'By no means, Michael. But love is a transient emotion, like happiness, or unhappiness, for that matter. It is possible to remain in a state of love with someone for a considerable time. Perhaps as long as a year, or even two. Beyond that, no. It is simulated, perhaps even replaced, by mutual sexual interests, mutual outside, interests, mutual financial interests, by children more than anything. But h no longer exists of itself. Anyway, there we have what up to now has been the normal sexual cycle. Now, nothing is going to alter that cycle, because it was ordained by nature. But supposing the whole process is quickened up, as you say happened to your pervert and as I'm afraid is happening to your other friend, and to her entire generation. By permitting unlimited premarital or extra-marital sex we have allowed the average young person of today to go through that ten-year cycle of married sex in about one year, both because being still a very young person he is physically capable of it and because the business of making a financial or any other sort of success of his life has not yet become urgent. You'd be surprised how many young people I encounter who are totally disinterested in sex, who are amazed that their elders should waste their time going to strip shows or buying girlie magazines. They are surrounded by all the women they want or can cope with, and in most cases they have already exhausted every possible permutation of orgasm. They have sexually arrived at the age of your middle-aged misfit. But they're only twenty-one or twenty-two. Now, a large number of them are prepared and mentally equipped for a very useful and important life. But I'm afraid an equally large number of them have it inside them to become sexual monsters, and they are not going to die or start losing their health for a considerable time yet. And if you want proof of my theory, just start reading the newspapers. Not only here. All over the place. The crime does not have to be connected with a sexual assault.. But a sudden outpouring of homicidal violence usually has a sexual base.'
'How would you explain the fact that so many of the young people of today claim to be pacifists?'
‘I think it is a mistake to approximate pacifism, which is anti-war, with anti-violence. The youth of today are quarrelling with the discipline of the older generation; and thus with authority, and naturally they find their allies in the youth of other countries. Thus they resist organised violence, which we call war, because they would be first in the firing line, subjected to intense and irresistible discipline, forced to oppose their friends on the other side. But I don't think anyone could take a long hard look at society today and claim our youth is opposed to violence, per se. Anyone who supposes that merely has to attend a Saturday afternoon football match.' Coleman finished his drink. ‘I’m sorry I got carried away. You happened to strike my private nightmare. I lie awake wondering what is going to happen when this generation reaches forty or fifty. Bored will no longer apply. It'll be so frustrated it'll be half round the bend. That bothers me. I may just be alive to see what they decide to do to relieve their frustration. I can't really form an opinion about your young lady, not having met her, but I'd say your other lady friend is already in the last stages of frustration. Come on, I'll drive you home.'
Baird sat in Coleman's Rover, gazed at the night. 'I found what you had to say intensely interesting, if a little chilling. In your opinion, then, the cycle is the same for us all, and is inevitable, although it operates at different speeds. Innocent sexual investigation; what we might call innocent satisfaction; sophisticated investigation; sophisticated satisfaction; and then, if you have the strength and the health left, perversion leading eventually to violence. Presumably there are degrees of this, as well.'
'Oh, of course. Even spanking a pretty bottom can become boring, given time.'
'And where would you estimate it might end, if someone could arrive at this state at a reasonably early age, in full possession of her health and strength, and able to ignore the law.'
'As I remember, there were one or two at Belsen.' 'Is that inevitable?'
'Given all the circumstances you have just outlined, yes. Because, of course, to achieve that total state of sexual satiety, and also to have the state of mind to ignore the law, quite apart from the question of your ability to do so, your character would long ago have been forced to discard all moral and ethical considerations, and be concentrated upon persona] gratifications. It's when these people start making the laws we have to worry. And every year the trend is to discard more morality, more ethical laws.'
'I'm sure you're right,' Baird said. 'And right to worry about us all. You'll forgive me if I concentrate on the case in hand. That's my place over there. Would you come up for a while? I'd like to do a bit of talking myself. And I'll happily pay twenty-five guineas for the privilege.'
'Not a bean, old chap. I've been drinking.' Coleman glanced at him. 'You're sure you want me to?'
'Yes,' Baird said.

IV
Baird poured beer, and talked. He started in the cabin of the S.S. Tautenay, and he brought his life up to Sunday morning. Until he began, he had not realised how soothing are the pleasures of confession.
Coleman listened, occasionally puffing on his pipe, then finally allowing it to go out. When Baird at last sat silent, the psychiatrist tapped the crusted bowl in the grate. 'Quite remarkable,' he said. 'But I have a suspicion that it is not unique. Who knows what really goes on behind the lace curtains of suburbia, Michael? A considerable proportion of our annual quota of undetected murders, certainly.'
'So what are you going to do now?' Baird asked.
'Do, my dear fellow? Everything you have told me is in the strictest confidence. I might try giving you some advice. What happened in that lifeboat has got to be accepted. I was a navigator on a bomber during the war. What I helped to do to Dresden has got to be accepted. You were only a very small part of Landles' murder. You'd be a fool to let it go on haunting you.'
'It doesn't,' Baird said. 'Not any more.'
'Secondly, I'd say that to be allowed to indulge in satanism or whatever is the right word for your parties with four attractive women must make you one of the luckiest men on earth. I can understand it tugging at your conscience a little; that's your Christian upbringing lurking in your subconscious. But you are all consenting adults. Has it worried you a great deal?'
'Not my relations with Cynthia. Not even with Imogen, As you say, they made the initial advance, and they offered everything a man could dream about. But Andrea .. .'
'She was consenting too, Michael.'
'Who wouldn't have been, Ted? She can hardly be described as an adult. But even supposing I can come to terms with myself about her, I want to know what comes next. Andrea is only a beginning. Cynthia aims to expand her little circle, and by the very nature of things she can only suck in the half innocent. But even that's not the real problem. To keep the Coven happy, she has to increase the stimulation, every time. After what we did to Andrea on Saturday night what can follow?'
'If everything you have told me is true, it would seem that some act of violence should be next on the agenda,' Coleman said thoughtfully. 'In fact, I'm surprised that Mrs. Earlswood hasn't already committed a real act of violence.'
Carter Maladay's widow. 'What about murder?' Baird asked.
'Meaning that having started to torment someone, murder is the easiest way to continue. She'd be taking a quite ridiculous risk.'
‘I wonder.' A succession of lights seemed to be bursting inside Baird's brain. The lights of the television studio, in which he sat, trying to identify a scene from the occult, from the study of various unusual customs. He got up, opened the bookcase, took out The Golden Bough, thumbed the pages. 'Here we are. It's from the section on the killing of divine beings, kings and so forth. It appears that there used to be a people called the Shilluk, living on the White Nile. Maybe they still do. They regarded their king as the reincarnation Nyakang, the semi-divine hero who founded the dynasty and settled the tribe. Fraser says: "While the Shilluk hold their kings in high, indeed religious reverence, and take every precaution against their accidental death, nevertheless they cherish the conviction that the king must not be allowed to become ill or senile, lest with his diminishing vigour the cattle should sicken and fail to bear their increase, the crops should rot in the fields, and man, stricken with disease, should die in ever-increasing numbers. To prevent these calamities, it used to be the regular custom with the Shilluk to put the king to death whenever he showed signs of ill health or failing strength. One of the fatal symptoms of decay was taken to be an incapacity to satisfy the sexual patterns of his wives, of whom he has very many, distributed in a large number of houses at Fashoda. When this ominous weakness manifested itself, the wives reported it to the chiefs, who are popularly said to have intimated to the king his doom by spreading a white cloth over his face and knees as he lay slumbering in the heat of the sultry afternoon. Execution soon followed the sentence of death. A hut was especially built for the occasion; the king was led into it and lay down with his head resting on the lap of a nubile virgin; the door of the hut was then walled up; and the couple were left without food, water or fire to die of hunger and suffocation." ' Baird closed the book, replaced it in the bookcase.
Coleman filled his pipe, slowly, pressing the tobacco down far too tightly. 'If you are thinking what I think you're thinking, that is just too incredible.'
'Have you read the newspapers for August last year?'
'You mean Carter Maladay didn't throw that key out of the window? Imogen Ericsson did?'
That key business has bugged me from the start In the first place, old rakes like Maladay don't become so "consumed with passion", as the paper had it, that they'd commit virtual suicide for the sake of a screw. And large, strong young women like Imogen Ericsson don't put up with any nonsense from men.'
'If she threw away the key,' Coleman said, 'and then subjected Maladay to continuous sexual assaults ... my God, the mind boggles. But no one has ever died of too much sex. He'd become temporarily impotent. At his age, it might just be permanent. Nothing more than that.'
'He had cardiac trouble, as Cynthia knew. Not a great deal, but enough. And there are more ways of tormenting a man than simply squatting on his thighs. Imagine him, temporarily impotent, as you say, which would also involve total exhaustion, and imagine her invoking a constant combination of taunting and titillation . . .'
'But why should she do it? She was committing suicide herself.'
'She knew Cynthia would be returning early from Sardinia. This was a part of the set-up.' 'Early still meant twelve days.'
'She'd been trained to it. When I first saw that gymnasium, the other night, it rang a bell, but at the time there was so much going on I didn't connect it up. Imogen drinks and debauches with the rest of us, so she can't be any dedicated health fan. That gym was put in for a specific purpose, to train her to spend ten or twelve days without food, and possibly in some form of continuous physical action, just in case old Carter didn't oblige by dropping off early.'"
Coleman mused at his pipe. 'She could have hidden some food in the bedroom. Highly concentrated, astronaut diet stuff.'
'She could have. But I'll bet she didn't. Cynthia believes in being letter perfect. Imogen was examined by doctors after coming out of that room. They'd have been able to tell if she'd taken any sustenance other than water during the period.'
‘Now tell me why a girl like Imogen Ericsson should agree to shut herself up with a corpse for ten days? In August? It would drive most people mad even to think about it'
'She never mentioned her salary, but if Andrea is starting at two thousand a year, Imogen must be doing very nicely. Add fur coats, all the clothes she feels like, on the house, the use of that Bentley, and she's car crazy. And, of course, she was utterly under Cynthia's spell. Still is.'
'All right. Supposing your theory is true in every last detail, what do you propose to do about it? You have absolutely no proof, and as far as I can see, you have no hope of getting any. Besides, you know, it doesn't fit my theory of the progress of licence. Cynthia wasn't there, looking on, watching, enjoying it'
'But it does fit the general pattern, Ted. She and Carter and Imogen were having their own private fun and games. This got boring, for the girls. Maybe Carter just wasn't able to, what's that lovely phrase Fraser used, satisfy their sexual patterns any more. But Carter Maladay was a jealous, possessive man. They wanted to expand the group; he would not agree. So he had to go. Only he had to go both in a ritual way, because Cynthia believes in ritual, and in an absolutely foolproof way, as well, leaving all his money and property to his loving widow.-
'Foolproof is an understatement I'd describe that as the most perfect murder ever committed. My God!’ He looked at his watch. 'It's five. We've talked the night away. But I can't remember a more interesting chat. I'm going home to bed.'
'One more question, Ted. What about the mental states involved?'
‘Yours? Absolutely normal. Too normal. You know, most people have at least one really traumatic event in their childhood. Oh, of course the percentage who take part in a violent death is infinitesimal, but that's not relevant. The child's mind always selects the most traumatic event it experiences, and is affected by that. Take the chap who will never eat fowl, because he saw a chicken having its neck wrung when he was a boy, or the girl who is reluctant to marry, because she interrupted her parents at an especially private moment, and so on and so forth. Now your childhood contains something really ghastly, but you've stood up to it remarkably well, tried to reason your way round the problems involved. As a psychiatrist, I would say your only mistake was in those long years of self-repression, which turned you into a time bomb, just waiting to be set off by Cynthia.'
'And Cynthia?
 'Well, it would appear as if, where Landles' death was deeply repugnant to you, it touched some primeval chord in her. In normal circumstances this would have been eradicated by a conventional upbringing. In her case it has just been stimulated by the excitement and luxury of being married to Carter Maladay.'
'Would you describe her as mad?'
'To a certain extent, of course, we are all mad, in that there are certain areas where we are not normal. But in most cases our madness is limited to trivia. I get irritated by unpunctuality. But that is a passive madness. When I am kept waiting I get angry and go home, very quickly. Cynthia's madness is sexual. Once her personal stimulation starts, she can no more halt the process than she can stop breathing. But you would never get her certified. Ninety per cent of the time she is absolutely normal, and even when she is in the grip of her madness I imagine she's just a very lovely, very passionate woman.'
'A very accurate description. I wonder if you'd drop me somewhere on your way home?'
'At this hour?'
'It's the only time I can be sure of finding this party at home.'
Coleman frowned. 'You mean you're going to look for evidence? Against Cynthia Maladay?'
'If that's the only way I can stop her, yes.'
Coleman sighed. 'I think you want to be very sure in your mind that you do want to stop her, Michael. It'll be pretty final.'
'Yes,' Baird said. 'But if she's killed once, isn't it on the cards she'll get the urge again? Soon?'

V
Coleman dropped him at the corner of Curzon Street and Park Lane. 'Keep in touch. And good luck.'
Thanks.' He thrust his hands into his coat pockets, walked down the street, turned the corner leading to the apartment block, pressed the bell. And again. The street slowly began to lighten. But he did not feel the least sleepy. What did he feel? Coleman was right, of course. What he was doing did not bear consideration. What he was doing to them both, Imogen no less than Cynthia. He loved them both. It was impossible to know them, as he had known them, without loving them. And yet they had to be stopped. This thought, this fact, did not need analysis. In the same way as, at Maladay House, his animal instincts forced him to follow Cynthia into every situation she decreed, no matter how ghastly, so his humanity, his common sense, his basic godhead, now demanded that there should be no questioning of this decision. They had to be stopped. And it could be done, perhaps, without sacrificing them. Proof was all he needed. Proof which could be presented to Cynthia. Proof.
The ninth ring. 'What is it?' asked a tired voice. 'Oriole?'
'Miss Maladay is in bed. What do you want?' ‘I wish to see Miss Maladay.'
A heavy sigh came through the loudspeaker. "Your name, sir?' 'Michael Baird.' 'Just one moment, sir.'
Baird put his hands back into his pockets, stamped his feet against the damp. The maid was young, pale and uninspiring. She wore a short dressing gown over a short nightdress, and had plump legs. She had not yet washed her face, and shivered. 'She says you can come up. But it had better be good. That's what she says.'
Baird joined her in the lift. She took one foot out of its slipper, scratched her big toe, put it back again. 'I don't remember you,' she said.
'I've only been here once before, and I don't remember you either. It must have been your night off.'
She shrugged and nodded at the same time. The lift stopped, and she led him across a carpeted hallway and through a door into the living room. The curtains were drawn and the air stank of stale alcohol and stale tobacco. The maid switched on the light. 'Miss Maladay will be with you in a moment.' She stooped in front of the bar, took out three narrow goblets, opened the refrigerator, produced a bottle of champagne.
'At this hour?' Baird asked.
'I always begin the day with champagne, darling. It's so much more invigorating than coffee.' Oriole Maladay wore a pale green dressing gown, presumably for reasons of warmth, for the material was sheer and it was her only garment. She extended her arm, and then a long forefinger. 'You're the schoolmaster.'
'I'm sorry to wake you up like this.'
'Now he tells me. I thought you were at least the Flying Squad.' She sat on the settee, draped one knee across the other. Her maid opened the champagne with a gentle plop, placed the tray with three full glasses on the coffee table, withdrew. Oriole Maladay sipped. 'Well, go on, have one. I wasn't asleep, anyway. Clive, this is the schoolmaster. We have a screwing acquaintance.'
Clive blinked at Baird. He wore nothing at all, was a pink and white young man, well built and muscular, at this moment half asleep. His hair was yellow, very like Oriole's, but his cheeks were a shade too plump. 'Devilish hour to come calling, old man.'

'We only got in about two hours ago,' Oriole explained. 'We've been weekending in the country. And it's a long drive back up.' She frowned. 'Nothing's happened to Cynthia, has it?'
'Would it bother you?'
‘I’d laugh, and laugh, and laugh. Something will, eventually, you know. Her and her little games.' She finished her drink, and Clive refilled her glass. 'Well? If you've come for a tumble, I'm afraid I'm too God-damned tired. Besides, I don't even know if I like you. You took advantage of me when I was drunk.'
'Doesn't everyone?'
She frowned at him over the rim of her glass. 'You're quick. Oh, yes. I remember now. Perhaps I did like you after all.'
'I want to talk with you. About something very important. And very personal.'
Her eyebrows climbed. 'I wonder if he's going to propose, Clive? Do you think he's going to propose? I tell you what, darling. Go back to bed.'
'Devilish bad form,' Clive grumbled. 'Barging in here when there's a resident, so to speak.' He stood up, swayed. 'Are you going to propose, old man?'
'I'm sure Miss Maladay will tell you all about it.'
Oriole lay down, swung her legs over the back of the settee, sighed, closed his eyes. 'He proposed, you know. All slobbery. He even has a ring tucked away in his smalls, Several times. This morning, on the way up from Wiltshire, somewhere. I don't want to get married. What did you say your name was?'
'Michael,' Baird said.
'That's right. I knew I'd remember. I don't want to get married, Michael. I just could not stand looking at the same face every morning for the rest of my life. God knows, I get bored with my own. But if you really want a quickie, come on over. I do like you, you know.'
‘I don't want a quickie.'
She put a cushion under her head, turned so that she could look at him. 'You're awfully rude. What do you want?'
'Do you remember anything about that night we became acquainted?'
'I imagine I got laid. I get laid every night, just about. 
Wait a moment. We were at Cynthia's for dinner, and her guests wanted to give me a shave.’
'And you became rather annoyed, principally with your stepmother. On the way home you told me that she had killed your dad. You were very angry.'
‘I find it very easy to get angry with darling Cyn. Do you know, legally she's my guardian? Thank God she can't interfere with my allowance.'
'Did you mean what you said?'
'Fill my glass, will you, Michael. Is she sueing me for slander?'
Baird poured champagne. 'Not so far as I know.’ 'Then give, man. Give.'
'It has occurred to me that you might just be right. I'd like us to pool our ideas. Our information.'
Slowly, Oriole Maladay swung her legs off the settee, sat up. She drank champagne, absently arranged her dressing gown over her knees. 'You're her boy friend. Amongst others. You're green because she married that Earlswood character.'
Was that true? Could that be true? T merely want to know if you were breathing hatred or instinct.'
Oriole Maladay stood up. 'And I should like to know why.'
‘I’m one of her little group. All right. I became one because I'd known her since I was a boy. Maybe I've always been in love with her. But she's probing a bit too deep for me.'
Oriole Maladay drew the curtains, blinked at the dawn. 'God! London doesn't have the sun in October. Dr. Spain was unhappy about it. I don't know why. I just know that i he was. For Jesus' sake, he delivered me, held me upside down and smacked my bottom, gave me my vaccination. And my first abortion. So maybe he didn't like Cynthia either. He was Mother's best friend. But he was unhappy about it. He said to me, "Your dad was a bit of a bounder, Oriole. I suppose you know that. But this just isn't him."'
'What about the family solicitor?’
Oriole shrugged. 'Old Bowen wasn't really interested. He never cared for Dad. But his firm had been the Maladay I solicitors way back to old Salvatore. If it's wills you're thinking about. Dad made everything to Cyn donkey's years ago. He was potty over her.'
'Yet he went after everything.’
'He was a Maladay, darling. He woke up every morning with an erection. Even with a hangover.' She perched on the arm of Baird's chair. 'But Cynthia was always number one.'
'And Imogen?'
She shrugged. 'Number two,.I imagine. All the others were just time-wasters. If you really want to know what you can find, Jimmy Spain is your best bet. I'll give you a note.' She sat at the desk in the corner, took out a sheet of embossed notepaper, wrote in a broad, remarkably steady hand, folded it into an embossed envelope. .'Otherwise you'd just get a cold stare. It's half past six. Why don't you come to bed? Wc could have a threesome. Or do you have enough of that sort of thing with Cynthia?'
'More than enough,' Baird said. 'What about the police?'
'Cynthia had them all in love with her inside half an hour. After all, she was very much the wronged party, wouldn't you say? Am I going to see you again?'
'I could give you a progress report.'
'Come down to Maladay Cottage with me next weekend. No, not next weekend. I've promised Clive another bite at the cherries. But the weekend after. Don't look so wee woolly lambish. I'll still be me, you know. And I'll bet you what you like you won't have found out a thing. Not even from old Spain.'

VI
Imogen Ericsson sat on the steps to the cellar of Maladay House, watched the girl. Andrea ran, round and round the large room, clambering over the horse, through the parallel bars, panting. She wore a brassiere and briefs, both sodden with sweat. Her dark yellow hair clung to her shoulders. Her bare feet left wet blotches on the concrete. And now she ran more slowly, placing each leg in front of the other with conscious effort, the muscles in her thighs jumping and hardening with every step.
She dropped to her hands and knees. 'God,' she said. 'I can't move. I just can't move.'
Cynthia leaned against the wall. She wore a pale blue towelling play suit, looked cool and relaxed. She walked across the room, placed one foot on Andrea's thigh, and
E
ushed. The girl flopped over, uttered a faint scream as her heated back touched the cold concrete. ‘You can manage a few more laps, darling,’ Cynthia said.'Imogen!'
Imogen stood up, lifted the full bucket She wore bathing trunks. 'No!'Andrea scrambled to her feet 'All right, Imogen,' Cynthia said. 'You may run a hot bath.'
Imogen went up the steps, through the hall, and climbed the great staircase. She was not a woman who hurried. With her size, her tremendous, thrusting femininity, when she hurried she was suggestive of a Fury. She preferred to move without apparent effort, her long legs eating up distance.
She went into the main bathroom, switched on the tap, stood for a moment looking at herself in the mirror, at the downward turn of her wide lips.
The door opened. Patrick Earlswood was a diminutive satyr in a red dressing gown. He sighed. 'Why does she do it?'
'Because Mrs. Earlswood wants her to.' Imogen watched the slowly filling bath, the layer of steam rising above it. Her muscles were tensed. She did not like Patrick Earlswood. His fingers would begin to stroke and then they would start to pinch. His nails would dig. She bad come to the conclusion that Patrick did not really like women; he was far more gentle with Thomas. Or perhaps it was because Patrick did not like his wife. That had become apparent even in this short space of time. But he did not dare hurt Cynthia, unless she was in the mood to be hurt So he hurt Imogen instead. And Margaret. But never Andrea, as yet; he had never been given the opportunity.
'I know that, darling. But why does Cynthia want her to?'
'She likes us to be hard, and strong, Mr. Earlswood. That way we stay young, and beautiful, longer.'  'I suppose she could have a point' He was immediately; behind her now, his hands round her waist rising to caress her breasts, sliding down to her groin. 'You have the belly of a boxer.'

'I should think,' Cynthia said, 'that a man with your problems would have learned not to waste it.'
The hands disappeared. 'I wish, to God you'd learn to make a little more noise,' Patrick said. 'So I felt like grabbing the real thing. One becomes tired of diminutives, you know.'
'Get out.' Cynthia spoke as softly as ever. 'Go and play golf. Sublimate, darling, with the little white balls. Come on, Andy, before you catch cold.'
Andrea stood on the heated tiles, allowed a long shudder to seep through her frame. 'Is it very hot?'
'Just this side of scalding,' Imogen promised.
Andrea dropped her garments on the floor, stepped into the bath, squealed like a pig. Slowly she lowered herself to her haunches, hands between her legs.
'Sit down,' Cynthia commanded.
Andrea sat back with a sigh. Her hair floated for a second, and then sank into the water. Cynthia took off her watch, began soaping her hands. Imogen sat on the bath stool.
'Right back, darling,' Cynthia said.
Andrea lay, fully extended, half floating in the bath, Imogen supposed she was beautiful. Her morning's exercise had every muscle tight; they rippled through her thighs, up and down her stomach, kept flexing the small, pointed breasts, only slowly began to subside beneath Cynthia's gentle, soapy massage. Andrea sighed again, and her mouth drooped open. Her ears were beneath the surface, and half filled with water..
‘I would like to go up to town,' Imogen said, 'if you are not using the car today.'
Cynthia soaped, dreamily. There is so much to be done, with her, for her, to her. It is like a reincarnation. Do you think, Imogen, if I did enough for her, loved her enough, it might be possible to transmit my soul into hers? Or perhaps bring our two souls together?'
'You never wished to share your soul with me.'
'Perhaps things were different, then. You were different. You are not open, like this girl, Imogen. I sometimes wonder at what dark thoughts go on inside your brain.'
'Whatever goes on inside my brain has been planted there by you.'
'I was different also, then,' Cynthia mused, as if Imogen had not spoken. 'Only two years ago, and yet how much i has changed. Perhaps I am not so much in command of myself as 1 imagined.' She soaped, moving her hands more . quickly, and Andrea sighed, and again. 'And then, marrying Patrick. How stupidly feminine. I wanted Michael, and ' I was angry when he turned me down. How stupid.'
'And so you need Andy, for Patrick? You would not dare. Not again.'
'I have not made up my mind about anything, yet.' Cynthia stood up, rinsed her hands in the basin. 'And you are jealous? You, Imogen?'
'Yes, Mrs. Earlswood. I am jealous. May I go to town?'
Andrea stood up, soapy water draining from her shoulders. She swayed, and her cheeks were still pink from the , combination of heat and stimulation. 'Are you finished with me, Mrs. Earlswood?' Her tone was plaintive.
'I am going to lie down. When you have dried yourself, come in to me.' She glanced at Imogen. 'Go where you like, darling. And do not come back until you are in a better mood.'
Imogen went to her room, had a cold shower. She put on black tights and black leather boots, a blue woollen mini-dress, added a thigh-length squirrel coat. She went down-stairs, closed the front door behind her, listened to the latch click into place. She went to the garage. Patrick's Executive had already left. The house was empty, save for the two women. They would exhaust themselves, and then the house would be silent. Maladay House.
The Bentley paused before the gates. Margaret Pilling raised her bedroom window. 'For the day?'
'Until this evening, anyway,' Imogen said, and drove through. But she turned right, for Epsom, instead of left for the London road. She left the car in the station park, caught a train for town. She took a taxi to Oxford Street, walked for a while, a tall, red-haired woman, face a wide mask of unhappiness. She attracted glances, even the odd remark, the occasional suggestion. She ignored everyone, never entered a shop. She walked as far as Oxford Circus, turned down Charing Cross Road, went into Foyle's and : brooded at the paperback titles for a while, then continued towards the river. But she turned off at Shaftesbury Avenue, found herself in Piccadilly Circus. It was time for lunch. 
At half past two she caught a Tube in the general direction of Blueton. Then there was more walking. She could have caught a bus, but it had turned into a pleasant afternoon and she preferred to walk, down almost empty streets, peopled only with dust, garbage cans, and cats. The odd human garbage she encountered turned to stare. Imogen Ericsson was not typical of Blueton scenery. She wondered if she could ever become typical. If she would ever become typical. Presumably it was simply an act of will. Or was anything really an act of will, as against a pre-ordained, pre-destined sequence of events? She did not know why she was here. Yes, she knew why she was here. Not to make Cynthia jealous, in turn. That was not possible. Cynthia loved only Cynthia. But Imogen wanted to be loved. To be adored, just for a little while, as Cynthia had once adored her. As Cynthia now adored Andrea. Michael Baird bad suggested that he might be capable of doing that, once. She had not believed him. But the night they had received Andrea into the Coven he had sought her out, again and again. Perhaps it was real. But was Michael Baird real? He thought too much to be real. No one could think that deeply and exist. No one would dare.
"Hello,' she said. T don't suppose Mr. Baird is back from school yet?'
'No,' Mrs. Hollihan said. 'He doesn't get home until five.'
'Do you think I could wait for him? I'm his sister.'
'Oh, no, you're not,' Mrs. Hollihan said. ‘I’ve met Mr. Baird's sister. She's dark, like he is. Small. Very pretty. Drives a great big expensive car.'
Imogen smiled. 'Cynthia. I'm sorry. I've come from her, you see. But I was afraid you might not let me in. Michael being a schoolmaster, and that.'
What a horrible phrase. And that. But so very English.
'I remember you. You've been here before. But I don't know what is happening, really I don't. All you women. Mr. Baird never used to bring women home.' Mrs. Hollihan opened the door, stepped back. 'You're very pretty, too.'
'Thank you.' Imogen entered the hall.
'And your clothes. So lovely.' She touched Imogen's coat. Imogen wondered if she had stroked Cynthia's coat. Not the dark mink; she was sure of that. 'And such wonderful hair. Is it real?’
'Yes,' Imogen said.
'Mr. Baird's apartment is on the landing. On your right'
'Thank you.' Imogen went upstairs, into the sitting room, stood in the centre of the floor. She went into the bedroom - and through into the bathroom. No pink tiles here; broken enamel. The hot water came from an old Ascot
She took off her coat, laid it on the bed, went back into the living room. There was a kitchenette, containing a gas ring and a hot-plate. There was the odd tin in the cupboard, mostly baked beans. Under the little sink she found three quart-bottles of beer.
She filled the kettle, lit the gas, sat on the settee and gazed at the bookcase. Here was the only touch of class about the place. Michael was a studious man. A studious man who also knew how to please a woman. A perfect combination. She watched the door open.
'What brought this on?’ he asked.
‘You aren't pleased to see me?'
Baird closed the door. 'You're always worth looking at, darling, if that's what you mean.'
'I'm domesticated, too. Shall I make you a cup of tea?'
'I'd love a cup of tea.' Baird sat down, and she took him in her arms and kissed him on the mouth. Then she got up, undressed. She was not a woman to be resisted, and this evening she was anxious to belong, rather than possess. And Baird wanted. Perhaps he wanted all the time, and only realised how very much when confronted with either Imogen or Cynthia. He gave her orgasm after orgasm, until he was himself exhausted. Yet however sated her body, her mind was not satisfied. She propped herself on her elbow, her heavy breasts stroking his face,
‘You did ask me to call.'
'And you refused. What will Cynthia do to you when you go home?'
She got up, switched off the gas, heated the tea pot. 'I am not going home.'
Baird frowned, waited while she brought the two cups across the room, sat beside him on the bed.
'That makes you unhappy? You said you loved me.'
'And you were amused. Do you honestly see Imogen Ericsson living here?'
'There is room for two. I could make you very happy, Michael. I would make you very happy; Perhaps you think there could be no excitement, that you know me too well.
You do not know me at all, Michael You only know Cynthia's creature.'
He could not keep his hands from her body, stroked her thighs and groin and breasts, thrust his fingers into her hair. His touch was so different to Patrick's.
‘I’ll buy that What turned you off?'
'Is it important?'
'It's a part of knowing you.'
'Perhaps I felt perhaps I feel, that we have gone far enough, with our exploration of freedom. Perhaps she no longer amuses me. Perhaps she sickens me.'
'Perhaps you are jealous of Andrea.'
‘I am a very jealous woman. So I no longer love her. In any event, the love a woman bears for a woman is different to the love she bears for a man. Even the sexual love is different. I would never let you down, Michael.'
'Do you know something, Imogen? I believe you. But I'd let you down. With a bump. I was lying when I said that I loved you. I wanted to get you talking. About Carter Maladay.'
Her nostrils dilated as she breathed.
'Then it was just an idea, a suspicion, that everything wasn't right about the way he died. Now I know. Now I'm trying to get proof. Not very successfully. You couldn't have chosen a worse moment to walk into my parlour.'
'Nobody knows,' Imogen said, very quietly. 'Nobody could know.'
Baird went into the living room, opened the bookcase, took out The Golden Bough. 'Read pages 351 and 352.’
Imogen obeyed, head bowed, while he studied her. There was no change in her expression. Her hair slipped forward, hung on either side of her chin, and she absently put up her left hand and twined the fingers in the red strands, A very youthful gesture.
At last she raised her head. 'Without Cynthia, Mr. Baird, I have nothing. Nothing at all. There can only be you.'
‘I know that, Imogen.' And suddenly it no longer seemed important. He took the book from her hands, dropped it on the floor. They forgot about food, and drink, and time. As lovers should be, they were all of these things to each other. Evening became night, and night became morning. Eventually they slept.
But when Baird awoke, Imogen was gone.

Thomas Pilling was nervous. He stood first on one leg and then on the other, gazed at his mistress. Cynthia sat on the settee in the white drawing room. She wore her green velvet trouser suit and high-heeled boots, poured tea. Andrea sat beside her, miniskirted as Cynthia liked. Margaret Pilling and Patrick were also seated, eating buttered toast.
‘Do sit down, Thomas,' Cynthia said. 'Your tea is getting cold.'
Pilling sat down, crossed his knees, changed his mind, picked up his cup, sipped. 'She is at Baird's place.' 'Silly bitch,'Margaret said.
'I'm inclined to agree with you,' Cynthia said. 'And she would so have enjoyed this evening.'
'You don't think she'll enjoy being on the receiving end?' Patrick asked.
'Oh; come now, Patrick. To feel revenge is petty. Besides, it would be far too dangerous. I quite agree that our victim must be someone we know, and admire, and, above all, desire. But she must not be so closely linked to us as Imogen. And how on earth could we safely accomplish our purpose in that seedy, noisy neighbourhood? In any event, she will be back. She will grow tired of Michael Baird, and of poverty, and she will come crawling. And then I am sure if we all think about it very hard we shall be able to devise some satisfactory punishment for her. Something we shall all enjoy. Imogen as well.' Andrea licked her lips. 'Couldn't we . . . couldn't we just wait for that? I mean, go on as we are now, just the five of us?'
'She's scared stiff,' Margaret Pilling said.
'It's all right for you,' Andrea snapped. 'You're not coming.'
'Do be quiet, both of you,' Cynthia said. 'Margaret's part in this is as important as anyone's. You do remember everything you have to do, Maggie?'
'Everything, Mrs. Earlswood.’
‘I’m glad of that. As for you, Andy, once we get started, you will feel better.'	
'But why?’ Andrea asked. 'Why do we have to do it at all? I mean, up to now, it's been us. Only us. And it's been fun. But this...’
'This is a logical step, darling,' Cynthia explained, with great patience. 'As you say, what we have amongst ourselves must always remain fun. Only fun. But fun is not freedom. Fun is not true experience, above and beyond the normal range. True experience comes from pain, whether received or inflicted, whether in the heart or in the body. We cannot inflict more than superficial pain upon one another inside the Coven, because we do not wish to hurt one another, permanently. Our victim must be someone outside our group, and yet within the range of our minds and our hearts. Believe me, dearest girl, you will understand what I mean when we are there, when we are doing.' She finished her tea, stood up. 'She goes down to her cottage every Friday evening, and she will already have left. Did you get the car, Thomas?'
'Exactly what you wanted, Mrs. Earlswood.'
'Very well, then. Margaret, I want you to drive all the way, and, don't forget, you must be back here by seven.'
'Yes, Mrs. Earlswood.'
Cynthia smiled at them. 'What a collection of frightened faces. Tonight we step out of the realm of fantasy into the realm of reality. Tonight we treat society with the contempt it deserves. Tonight we mount the godhead.'
She led them into the October evening. The Bentley waited at the door. Cynthia sat in the back, between Patrick and Andrea. Thomas sat in the front beside his wife. They drove out of the gates, took the London road. No one spoke.
Margaret Pilling followed her husband's directions, and at last reached the right street, a row of metred parking lots. Here the Bentley stopped. Cynthia pulled on a pair of black suede gloves. The others followed her’ example. Cynthia checked her watch. 'Six o'clock. Be here at four tomorrow morning. Not a minute sooner, mind. And in the Executive.'
'Yes, Mrs. Earlswood,' Margaret said, and drove away.
Pilling unlocked an old black Hillman.
'My God,' Cynthia said. 'How much did you pay for this?'
'A hundred and fifty.' Pilling got behind the wheel, unlocked the rear doors.
Patrick and Andrea got in. 'And will it get us there? Patrick asked. 'And back?'
'Guaranteed. The engine is, anyway.'
‘And will he remember you?' Cynthia asked. The police will take the car back to him, you know.'
'Not a chance,' Pilling said. 'It was one of those auctions, and they were going like hot cakes. It's his gimmick, you see. He sells them all with a month's guarantee. He does a bomb. I used the name Smith, anyway, and wore my false moustache.'
'How terribly original. I want to be in Dorset by ten.'
Pilling hurried, soon left the city behind, raced through empty country roads, the speedometer needle hovering at the sixty-mile-per-hour mark.
‘I’m going to sneeze,' Andrea said. 'May I take off my gloves, Mrs. Earlswood?'
'No. Nobody takes off their gloves, now or at any time. Remember that.'
Andrea sneezed.
The headlamps ate up the road. Pilling took a corner on two wheels.
'It would be very stupid of us to have an accident on the way there,' Cynthia said.
'It would be even more stupid of us to have one on the way back,' Patrick said.
Pilling giggled. 'I was just thinking. We haven't brought anything with us. Not even a knife.'
'All houses have knives,' Cynthia said.
Andrea shivered.
There's the cross-road,' Pilling said, and the car slowed. 'After the farmhouse, you said.'
"Then you turn left,' Cynthia said. 'And then right. If s a narrow road.'
The tension in the car was tangible. Patrick picked up Andrea's hand, made it into a fist, squeezed it. She gave him one of her quick, sideways glances, pulled her arm away, but left the fist clenched, and joined it with the other, pressed into her lap.
The Hillman stopped. 'Here's the gate,' Pilling said.
'Open it,' Cynthia commanded.
Pilling got out, pushed the gate open, got back behind the wheel, drove through, parked beside the Aston Martin. The cottage was painted white, and had two upstairs rooms.
The curtains were drawn, but were pale with light beyond. Cynthia rang the bell. 'Good evening, Tina.’ The maid peered at her. She had long eyelashes, which
drooped. 'Mrs. Maladay? Oh, I'm sorry, Mrs. Maladay.
I meant, Mrs. Earlswood.' 'Oriole in?'
'Oh, yes.' Tina looked suspicious. 'Is she expecting you?'
'Of course she isn't expecting me, you silly little goose. We're on our way back from Cornwall. And we're ravenous.'
'Who's it, Tina?' Oriole called. 'It's me, darling,' Cynthia shouted. 'And Tina won't let us in.'
'Oh, really, Cyn. What an hour to come calling. Let them in, Tina.'
Tina stood aside, and Cynthia led her Coven into the house.
'My God, the whole kit and caboodle.' Oriole wore her sheer green dressing gown, had obviously just got out of bed. 'You're not planning to spend the night?'
'We wouldn't dream of it, darling,' Cynthia said. 'Give us a bite to eat, and something to drink, and we'll face the drive back to town.'
‘I suppose we can rise to some chicken sandwiches. Tina, be a darling and butter the bread, will you. I'm sure Pilling will help you carve.'
Pilling glanced at his mistress, who nodded; he followed the maid into the kitchen.
Oriole finished descending the stairs. 'This is Patrick, isn't it? Hello, Patrick. How's married life?'
‘I’m enjoying it. So far.'
'You, I haven't met.'
'Andrea Burman,' Cynthia said. 'Oriole Maladay. Oriole is my stepdaughter, Andy. Andy is my secretary.'
'I figured she would be,' Oriole said. 'That is Clive.' She pointed at the figure descending the stairs, wrapped in a short yellow towelling dressing gown. 'I wouldn't describe him as my anything, at the moment.'
'I was just dozing off,' Clive complained.
'I know that, darling,' Oriole said. 'It wears him out, you see. Now you can open a couple of bottles of that bubbly stuff.' She sat on the settee, waved her arm. 'Well, sit down. I've never seen three more odd-looking people. I wonder what you've been up to this time.'
'We haven't been up to anything, yet' Cynthia sat beside her stepdaughter. 'We were just taking a drive in the country.'
'Well. I'm glad you dropped in, believe it or not,' Oriole said. 'Clive has turned out to be rather a bore. Haven't you, Clive.'
Clive opened a bottle with a pop. ‘I get sleepy, Ory. You know that.'
'Ory! What a horrible name,' Cynthia said. 'Do you think that girl of yours has finished those chicken sandwiches yet, darling? We really are starving.'
'I have them here, Mrs. Earlswood.' Tina came in with a laden tray, Pilling at her heels.
'Oh, those look delicious.' Cynthia took one. 'Don't you think they're delicious, Andy?'
'Yes, Mrs. Earlswood.' Andrew chewed with great caution.
'Don't go. Tina,' Cynthia said. 'Miss Maladay may not enjoy entertaining servants, but I do.'
'Really,' Oriole said. Clive opened a second bottle of champagne, poured.
'This is a lovely spot,' Cynthia said. 'So secluded. How close are your nearest neighbours?'
Oriole shrugged. 'A mile, maybe. I like seclusion.'
'And Tina does all the housework?'
'Tina does very little housework,' Oriole said. 'There is a woman from the village who comes in on Mondays and Fridays. So it's always clean and tidy. Do you know, I’ve just realised what's odd about you. You've all got gloves on. Even Pilling is still wearing his gloves. Did he cut the sandwiches with his gloves on?'
'We're wearing gloves because we don't want to leave our fingerprints in your house,' Cynthia said. 'We don't want anyone to know that we were here at all.'
'Whyever not?' Oriole Maladay asked.
'Because we've come here to kill you,' Cynthia explained. 'All three of you.'

VIII
They sang on the way home, for a while. But they lapsed into silence as they approached London once again. It would be absurd for something to go wrong now. And they could not stop themselves wondering if anything had already gone wrong in their absence.
The Executive waited in the now almost empty street. Pilling pulled in to the kerb, and they got out. 'Don't forget the socks,' Cynthia said.
Patrick carried the plastic bag. They got into the Ford, and it moved away.
'Well?' Margaret Pilling asked.
'It went very well,' Cynthia said.
'It was super,' Andrea said. 'I've never seen, I've never felt, anything like it.'
'You really missed something, Maggie,' Pilling said.
'There'll be a next time,' Cynthia promised. 'Did Bowen ring?'
'Yes, Mrs. Earlswood.'
'And did everything go off all right?'
'He seemed satisfied.'
'I congratulate you. I congratulate all of you.' She watched the road unfolding before them. They were almost home, to Maladay House, to their memories. 'What did you enjoy best,' she said, half to herself. 'Thomas?'
The girl,' Pilling said. 'Squeezing and squeezing and squeezing. It made me feel queer. I mean sexy queer, as I've never felt before,'
'We saw,' Cynthia said. 'Andy?'
'The way he jerked,' Andrea said. 'I'll always remember that, the way he jerked.'
'Patrick?'
Patrick sighed. 'Cutting. Watching the blood come through. I thought it would make me sick at first. But I enjoyed it. Perhaps I should have been a surgeon. What about you?'
'I liked it best when she begged,' Cynthia said softly. 'I had hoped, but I never thought she would. She was so lovely when she begged.'
The car stopped. 'Five o'clock,' Cynthia said. 'Breakfast at ten, Margaret. Not a moment earlier. And burn those socks.' She went upstairs, dropped her clothes on the floor of her bedroom, listened to Patrick shuffling around next door. He would not come in this morning. Patrick was sated this morning. Patrick was very easily sated. Patrick the surgeon.
She lay on her back, arms spread, legs outstretched. Oriole's last pose. Was that subconscious? Would she dream, now, or would she remember? If she dreamed, it would be a nightmare, of her lying here, and Oriole crouching over her knife in hand. It would be a new source of stimulation, a new experience. But it would be only a dream, and eventually she would awake, and laugh.
She awoke with a start, gazed at the tall figure standing beside her bed, sat up, hand swinging to her mouth to choke back a scream, eyes ranging downwards. But her velvet-brown flesh was untouched. 'God, you gave me a start. Is it ten?'
'No, Mrs. Earlswood.' Margaret Pilling's voice trembled. 'But there are some men downstairs to see you. Policemen, Mrs. Earlswood.'
Cynthia swung her legs off the bed, pulled on the offered dressing gown, tucked her toes into high-heeled slippers." 'I hope this is not your idea of a joke, Maggie.'
'They showed me a badge, Mrs. Earlswood.'
Cynthia peered at herself in the mirror, dragged a brush through her hair. 'Did they say what they wanted?'
'Only to see you, Mrs. Earlswood. But what could they want, except... ?’
'Don't be idiotic. Now go and wake Patrick. And tell him to pull himself together.' Cynthia went down the stairs, her robe slithering behind her. Two men waited in the hall, still wearing their hats and raincoats, shifting uncomfortably from heavy shoe to heavy shoe. With them was a grim-faced young woman in uniform. 'Good morning,' Cynthia said. 'I'm afraid I always sleep in. Whatever can I have done now?'
'Good morning, Mrs. Earlswood,' said the first man. 'I am Detective Inspector Harrington, this is Detective Sergeant Brothers, and this is WJ’.C. Anthony.'
'Hello. Can we offer you a cup of coffee?'
'I'm afraid not, Mrs. Earlswood.' Harrington took a document from his pocket. 'I have a warrant authorising me to arrest you for the murder of your first husband, Carter Merrivale Maladay on or about the 15th August last year, in an upstairs bedroom of this house, known as Maladay House.' Cynthia stared at him.
'You need not say anything at this stage,' Harrington continued. 'But whatever you do say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence.'
Cynthia Earlswood laughed.

The Accused

Cynthia Earlswood wore a blue woollen dress, with a matching pillbox hat, disdaining the veil which might have been considered useful or necessary. She looked, around the magistrates' court with the interest of a spectator rather than a participant.
The spectators were there to see her. She was a woman, she was beautiful, she was wealthy. Regrettably, to most of them, she was not actually fighting for her life. The true excitement of the Roman Circus was missing. But it was possible for the devouring eyes to transmit acceptable alternatives to the hungry minds, of that delicate, contemptuous beauty locked in a cell, at the mercy of fellow convicts far more vicious than she, of large, lusty wardresses who would confiscate her lace underwear, dissipate her velvet-brown complexion, cut her immaculately long hair, reduce her to a number, a thing which would need far more rehabilitation upon release than ever before conviction. Possibly this long-term prospect was even more exciting than the thought of her standing on a trap and becoming a thing in a matter of seconds, all that beauty thrust into the earth, to be forgotten.
Then, too, there was the conflict between beauty and the beast, helpless femininity and brutal authority. Detective Inspector Harrington was not an ugly man; his face was benign, and he wore a permanently worried look, occasioned by a boyhood stammer which he was afraid might one day trip him up in court But he was an intensely masculine man, large and powerfully built, and this was Monday morning, and as all the world had learned from their television sets, Cynthia Earlswood had been arrested on Saturday morning, and had therefore spent two whole days under interrogation. Only Harrington himself knew that she had revealed nothing under pressure, had refused to make a statement or set a word down on paper, had repeated over and over again, 'The girl is mad. Mad with jealousy, which had an uneasy ring of conviction, if not of truth, about it.
He faced his victim across the crowded court, and gave evidence of arrest in a low voice, looking at Cynthia only when he recorded that in response to his caution she had laughed. Cynthia raised her eyebrows, as if she had forgotten the incident.
But now the Detective Inspector was giving way to a far more formidable figure, John Trumbee, Q.C. There were to be no remands in this case. The prosecution wanted Mrs. Earlswood safely indicted as quickly as possible. Trumbee was a little man, who sometimes appeared just able to get his head over his desk. He had a large head, and narrow shoulders, apt to become obscure. But it was a mistake for any witness, or any accused, to take him lightly. 'May it please Your Worship,' he said. 'I appear for the Director of Public Prosecutions, and I am charging the prisoner, Cynthia Eleanor Earlswood, née Lambert, with the wilful murder of her first husband. Carter Merrivale Maladay, on or about the 15th August last year.'
He paused, one hand in his pocket. He had no doubt that John Bowen would wish to intervene, and Bowen, a tall, lean man with a hatchet face, was already on his feet.
'Your Worship, as you are aware, there is some considerable public interest in this case, and I ask that your examination should be conducted in private, as you are allowed to do by Section Four, Part Two of the Magistrates' Court Act 1952. I am very much afraid that the publication of. the evidence likely to be given here today, and which will probably to a large extent concern the moral outlook of my client, will exert a prejudicial effect on any future juror.'
The magistrate gazed at Mrs. Earlswood; Cynthia gazed at the magistrate. Possibly he was awaiting, or expecting, some sign from her, some plea for help, to convince him that her moral predicament was sufficient to outweigh the normal course of justice. But Cynthia's face revealed no expression other than interest. She wanted to know what his decision was going to be, but she was not concerned with it
‘I’m afraid I cannot agree, Mr. Bowen,' the magistrate said. 'After all, murder is itself an imputation on the moral outlook of the accused, is it not? Would you continue, Mr. Trumbee?'
Trumbee waited for Bowen to sit down. Bowen looked at his client, as if expecting some emotion from her. But Cynthia's interest was back on Trumbee.
'The prisoner and Mr. Maladay were married twenty-two years ago, Your Worship,' Trumbee said, 'after a rapid courtship. Mr. Maladay was then forty-five years of age, and had only recently been divorced from his first wife. His bride was seventeen. The marriage would appear to have been a happy one, although subject to certain irregularities. While it is far from my purpose to discredit, or indeed to criticise, the dead, Mr. Carter Maladay was well known as a man of the world, who had inherited a ‘great' fortune from his father, Salvatore Maladay, the art dealer. Carter Maladay, to put it bluntly, was a playboy in the classical sense. His wife was a schoolgirl. These facts certainly have some bearing on what followed, for the marriage ceremony made no difference whatsoever to Carter Maladay's mode of existence, a debauched way of life in which the prisoner sometimes joined and sometimes was absent There is no evidence, in the early years of the marriage, that she ever felt any jealousy regarding her husband. In view of the evidence I shall introduce, it is possible for us to surmise that she was actively compensating for his peculiarities.'
Bowen stood up. T really must protest, Your Worship. Counsel is not even merely introducing opinion; he is giving us his.'
'Quite so, Mr. Bowen. I would prefer to hear the facts of the case, Mr. Trumbee.'
'I apologise. Your Worship.' Once again Trumbee looked at the dock, whether in order to apologise to the prisoner as well, or to make his point more fully, no one could be sure. Cynthia smiled at him. 'So then, Your Worship, this rather unusual marriage continued until three summers ago. At that time Mrs. Earlswood took into her employ a young woman named Imogen Ericsson, a native of Denmark, as a combined chauffeuse and secretary. Miss Ericsson will shortly tell you her own story, but I may say that she is an extraordinarily handsome young woman, and it was accepted by friends of the Maladays that she was intended to complete the household to Mr. Maladay's satisfaction, and for reasons of mutual convenience had been selected by Mrs. Maladay. What might be termed a continental arrangement. In fact, the young woman rejected every advance made by her employer throughout the fourteen months which ended in August of last year. At that time the Maladays departed on their respective holidays. Mrs. Maladay left on 12th August for Sardinia. Mr. Maladay was expected in Yorkshire the same evening, to join a shooting party. He never arrived, but his fellow members of the shoot did not consider this odd; Mr. Maladay was a man of irregular habits, who often made appointments and then failed to keep them. One of them telephoned through to Maladay House, received no reply, and left the matter there. Mr. Maladay had clearly changed his plans.'
Trumbee took a handkerchief from his breast pocket, patted his lips. Cynthia leaned forward, elbows on the rail of the dock, hands clasped. She suggested a small girl listening to a particularly interesting story.
'On the 24th August Mrs. Maladay returned from Sardinia. She had not intended to return before the 3rd September, according to her plane ticket, but she returned on -the 24th August. She had a flat in London, and she knew that Maladay House was empty; even the servants had been given the three weeks off, and Miss Ericsson was supposed to be visiting her parents in Copenhagen. But Mrs. Maladay took a train out to Epsom, and a taxi from there to Maladay House. Apparently she had forgotten a book that she wanted to read. Well. Your Worship, on arriving at Maladay House she discovered that the family car, a Bentley convertible, was standing outside the front door when it should have been locked in the garage, and that her husband's hat and coat still hung in the front hall. She went upstairs, and found the door of her husband's room shut and locked, from the inside. She knocked, and was answered by Miss Ericsson. Obviously something very unusual had happend. Mrs. Maladay immediately summoned the police and the fire brigade, and, on arrival, these broke into the bedroom, and discovered Miss Ericsson in a state of extreme physical collapse, she having had nothing to eat for twelve days, and Mr. Carter Maladay, who had then been dead for nine days.'
Once again Trumbee paused, gazed at Mrs. Earlswood, Cynthia gazed at Trumbee.
'Carter Maladay had died of a heart attack, aggravated by starvation, which in turn had been aggravated, by extreme exhaustion. He had been locked in his bedroom with Imogen Ericsson for three days before he died. The finger of guilt, of moral guilt, naturally pointed at Carter Maladay. He was a known rake, his interest in Miss Ericsson, and her rejection of his advances, was also known. The key to his bedroom was found outside the bedroom window, which, in common with all the windows at Maladay House, was barred. Miss Ericsson's story, that she had entered Carter Maladay's room to take his suitcase down to the car, and bad then been assaulted by her employer, was accepted; She further related how she had resisted his advances yet again, and how Carter Maladay had locked the bedroom door and thrown the key out of the window. This tale, of virtual suicide, as the house was empty, and as no member of the staff, or Mrs. Maladay, was expected back before the 1st September, was also accepted. All sympathy was with the helpless young woman caught in such a terrible predicament, even when she admitted that, faced with death, she had submitted to Carter Maladay's advances, at last, in the hope that he might only be bluffing, that he might have another key, secreted somewhere in die room. But he hadn't. Carter Maladay, rake, international playboy, was prepared to commit suicide to obtain the mastery over a young girl. This, too, was accepted at the inquest Even more sympathy was extended to the unhappy widow. Carter Maladay was buried with few mourners, and less regret This, Your Worship, was over a year ago, Mrs. Maladay inherited her husband's fortune, and his chauffeuse. The two ladies lived at Maladay House for the following year, no doubt consoling each other.'
'Facts. Mr. Trumbee,' the magistrate said gently, forestalling Bowen.
'Facts, Your Worship,' Trumbee said. ‘I have here outlined the facts of the Maladay tragedy as revealed at the coroner's inquest. But these were not the true facts, Your Worship. In fact. Carter Maladay was murdered, and in a most unique and diabolical manner, by his wife, and her accomplice, Imogen Ericsson. But where the prisoner made her vital mistake was in her misunderstanding of Miss Ericsson's character. Despite the influence exerted upon this helpless young girl by the prisoner, despite the financial rewards extended to her, and which, as she will tell Your Worship, led her into becoming an accessory before the fact of this most horrible and skilful crime, yet, as time went by, Miss Ericsson became more and more concerned, more and more conscience-stricken. Until at last, a week ago. she could stand the burden of her guilt no longer, and took her terrible story to the police.'
For a third time Trumbee paused, and gazed at Mrs. Earlswood. Cynthia's hands left the rail of the dock, and spread, almost as if she were tempted to clap her appreciation of his speech.
'Continue, Mr. Trumbee,' suggested the magistrate.
'That is the substance of my case, Your Worship. It is based upon the strongest possible evidence, as Your Worship will know, that of a confession by one of the participants in the crime, and when completed this evidence will prove the prisoner to be guilty of murder.'
Trumbee then commenced calling witnesses. He called a police inspector from the Surrey constabulary to give evidence as to the discovery of Carter Maladay's body, and he called Dr. James Spain to give evidence as to the cause of death. Dr. Spain was an enormous man, whose shoulders swelled out of the witness box like an exploding genie's from a bottle. 'Carter Maladay died of a heart attack,' he said.
'Was there any aggravation of this condition, Doctor?'
‘Yes, indeed. He had been put to a severe physical test for some time before his death, which resulted in extreme exhaustion.'
'What sort of a test?'
Dr. Spain surveyed the spectators. He preferred not to look at Mrs. Earlswood. 'It was my opinion he had indulged in, or been subjected to, considerable sexual activity over a period of several hours, perhaps even days.'
'You say indulged in or subjected to. Is that not an odd thing to say. Dr. Spain? We are talking about a man and a woman, locked together in a bedroom. Yet you suggest that the woman may have been the aggressor. Why?'
'My knowledge of Carter Maladay. He was a rake, certainly. But he won his women by his charm, or, where that failed, he bought them. He had never in his life felt the necessity to resort to rape. Physical rape, that is.'
Bowen stood up. 'Surely, Your Worship, Dr. Spain is not a psychiatrist.'
'I was Carter Maladay's doctor for thirty years,' Spain pointed out.
'Did you raise this point at the inquest, Doctor?' the magistrate asked.
'I attempted to, Your Worship, and was reminded there also that I was not a psychiatrist. It was also pointed out that my evidence might be considered prejudicial, as I was a personal friend of Carter Maladay's.'
The court smiled, suddenly glad to have something to smile about. Trumbee looked at Bowen. But Bowen was studying his notes. Cynthia was regarding the doctor with a pleasant expression.
'I have no further questions of this witness, Your Worship,'Trumbee said.

'Mr. Bowen?' 'Thank you. Your Worship; I have nothing to ask.' 'You may call your next witness, Mr. Trumbee.' Trumbee consulted his notes, as if the next name was not totally committed to his memory. 'I call Imogen Ericsson.'

II
She wore a beige suit. Her head was bare, a molten waterfall. She moved across the courtroom and up the steps like a pagan goddess, but she preferred.not to look around her, took the oath in a low voice,
'Would you tell the court your name?' asked Trumbee.
'Imogen Ericsson.'
‘Would you speak a little louder, Miss Ericsson,' said the magistrate. ‘I am sorry, Your Worship.' Imogen raised her voice. 'You are a native of Denmark?’ Trumbee asked.
'Yes.'
'But you have lived in this country for some time. For how long?' 'Nearly three years.'
'Why did you come here, in the first place?' 'I came as an au pair girl.' 'And how long were you employed in that job?' 'For eight months.'
'What made you change?'
'I met Mrs. Earlswood. Mrs. Maladay. as she then was.'
'How did you meet her?’     ,
Imogen gave the dock a quick glance, looked away again. 'I was taking a walk, one afternoon, and a car stopped beside me. The driver offered me a lift. It was Mrs. Maladay, although I did not then know it.'
'What sort of a car was it?'
'A Bentley convertible. White.'
'And did you accept the lift?’
'Yes.'
'Why? Surely, out for a walk, you did not require a lift?'
'It was such a lovely car.' 'You are fond of motor cars?'
'Oh, yes.' There could be no doubting the truth of that statement.
'And so you talked about her car with Mrs. Maladay?' 'I told her how beautiful it was.' 'And what did she say to that?' 'She asked me if I would like to drive it.' 'Just like that? Within five minutes of having met you? And with a car worth several thousand pounds?' ‘Yes.'
'And so you drove it.' Trumbee allowed himself a smile. 'I assume successfully?' 'Yes.'
'And what happened after that?' 'Mrs. Maladay offered me a job as her chauffeuse companion.' 'That same day?' ‘Yes.’
'And you accepted?'
'Mrs. Maladay insisted that I give proper notice to the people I was with, and required a reference from them. She also gave me references for herself, including one from her bank manager.'
'Did you use those references?'
'I looked her up in Who's Who:
'And that was enough. So you went to work for the Maladays. Did anything about your new situation strike you as odd?'
‘Well... .’ A trace of colour seeped through the suntan on the cheeks.'There were things.'
'We should like to hear about them. Tell us about the first day, Miss Ericsson.'
"When I arrived, Mrs. Maladay herself showed me to my room. It was next to hers, and there was a connecting door. She came into the room with me, and she asked me to undress.'
'And did you?'
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
'Well, she was offering me a very good rate of pay.' 'I see. What happened next?'
Imogen studied the rail of the witness box. 'She touched my breasts and my ... my sex. She made me lie down.'
'Did she give you any reason for doing this?'
'She told me she wished to be certain that I was in good health. She said she never could tell with girls, nowadays.'
'Had she previously asked you to supply a medical certificate?'
'No.'
'And you submitted to her investigation. Because of the salary you were to be paid. For no other reason?'
Imogen raised her head. Yes. I found myself liking her. Liking what she was doing. Liking what she was saying. Mrs. Maladay is a very beautiful person.'
‘A very beautiful person,' Trumbee repeated, thoughtfully. 'So you became installed at Maladay House, as the family chauffeuse, and also as Mrs. Maladay's lover. Were you in love with her?'
'At times.'
'Was she in love with you?' ‘I think so. At times.'
'But you were not the only, ah, person in her life?' . 'No.’ 'Men as well as women?' 'Of course.'
'Of course.' Trumbee was clearly shocked by his own naivety. 'And also, of course, these affairs were known toMr. Maladay?'	
‘Yes.'
‘He never objected?' 
‘Not to my knowledge.’
'You were the prisoner's constant companion. What sort of things did you talk about?'
'Mrs. Maladay liked to talk about freedom, about the fact that we are all prisoners of our environment, our upbringing, our consciences, our ambitions. Most of all that we are prisoners of our fellow men, of the majority. She said the necessity mankind felt for conforming to the will of the majority had always, and would always, prevent him attaining his true stature. She thought the perfect human being would be one who had attained the freedom to do exactly as he, or she, pleased. She would discuss the possibilities of attaining such freedom at great length.'
'Did she ever discuss this with her husband?'
'Often. It amused him to listen to her. He would end the conversation by saying, "One day, Cynthia, I have no doubt that everyone will be just as free as you wish, and then what a terrible, predatory jungle will the world be. But I shall never see it, thank God. I am too old." And she would say, "It doesn't matter to you. You have always had all the freedom you could possibly wish." And he would reply, "Haven't you?"'
'And had she?'
'She wanted more. She wanted her own kind of freedom. She conceived herself as belonging to Mr. Maladay. As in a sense she did.'
'Go on.'
'One day, in the spring of last year, she said to me, "Next year I am going to be forty, Imogen. Can you imagine it? Then / shall be too old. I must do something.'
'She wanted lovers, is that it?'
'She bad lovers. She wanted...' Imogen hesitated, threw a second quick glance at the dock. 'She wanted more. She wanted to kill. She said that only by killing could she prove her freedom, as an individual. She chose Mr. Maladay because he was old. and had lived a full life, and because he was the one real restriction on her freedom.'
'And no doubt she also wished to have the freedom that went with Mr. Maladay's wealth?'
‘Oh, yes.'
'Go on.'
'One day she brought me a book called The Golden Bough. It is an account of various superstitions to be found in remote areas of the world, by a man named Frazer.'

Slight murmuring in court, a release of tension. Trumbee also smiled. 'We are familiar with Sir James Frazer.' He turned to the bench. 'If it please Your Worship, I should like to read a passage from the book. It is not long.'
'You may do so, Mr. Trumbee, if it is relevant.'
'It is very relevant, Your Worship.' Trumbee read, and the magistrate watched Mrs. Earlswood. She listened attentively.
'Are you suggesting this was what the prisoner set out to do, Mr. Trumbee?' asked the magistrate. 'It is. Your Worship.'
The magistrate smoothed his hair, slipped his hand over the back of his head and down his neck.
'Now, Miss Ericsson,' Trumbee said. 'After you had read the book, what did the prisoner do'."
'She fitted up the cellar of Maladay House as a gymnasium, and in there I trained, every day, eating less and less, until I was existing on a diet of water only while training as hard as an athlete. I lost a great deal of weight.'
Once again came the slight relaxation of tension in the courtroom at this entirely feminine confidence.
'I should think you did,' Trumbee said. 'Did Mr. Maladay observe what was going on?'
'Yes. But Mrs. Maladay told him that it was a special reducing treatment she had devised for me. He used to come and watch me train.'
'What did you wear for these training sessions?'
'Bra and pants.'
'Bra and, ah, pants. And Mr. Maladay watched. What were your relations with Mr. Maladay during this period?'
'He was interested in me. Mrs. Maladay wished him to be interested in me.'
'Quite so. And so you flirted with him?'
‘No. I was not allowed to do that. I was to ... well, let him see me coming out of the bathroom, and things like that. And as I said, he watched me training.'
'Did he ever make advances to you?'
‘All the time.'
'But you refused them all?'
Imogen nodded. 'Yes.'
'On instructions from Mrs. Malady?'
‘Yes.'
'In other words, you deliberately set out on a course of  titillating 
Mr. Maladay's sexual desires, while always refusing him what he wanted.' 
‘Yes.'
‘And all the while you knew your mistress was planning his murder. Can you tell the court, Miss Ericsson, what your feelings were at this time? Did you have no doubts, no attacks of conscience?'
Imogen's shoulders rose and fell. 'I was with Mrs. Maladay all the time. When I was with Mrs. Maladay there was only her. It is hard to explain. What she said was right. What she wanted was right. What she thought was right While I was with her.'
'And you were with her all the time. And so we come to that fateful August 12th of last year. I take it you and Mrs. Maladay had made certain preparations?'
'We had planned, yes. The servants were going away. They had gone the previous night, in fact. I served dinner, and also breakfast. I then drove Mrs. Maladay to the station, returned to the house, and went upstairs. Mr. Maladay had just finished packing, and was about to come down. I went into the bedroom, shut and locked the door, and threw the key out of the window.'
'Just like that?'
‘Yes.'
'What did Mr. Maladay say?'
'He called me a bloody little fool, asked if I hadn't noticed the window was barred. I told him I didn't care, that I had been prevented from making love to him because of Mrs. Maladay's jealousy, and that now I intended to make love to him to my heart's desire. I told him that I had always loved him and always would.'
'Did he believe you?'
'I don't think so. I don't think he even heard. He was standing at the window, shouting.' Then what did you do?' 'I undressed, and made love to him.' 'And he responded?'
'Not then,' Imogen said. 'He told me to stop being dammed stupid and try to figure out some way or getting out of the bedroom.'
'So what did you do then?'
'I hit him.' Imogen said quietly.

III
'I shall clear the court,' said the magistrate, 'if this noise does not cease.'
The whispering subsided, slowly.
‘You hit him,’ Trumbee said. 'How hard?'
‘I am bigger than he was,' Imogen said, very simply. 'I laid him out.'
‘How did you explain the bruise at the inquest?'
'It was nearly gone by then. I said I had hit him in self-defence.'
'And what did you do after you had laid him out?'
'I undressed him, laid him on the bed, tied his wrists to the bedposts, and made love to him.'
'After waking him up, surely?’ asked Trumbee.
‘I poured water on his face. The bedroom had its own bathroom.'
'You did not tie his legs?' Trumbee asked, with some interest.
'That was not necessary,' Imogen said. ‘I was between them.' She waited for the noise to subside. 'And soon I could untie his wrists as well. I did not wish there to be marks.'
'Quite so,' Trumbee agreed. 'And after a while Mr. Maladay died.' 'After three days.'
'Was he sexually responsive all this while?'
'In the beginning, yes. Less often towards the end.'
'But you deliberately continued to stimulate him. This was part of the plan?'
'Yes. Mr. Maladay had a weak heart.'
'Quite so. And after he died you remained in his room for the next nine days. Until Mrs. Maladay came home. Tell me, Miss Ericsson, what had you been instructed to do had one of Mr. Maladay's shooting friends decided to come down and see for himself. While Mr. Maladay was still alive?'
Imogen shrugged. 'I would have said he locked the door. It would have been his word against mine. Everyone knew that be fancied me. Of course, they would have had to pretend to believe him, and I would have been fired. But Mrs. Maladay had promised to look after me.'
'And if one of these gentlemen had inconveniently shown up after he was dead?'
'Then it would only have been my story. I told that at the inquest.'
'And suppose Mrs. Maladay had not come back on the twelfth day?’ 'She did come back.'
'You never doubted that she would return as arranged?' 'No.'
'Because you loved her? Because she loved you? Because she was, is, the most exciting personality you have ever met?'
Imogen hesitated, looked at the spectators' seats. 'Yes,' she agreed at last.
'Miss Ericsson,' Trumbee said, with an air of personal rather than professional interest, 'what were your feelings, as you sat in that bedroom, in August, with the dead body of your late employer lying on the bed, a man with whom you had made repeated love during three days?'
'I spent most of my time in the bathroom,' Imogen said. 'And I did not think about him. I practised yoga.'
'You had been taught that by Mrs. Maladay?'
'By Mrs. Maladay, yes.'
Trumbee collected his notes, looked them over. It appeared that he was finished with the witness. But he did not sit down. Imogen Ericsson had just confessed to committing a murder as the accomplice of Cynthia Earlswood. If, as seemed probable, Mrs. Earlswood denied the story, it would eventually be a simple matter of which of the pair the jury believed. And the simplest way to have the jury believe Mrs. Earlswood would be to have them disbelieve Imogen Ericsson. There was just a chance that John Bowen, who, if not a barrister, was possessed of tremendous experience, might attempt to do that here and now. Trumbee raised his head. 'Miss Ericsson,' he said, 'you have come here today and confessed to a most terrible, a most ghastly, crime, horrible not only in its inception but in what you were prepared to endure to see it successfully carried out. No one can doubt that you were totally under the influence of Mrs. Earlswood. But I am sure we would all like to know what, at the distance of more than a year from the death of Carter Maladay, when there could be no question that you bad entirely succeeded in your crime, impelled you to bring your story to the police,' Imogen also hesitated, for a moment. 'I could not live with it any longer,' she said in a low voice.
'Your sense of guilt has been growing this past year.’.
'All the time,' she said.
'Until at last you could stand it no longer. Thank you. Miss Ericsson. I am sure that the court understands.' 
Trumbee sat down. The magistrate looked at Bowen. Bowen stood up. He did not look at his client, nor did he look at Imogen. ‘I have no questions, Your Worship.' But he remained standing.
‘You may step down, Miss Ericsson,' said the magistrate. 'You will be required to sign your deposition,'
Imogen left the witness box. A woman police constable was waiting for her.
'Yes, Mr. Bowen?' asked the magistrate.
'Your Worship, I submit that there is no case here for my client to answer, and none to justify a committal for trial. The prosecution's case rests entirely upon the evidence of Miss Ericsson, evidence of so far-fetched a nature I am not surprised it took her over a year to dream it up. And evidence, if I may remind Your Worship, which directly contradicts the evidence this same young woman gave at the coroner's inquest a year ago. Was she lying then, fresh from her ordeal? Or is it not more likely that she is lying now, having in the interim conceived a hatred for her late employer? In either event, I submit that there is insufficient evidence to justify your putting my client on trial for murder, with all the expense and disgrace attached to such a step.'
'I do not have to decide whether or not the prisoner, or the young lady who has just given evidence, is guilty of the murder of Carter Maladay,' the magistrate said. 'I have to be certain that a crime was committed, and that as regards that crime there is sufficient evidence to put the accused upon trial. In this regard, I may remind you, Mr. Bowen, that Miss Ericsson has not merely accused the prisoner of the murder of Carter Maladay, she has also accused herself, which is a remarkable step to take if she was activated, as you suggest, by sheer hatred of a former employer.',
Bowen sat down. The magistrate looked at the dock. 'Cynthia Eleanor Earlswood,' he said, 'you are charged with having planned and procured the murder of your first husband, Carter Maladay, during the month of August last year. In this regard I wish you to be absolutely clear upon two points.’ He paused, and Cynthia waited. 'Firstly, although your husband's death was caused by heart failure, if it can be proved that the heart attack was induced, either by starvation or by excessive physical activity forced upon the victim, or by a combination of both, then he was murdered as surely as if he was killed by a bullet. Secondly, even if at the moment of his death you were in Sardinia, if it can be proved that you planned this crime, and induced Miss Ericsson to play the part in it to which she has confessed, and then returned early from your holiday as part of the plan in order to release Miss Ericsson, then you are as guilty of the murder of Carter Maladay as if you had shot him. Now, you will have an opportunity, if you wish, to give evidence on oath before me and to call witnesses. But first I must ask you whether you wish to say anything in answer to the charge. You need not say anything unless you wish to do so; and you have nothing to hope from any promise, and nothing to fear from any threat, that may have been held out to induce you to make any confession or admission of guilt. Anything you say will be taken down and may be given in evidence at your trial. Do you wish to say anything in answer to the charge?'
Cynthia glanced at John Bowen.
Bowen stood up. 'My client pleads not guilty and reserves her defence.'
'Very well,' agreed the magistrate. He looked at Cynthia. 'You will be committed for trial at the next session of the Central Criminal Court.'

IV
Cynthia Earlswood pulled off her gloves, sat in the straight chair with a sigh, immediately got up again and walked to the window to look out at the courtyard. 'I am sweating more than I could have thought possible.' She looked over her shoulder at the woman police constable waiting by the door. 'It is all that standing up. Do you sweat a lot when standing up?'
'Sometimes.' The policewoman opened the door, allowed John Bowen to enter.
'So tell me what happens now, John?'
'I'm afraid that you will have to stay in prison until the Assize, Cynthia. But that will only be three weeks, as it happens.'
‘Three weeks in a prison cell?'
'It won't be so bad as all that.' ' Cynthia laughed, softly. 'I am looking forward to it, John. Really I am. It will be a new experience, and that is what living is all about, is it not? New experiences?' She turned her smile on the policewoman. 'Will they, ill-treat me, do you think? Will they flog me, or cane me? Will they keep the lights burning all the time, or leave me in darkness, all the time? Will they strip me naked and keep me freezing, and starving?'
The girl returned the smile. 'This is England, Mrs. Earlswood. I imagine they will treat you as a queen.'
'For three weeks,' Cynthia mused. 'That is not a very long time.'
'Well, I must be off,' Bowen said. 'I've a barrister to see.' He squeezed Cynthia's hand. 'Charles Markey is the very best in the business, Cynthia. You have nothing to worry about. We'll both be in to see you in a day or two.'
She kissed him on the cheek. T am not worried, John. Believe me. Ciao.'
'Your husband is here,' said the policewoman.
'Cyn!' Patrick Earlswood wore a dark suit and a black tie, looked harassed.
Cynthia allowed herself to be kissed. ‘I don't think that is an entirely suitable name for me, darling, right now. Not in public, at any rate.' She sat down. 'Were you in court?’
He pulled a chair beside hers. 'Of course I was. That little bitch. I suppose I should say, that big bitch.'
'I thought she looked quite beautiful,' Cynthia said. 'She really is a striking girl.'
'Don't you hate her at all?'
'Of course I hate her. I have been to sleep, Saturday night and last night, dreaming of her, spreadeagled on the ground at my feet. My trouble is, I always fall asleep before I have had a chance to do anything to her.'
'You're not afraid of what may happen to you?’

'Afraid? The whole thing is merely an amusing experience. Have you seen any newspapers?"
They're going wild, all the way from "The Magic Murderess' to "I hit him, says Danish au pair". Magic Murderess. That's contempt of court, you know.'
‘I think it's rather nice,' Cynthia said. The Magic Murderess. What a pity I'm going to be acquitted.'
‘I wish I had your confidence.' Patrick glanced at the door, dropped his voice still lower. 'What about Oriole?'
'What about Oriole? It is Monday afternoon, .and the cleaner doesn't go in before tomorrow morning. And when she does go in there will be nothing to worry about. The whole thing will be put down to some tramp.'
Patrick took out his handkerchief, wiped his brow.
'You are not losing your nerve, I hope?' Cynthia's voice was brittle.
'Don't worry about me. What could have impelled Imogen to do such a thing, Cyn?'
'Jealousy. Pure jealousy. Of you, and of Andrea. Perhaps the two happening together. I saw it coming. I thought she might leave. I even thought she might go to Michael; she knows no one else. I never imagined she would do this. She felt the necessity to feel guilty, for something, and, of course, that terrible experience with poor dear Carter did upset her far more than anyone imagined. Once she became convinced that I no longer loved her, I had to be guilty of something, too. I'm afraid she is quite out of her mind. And once she told this tale to Michael, he. being the moralist he is, made her go to the police. Presumably he wishes to break up the Coven. But don't worry. Patrick, darling, as John said in court, she is all their case is based upon, and when the time comes I shall destroy her. Right there in the witness box. Why didn't you bring Andy?'
'Well, I... I rather thought you might want to see me,'
'I do. darling. You know I do. But I'd like to see her, too. Will you bring her the next time?'
'If I can. She's not family, you know.'
The door opened. Time's up, Mr. Earlswood.'
'Oh, yes. Yes, of course.' Patrick leaned forward, kissed Cynthia on the mouth. She caught his arm, held him close for a moment. His face moved back, but remained only inches away, and he stared into her brandy-liquid eyes.
'Cyn. I've got to ask you this. Everything Imogen said on the stand, it was all lies, wasn't it?'

V

The door opened, and Baird stood up, suddenly conscious of the smallness of the room, the bars on the window. There were so many Maladay Houses in this world. And not all of them offered freedom.
He found it disturbing, how his heart pounded when he thought of this girl, this self-confessed murderess, this willing succubus. Was feminine beauty so terribly important? Or was it the male instinct to protect a woman caught in a maelstrom from which she had no idea how to escape, into which she had stepped, certainly willingly, but with no proper conception of where it would lead her. Or was this the love of which Coleman had spoken, the sexual love, that even in the midst of so much promiscuity his libido could be selective.
She wore a grey dress, very plain, made more drab than it was by the splendour of her hair. He held her hands and her fingers closed on his. He pulled her close, kissed her on the mouth, made her sit down. Her fingers remained tight, and there were shadows under her eyes. 'You have not been sleeping.'
'No. I am glad you came, Michael. Will you come every day, now?'
'I have been coming every day. This is the first time they would let me see you. Why, Imogen? Why?'
'I had to, Michael. Surely you can see that?'
'No. No, I cannot see the necessity for this. I was not trying to destroy the Coven, to destroy you, Imogen. I wanted a weapon with which I could stop Cynthia going too far. Proof of what really happened to Carter would have stopped her. You on my side was proof. That was all I wanted.'
'She would have laughed at you. Oh, Michael, in some ways you are incredibly naive.' She frowned. 'Or incredibly in love with her. Can't you understand? The cycle is starting again. Why do you think she has taken Andrea into the house? Suppose I was to tell you that she has her training every morning in the gymnasium?'

'She wouldn't dare.'
'I wish I could be sure. In some ways she is just as naive as you. Naive in her arrogance. But I do know that she loathes Patrick. She has more or less told me so. She knows her marriage was a mistake. But how could she sue him for divorce? I asked her what she was going to do, and she gave me one of those opaque looks of hers and said she didn't know, yet. But she does. She has something all worked out.' Her fingers squeezed. 'But it wasn't just that, Michael. It was you, as well. And me. That night in your flat...' Her shoulders heaved. 'We loved each other, then, Michael. So it was entirely physical It reached further, for me. I felt I could love, could be loved. It would not have been possible with Carter Maladay sharing the bed.'
'So you opted for ...' Baird sighed. 'I have no idea. No idea at all. Did you see the solicitor?'
'Oh, yes. He and Mr. Trumbee called yesterday afternoon. They said I was magnificent in the witness box.'
'And so you were.'
'Were you there?’
'Of course I was there. So was Patrick. Tucked away at the back. What did the solicitor tell you?'
Imogen shrugged. 'He said I will receive a light sentence, and will be paroled or released even quicker. He said I might not be sentenced at all. He was very witty. He said it was no crime to love a man to death. He said the crime lay in the planning, the preparation, and that was all Mrs. Earlswood's doing.'
'And he's right. You were completely under her influence. Even the assault on Carter Maladay would hardly convict you. The only really damning thing you did was lock the door and throw the key out of the window. But whatever happens, Imogen, you will be able to live with yourself again.'
She pulled her hands free. 'Do you believe that, Michael? Who really lives with himself, or herself? You live with someone in your mind. It may be the image of someone real, it may be the image of someone not yet real, whom you hope one day to meet, or it may be the image you have of yourself, of what you hope that you are really like, I know what I am really like, Michael. And of the two peopie I could live with in my dreams, I am busily trying to destroy the one, and the other.’
'The other will be there when this is over.'
‘Will you, Michael? Will you? And if you are, will it be because you want to be there, or because you now feel responsible for me?' She got up, moving anxiously and nervously, walked to the window and then back again, a tall, strong figure, a woman in a thousand, a woman to love, and to expect love from, because her chief, perhaps her only, virtue was loyalty. As her loyalty to Cynthia was now destroying her.
‘I told you once that I was falling in love with you."
'And I know now that you were only looking for information.'
'That was true. then. No longer.'
She turned to look at him. ‘I came to you because you are the only man I have ever liked, the only man who didn't want to hurt me, physically.'
‘I have hurt you.'
'Not because you wanted to. I could see that on your. face. You did it because Cynthia was there. Because Cynthia wanted to see me hurt. Because we were both obeying her. Perhaps that is the most frightening thing of all. For two years now I have done nothing but obey her, humour her, love her when she wished to be loved, hate her when she wished to be hated. Now that is gone. Now I am loose, free, floating around the world, with no friends, no... no anything.'
'Except me,' Baird said.
'Except you, Michael.' She turned as the door opened. 'Is the time up already?'
'No,' said the policewoman. 'But Detective Inspector Harrington is here to see you.'
Harrington took off his bat. 'Good afternoon to you, Miss Ericsson.'
'Have you met Mr. Baird?' Imogen asked.
'Indeed I have. He's spent the last three or four days besieging my office.'
'I'm just leaving,' Baird said.
'Don't go, Mr. Baird. I'd like you to sit down. You too, Miss Ericsson.'
Imogen glanced at Baird, then cautiously sat down again. Baird sat beside her. 'What's on your mind?'
Harrington sat opposite them. Tm trying to build up a mental picture of people, of groups. You told us, Miss Ericsson, that after you left Mrs. Earlswood's employ, you went to Mr. Baird's flat, and remained there the night before coming to us. Would it be proper to assume that you and Mr. Baird are lovers?'
'I was his mistress then,' Imogen said.
'She is my mistress now,' Baird said.
Harrington nodded. 'And on the stand yesterday you confessed to being Mrs. Earlswood's girl friend over a period of two years.'
'Yes,' Imogen said.
'Please understand that I'm not probing your morals, miss. Nor yours, Mr. Baird. But I'd like to know if you are also a close friend of Mrs. Earlswood's? Or ever have been?'
'We've known each other since childhood.' 'Have you ever had an affair with her?' 'Yes.’
'So here we have a triangle, with all the sides equal, you might say.' Harrington drew a triangle on his notebook. 'Or would it be a square, or a pentagon, or something even bigger than that, Mr. Baird?'
'I have no idea.'
'Miss Ericsson?'
'Mrs. Earlswood is promiscuous,' Imogen said in a low voice.
‘I’m building a picture, as I said. What about Mrs. Earlswood's stepdaughter, Miss Oriole Maladay? Would she also be a part of Mrs. Earlswood's, ah, group?' . 'Definitely not,' Baird said. 'Why?'
Harrington sighed. 'Well, Mr. Baird, it's going to be in all the newspapers tomorrow morning, but I thought I'd mention it to you first, and Miss Ericsson. Miss Maladay was found dead this morning.'
'Oh. my God!' Baird said. Tiny points of light began to flash inside his mind, each exploding into a star shell, illuminating the darkness, revealing all the horror he had always known would be there.
Imogen said nothing. She stared at the inspector.
‘How was she killed?" Baird asked. 'When?'
'As to when, it was some time over the weekend. She has this cottage down in Dorset, and 'she seems to have taken a guest, a male guest down almost every Friday evening. They were always accompanied by her maid, a Miss Tina Broden. On Friday evening, as usual, they left Miss Maladay's London flat about five, the guest on this occasion being a Mr. Clive Laverne, and presumably they went straight to the cottage. They liked to be left alone, for obvious reasons. Miss Maladay employed a local woman, who went in every Friday morning to make sure the cottage was cleaned and ready for habitation, and to turn on the central heating, and then returned again on Tuesday morning—Miss Maladay believed in long weekends—to clean up the mess, and to switch off the heating. So the murders could have been done at any time over the weekend. Because of the heat in the cottage, pinning down the exact time is going to be difficult, although first reports from the police doctor in Dorset suggests they had been dead for well over twenty-four hours.'
'They?' Baird asked. 'You mean all three were killed?'
Harrington spread a folder on the table in front of him, 'How are your stomachs? Miss Ericsson?'
'I know it will be something horrible.'
'There's an understatement Two of the police officers who went to the cottage this morning were made physically ill by what they saw. Let me see. There was more than one person involved. At least three, we think. There had to be at least three. They went there by car; other wheel tracks were found behind Miss Maladay's Aston Martin. It was a small car. I imagine it's our best lead, but I'm not very hopeful. The whole thing was done too carefully to suggest they'd let themselves be traced through a vehicle. Each of the murderers wore gloves, all the time, and they also wore thick socks, all the time. For the rest once they got inside the house, they seem to have stripped themselves naked before committing the murders, and when they were fin’ ished they bathed in the cottage's bathroom, dressed themselves again, and left. There was quite a lot of blood, you see.'
'Oh God, oh God,' Imogen whispered.
‘I don't think He was present, Miss Ericsson. Quite the reverse, in fact. They gained access to the cottage, apparently without difficulty, and even persuaded Miss Maladay to feed them. Chicken sandwiches. Can you imagine them, sitting there, eating? Then they went into action. Miss Maladay and Mr. Laverne were apparently tied up and forced to sit beside each other on the sofa, while the maid. Miss Broden, was killed. She was the lucky one. She was strangled. But before death she was subjected to various assaults, mainly of a sexual nature. Her naked body was found under the dining table. It was covered in blood; at first it was supposed that she had been cut up, but in fact the blood had dripped on to her.'
He turned a page. 'Then it was Mr. Laverne's turn. He, like Miss Broden, was subjected to various assaults, I won't list them, if you don't mind, because I had a good lunch, and then he was castrated, and then he was stabbed through the throat. I must add that each of these murders, with their previous assaults, took some time. These people were in no hurry. There is some indication that between his mutilation and his death Mr. Laverne was alive for half an hour.'
Harrington turned another page. 'Then it was Miss Maladay's turn. She had been forced to watch what had already taken place, and there is evidence of a complete breakdown on her part; her cheeks were stained with tears, the blood vessels in her eyes were distorted, her wrists were rubbed raw where she had worked them against the cord. She was now stripped and tied to the table, as Mr. Laverne had been, and the pattern was repeated. Assault, some minor mutilations—her body was shaved, for instance—and then finally execution.' Harrington closed his file.
'Oh God,’ Imogen said. 'Oh God.'
Baird gazed at the file, a succession of scenes flitting before his eyes. Of faces, too. At least three. Andrea was gone beyond recall.
'I have already broken the news to Mrs. Earlswood,' Harrington said.
'What did she say?' Baird asked.
'She said, "Oh, poor darling Oriole. But I always told her to be more careful of the company she kept. She would pick up these frightful tramp people. Sometimes she even invited them in, gave them food."'
'But you don't go along with that idea?'
‘No, I don't, Mr. Baird. As I told you, the whole thing was too well planned, too well rehearsed, perhaps, to be an accidental encounter with a maniac. And that Miss Maladay should be so unfortunate as to encounter a group of lunatics, why, that's absurd. I fancy we'll find our killers amongst her friends and. acquaintances. Some jilted lover, perhaps. Some hanger-on who secretly hated her for her wealth and beauty. This is where I hoped you might be able to help us. Her London crowd are a bit difficult to run down. We're eliminating the obvious, first.'
Imogen's hand stole across the table, closed on Baird's. Then we are on your list, Inspector?'
'Well, you are friends of hers. Were, I should say. But, of course, the murder was done over the weekend. Miss Ericsson was in custody on Friday night, and I'm assuming you can account for your movements, Mr. Baird. Anyway, I have never heard of a man who spent all day hanging around a police station and then went out and committed a peculiarly nasty murder. Who else lives at Maladay House?'
'Well, there's Patrick, of course. Mr. Earlswood. And the Pillings. They're the housekeeper and gardener. And Andrea Burman, Mrs. Earlswood's secretary.'
'Nobody else?'
Baird shook his head.
'That checks with Mrs. Earlswood's list. What about other friends you both met at Maladay House?'
'Mrs. Earlswood did not have many friends,' Imogen said. ‘I do not remember any others, when Miss Oriole was present. She did not come down very often.' Her fingers were like claws, eating into Baird's hand.
'Anyway, you can start on those,' Baird said. . The detective inspector smiled, for the first time. You're not seriously suggesting that Mr. or Mrs. Earlswood, or their servants, could have had anything to do with Miss Maladay's death? Her own stepdaughter?’
'She did murder her very own husband,' Baird pointed out. 'Miss Maladay's own father.'
Harrington lifted an admonitory forefinger. 'She is alleged to have murdered her first husband, Mr. Baird. One must be careful to stick to the facts. I see your point Perhaps the stepdaughter knew something about it. But looked at in the cold light of reason, policeman's reason, Mr. Baird, it just doesn't fit' He held up his hand, ticked off the fingers. 'Number One. Murderers invariably murder in the same way. Christie strangled and gassed. Heath chopped. It would never have occurrred to the one to do the other. But whereas the death of Mr. Maladay is something of a Christie crime, the murder of Miss Maladay was definitely a Heath crime. You're not suggesting that Mrs. Earlswood is some kind of a reincarnation of Christie and Heath with perhaps a little of old Jack the Ripper thrown in for good measure?'
'What a ridiculous idea,' Baird said, and sighed.
'Second point. As Mrs. Earlswood was in custody from ten o'clock on Saturday morning, and Miss Maladay and her friends were seen to leave the London flat at five o clock on Friday afternoon, if Mrs. Earlswood was involved the murder would have had to be committed on Friday night Now it could have been. That's perfectly true. But I've arrested a lot of people in my time, Mr. Baird, and I can tell you this, if the woman I arrested on Saturday morning had been up all night committing wholesale butchery then she isn't human.'
'Yes.'Baird sighed again.
'And then, of course, there is her alibi Hers and all her household's.'
'There is no such thing as an unbreakable alibi.'
'In detective stories, Mr. Baird. You break this one. It is a three-hour drive from Maladay House down to Miss Maladay's cottage, and a three-hour drive back. Now we don't know for certain what night the murder was committed, but we do have a pointer to the time it was committed in Miss Maladay's watch, which is self-winding, but which stopped at seventeen minutes past twelve, presumably while she was thrashing about on the table, or on the sofa. This would, have to be seventeen minutes past midnight, if it's going to be Friday night. And if it was Friday night we have another pointer, a labourer who was going to work on the Saturday morning, and swears there was only one car outside Miss Maladay's cottage when he passed it at six-thirty, and that was the Aston Martin. Nor did he see any other cars upon the way, and there is only one lane to and from the cottage gate. So to commit that murder at midnight in Dorset. Mrs. Earlswood and her accomplices would have had to leave Maladay House not later than nine in the evening, and as I said just now. Miss Maladay seems to have been the last of the trio to be killed, and - each of the other murders took some time. I would say they would have had to leave Epsom not later than eight o'clock. But in any event it is not relevant. You'll agree the murderers had to be in Dorset by eleven that night. And at eleven on Friday night, John Bowen telephoned Mrs, Earlswood.'
'And spoke to her?'
'Yes, indeed. Let me see. The telephone was answered by the housekeeper, Mrs. Pilling, who apparently was able to transfer the call to Mrs. Earlswood in the drawing room. Would that be possible. Miss Ericsson?'
Imogen nodded. 'There are telephones in all the main rooms. The switchboard is in the pantry.'
'Quite so. In the drawing room the call was taken by Mrs. Earlswood. What is more, she was in the company of her husband and Miss Burman. Bowen heard them speaking in the background, and once Mrs. Earlswood asked them to be quiet. He can't swear it was Mr. Earlswood and Miss Burman, of course, but it was a man and a woman, and they both both claim to have been there.'
'And you don't think that is just a little too pat?'
'What I think isn't relevant, Mr. Baird. Mrs. Earlswood was there, unless you are going to start saying that John Bowen is involved too. And he is probably the most reputable solicitor in London.'
‘I’m not suggesting for one instant that Bowen is anything more than the victim of a confidence trick,' Baird said. 'It was rather an odd hour for him to call, don't you think?'
'Not in the circumstances. He had only just got home from his club. It seems Mrs. Earlswood had been trying to get hold of him at home all evening.'
' 'Why in such a hurry?'
'Now that is rather an odd thing. It seems that Mrs. Earlswood may have had a premonition as to what was about to happen. She wanted to change her will. Previously, everything had been left to Mr. Earlswood with substantial bequests to the Pillings. Miss Ericsson, and to you, Mr. Baird.'
'You don't mean Cynthia contemplated leaving me a legacy?'
'Oh, yes, indeed. A fairly substantial one, if I remember rightly. Three thousand pounds. But I'm afraid she told Mr. Bowen that she wanted to cancel that bequest, and yours, too, Miss Ericsson, and yours was a very large sum of money, and make them both over to Miss Burman; I don't suppose you can blame the lady. But when she made the alteration she didn't know you were already at the station, Miss Ericsson, making your statement. She didn't know. I suppose?'
'How could she have?' Imogen asked.
The inspector is wondering if perhaps you, or we. didn't try to shake her down first,’ Baird said. 'As you say, Harrington, very odd. It gets odder the more you think about it. Have you ever thought, for instance, how alike are the voices of Mrs. Earlswood and Margaret Pilling? How background noises can always come from a tape-recorder? And I imagine if you check a bit farther you'll find that John Bowen spends every Friday evening at his club, and that Cynthia knows this. Yet she kept calling him at home.'
Harrington smiled. 'And I wonder if you have ever realised how easy it is to make everything in life seem odd. What you have suggested is possible, certainly. But it's the product of prejudice, of the break-up of this triangle between you and Mrs. Earlswood and Miss Ericsson. I'm not criticising. But prejudice is a terrible thing. If someone can produce some sort of proof that Mrs. Earlswood was not at home all Friday evening I'll start breaking down her claim that she was. Until then that'd be persecution. Oh, I'll admit my mind flickered to her, first thing. Just like yours, Mr. Baird. She is on trial for murder, she is known to be a woman of, well, shall we say an unusual moral outlook? But I quickly recognised my own prejudice, and the police operate on facts. It's just as likely we'll find the murderer not amongst the friends of Miss Maladay so much as amongst the friends of Mr. Laverne. I didn't mention that he was on his second consecutive weekend with Miss Maladay. And he has some very odd friends.'
'It was to be my turn next week,' Baird murmured.
Detective Inspector Harrington glanced at Imogen, then back at Baird. Well, then, Mr. Baird,' he said, with heavy jocularity, 'you could call yourself a very lucky man.'

VI
Patrick Earlswood, wearing a dressing gown, stood at the foot of the cellar stairs, watched Andrea Burman running, round and round the cellar, clambering over the horse, swinging herself through the parallel bars. Sweat dribbled from her shoulders, soaked her brassiere, made her briefs ding to the thin thighs, coated the long legs. Round and round she went, endlessly, her bare feet leaving damp imprints on the stone floor.
'You make me giddy,1 Patrick said. 'Why do you do it?’
Andrea panted. 'Because Mrs. Earlswood wants me to.'
'But Mrs. Earlswood isn't here now, is she?'
Andrea had reached the far end of the room. Now she staggered back towards him. 'I must be fit.' . He caught her arm. The sudden check in her movement robbed her muscles of rhythm, and she fell to her knees.
'Oh, Mr. Earlswood,' she gasped, 'it makes me so tired, to stop. I must go on. I want to be just right when she comes home.'
'You are quite sure she is coming home?'
Andrea frowned. 'Isn't she, Mr. Earlswood? I mean, Imogen is just jealous. Of me. Isn't she?'
‘I imagine she is.' Patrick released her arm. 'And you aren't afraid?'
Andrea remained kneeling. 'Afraid, Mr. Earlswood?'
‘Well, what about Oriole? Miss Maladay?'
'Afraid,' Andrea muttered. 'You mean of the police finding out? But how could they? This isn't anything Imogen knows about. As long as we stick together . . .'
'We?'
'Well, Tom and Maggie, and you and me, and Mrs. Earlswood...'
"Except that Mrs. Earlswood isn't here right now, is she?'
'But she'll be back.' Andrea fell over, sat, knees up, still breathing heavily. 'Won't she, Mr. Earlswood? It isn't as if she's guilty, or anything.’
'We don't know that, do we, Andy. She could be guilty, very easily.'
'They'll never convict her,' Andrea said.
'Who knows?' Patrick said. 'Who knows what evidence they may have to back up Imogen's story? Who knows what effect being there, being in prison, may have upon her? May be having upon her now? What changes may take place, in her outlook, her beliefs? Prison does strange things to people.'
Andrea gazed at him, mouth drooping. 'You mean... ? Oh, that's impossible. Not Mrs. Earlswood.'
'Who knows, Andy? Who knows?’ Patrick got up, stood beside the girl, thrust his fingers into the sweat-wet yellow hair. 'You've taken enough exercise for one day. Go and have a hot bath. I'll have some breakfast, then I'll come and give you a rub.' He went up the steps, paused at the top and looked over his shoulder. Andrea Burman remained sitting on the floor, leaning back on her hands, gazing at him, a suddenly frightened little girl. A very pretty little girl. He smiled at her, walked round the staircase and into the dining room, where Margaret Pilling was just laying The Times beside his place. 'Good morning, Mr. Earlswood.'
'Good morning, Maggie.' Patrick unfolded the newspaper, laid it on the table, glanced over the headlines. Margaret Pilling removed the cover from his dish of bacon and eggs, added a spoonful of mushrooms. 'Will you have tomato. Mr. Earlswood?'
'Not today, thank you, Maggie.'
She poured coffee. 'Is there anything?'
'They have traced the car at last.'
‘I must tell Thomas.'
'If the salesman had been able to offer a positive identification they'd have been here already.' Patrick sliced bacon delicately, took a sliver of mushroom, popped it into his mouth.
Margaret Pilling sat down, crossed her legs. There was no necessity to carry formality too far. 'And today is her funeral. I wish I had seen her. Now all this, all everything has happened, I suppose there will never be another.'
Patrick broke the yolk of his egg, delved with a piece of toast. There will be others.'
'I hope so.' Margaret stood up, a worried frown on her face. 'I must tell Thomas to lay out your dark suit.'
'I'm not going.' Patrick slurped his coffee.
'But Mrs. Earlswood will be there. They will have to let her attend.'
'I only met Oriole twice. I have no desire to see her buried.'
Margaret had moved as far as the door. There she hesitated, bewildered. 'But you'll need the Bentley this afternoon. To go to the prison?’
'No.’
'You didn't go yesterday. Or the day before.’ 'Tell me, Maggie, when did you start working for Mrs. Earlswocd?'
'Oh ... it would be eight months ago.' Margaret smiled. 'She advertised. The locals found it very strange. There are any number of good domestics around here. But, of course, she just didn't want people who might have friends or relatives in the vicinity. She fancied Thomas. I think she still does.'
'Yes.' Patrick said. 'And what did she fancy about you?'
'Nothing much, in the beginning. She and Imogen were still sort of finding their feet, then. Still experimenting, you could say. I remember her calling me skinny tits. But I think she fancies me now. She likes me to hold her between my thighs. It's the muscle, you know. I used to ride horses.'
'Something I have never done.' Patrick said. 'And what do you feel about her?'
'Oh, Mr. Earlswood, what a thing to ask. I mean, she's ... well, she's just everything, isn't she? Thomas is crazy about her.'
'And you're not jealous?' -
'How can I be, really, Mr. Earlswood? I suppose I sort of love her too.'
'What about this charge Imogen has brought?'
'Oh, that bitch. I hope she's the next, Mr. Earlswood. She or that Baird. I never liked him.'
'You don't think there could be any truth in the charge?'
'Well, of course it's true, Mr. Earlswood, I should think. But from all accounts that Carter Maladay had it coming. What really gets me is Imogen betraying her like that. Even if she has gone for Andy in a big way, well, that's Mrs. Earlswood, isn't it?'
'I suppose it is,' Patrick agreed. 'Bizarre, isn't it, that point about the king dying because he could no longer satisfy his wives.'
'On, but fair, isn't it, Mr. Earlswood? When a man can't satisfy a woman, the woman, he deserves to die. Don't you think so?'
'I'm sure you're right.' Patrick cleaned his plate with his toast 'Is there anything you find more stimulating than sex, Maggie?'

'I've never really thought about it, Mr. Earlswood. About anything else, I mean.' 'What about money?'
'I've never had any. I mean, really. Thomas and I get a good salary now, but we don't save.'
'Mrs. Earlswood is one of the wealthiest women in England.'
'It makes for security, don't it?'
'Which would you rather have? All the money you could use, or one man who could always satisfy you?'
'You are in a mood this morning, Mr. Earlswood. I'd rather have the money. Wouldn't you? I mean, with the cash you could buy all the big, slow men, or all the pretty, quick girls you could want.'
'Quite,' Patrick said. 'Isn't it unfair that some people, Mrs. Earlswood, for instance, should possess so much money, and the rest of us so little.'
'We do all right, Mr. Earlswood. You do all right'
'Oh, I do indeed. And, of course, we have so much to look forward to, Maggie, as we are her sole heirs. I will inherit most of it, you know.'
'Will you, Mr. Earlswood?'
'Oh, yes, Maggie. That was agreed long ago. Cynthia has always had this great gift for uncovering people's souls, and appealing to the desires that lurk there. With Michael Baird, for example, it was nothing more than suppressed sex. With me it was the desire to be rich. And yet I feel a tremendous sense of unfairness that I, coming into your lives at this late stage, should inherit the whole estate, while you and Tom have to be content with bequests. I think we should have to alter that, don't you; make some more equitable arrangement'
Margaret Pilling giggled. 'Why, Mr. Earlswood, how you do carry on. You'd almost think Mrs. Earlswood was dead, or dying.'
'It could happen, Maggie. She could be convicted. I don't think Cyn would survive for very long in prison. Or ' she might have an accident. One has to think about these things. Death is such an unexpected business. I keep, remembering the utter amazement on Oriole's face when she realised we actually were going to kill her. But, of course, you weren't there.'
"No,’ Margaret said. 'But you promised there'd be others.'
'Oh, certainly. Mind you, Maggie, it's going to be difficult to improve on Oriole. I mean, you know, killing a perfect stranger isn't the least interesting. The fascination lies in the victim being someone close to you, dear to you, perhaps; in watching sheer disbelief change to sheer horror. And when you consider that it is only really enjoyable to destroy someone beautiful, well, as I said, improving on Oriole is going to be difficult.'
Margaret Pilling stared at him. 'You wouldn't dare!’
'Just dreaming, Maggie. Just dreaming. We were talking about money, weren't we? I often dream about money, don't you? You know, I was dreaming last night, lying in bed. I was thinking of Cyn, that if she could ever be persuaded to divide the estate, even, just for example, after the.deduction of death duties, it would come to something like fifty thousand pounds for each of us.'
‘Each?'
'Oh, yes.' Patrick finished his breakfast. 'Each. I tell you what, Maggie. Why don't you get hold of Thomas and tell him to come and have a chat with me about something very important I want you to be there as well'
'And what about Andy?'
'Oh, I think Andy should be there too, Maggie,' Patrick said.

VII

The wardress opened the door, and Cynthia Earlswood smiled at her. She took her seat, clasped her hands together, elbows on the table. Her fingers settled gently, one against the other as if in prayer, and then slipped through. Only she knew that her palms were wet, just as the insides of her thighs were also damp. She watched the door open again, the two men come in. She continued to smile. 'Good morning, John. Did you enjoy the funeral?'
‘I never enjoy funerals, Cynthia. And that girl used to be so alive ... I want you to meet Sir Charles Markey.’
‘My very great pleasure, Mrs. Earlswood,' said the famous barrister.
'And mine, Sir Charles. Do sit down, please.'
The two lawyers sat together, facing her, suggesting that it was they being interviewed. Markey clearly felt the need to regain the initiative. 'And did you enjoy the funeral, Mrs. Earlswood?'
'Oh, yes, Sir Charles. I always enjoy funerals. There is something so personal about them. You stand there, and ' you watch that coffin being lowered into the earth, and you envisage the poor, lifeless body inside it, and you feel horror, and sorrow, but if you let yourself you must also feel affinity, because you know that one day you will be inside a similar casket, inevitably, and there will be others looking at you, and feeling the same emotions you now feel. I find funerals thrilling. Even when I have a policewoman in tow. I suppose you think that is indecent, John?'
'Unusual, Cynthia. Do you mean death, even a death as frightful as that suffered by Oriole, frightens you not in the least?'
'I look forward to it, John, as one more, as the final, experience, although obviously I would prefer to have a few more experiences first.'
Sir Charles Markey smiled, pompously. 'Fortunately, the question of death does not enter into this case. Except in so far as it is a murder trial, of course. I must tell you, Mrs. Earlswood, that I have considered this brief very carefully, and I have decided to take it, because of its great interest, because of its difficulty, because it is a challenge.'
'And because of the tee, of course.'
'Really. Cynthia,' Bowen murmured.
'Mrs. Earlswood is quite correct,' Markey said, 'although I would remind you that I have never in my life taken a case simply for the fee.'
‘I am flattered,' Cynthia said. 'What do you find difficult about the case. Sir Charles? This little bitch, who I stupidly befriended, has now turned against me. Surely it is simply a matter of whether the jury will believe her fantastic story or the truth? Can there really be any question as to the outcome?'
'Of course not. Were we likely to be judged by a group of normal, intelligent people. But there are complications. Prejudice. This case has already received an enormous amount of publicity. You see, Mrs. Earlswood, various people have seen fit to describe the British judicial system as the finest in the world. And so it is, until the moment the judge completes his summing-up. No other system offers the accused quite so much protection, is quite so anxious to let him, or her, down as lightly as possible. And no other system then abandons the poor chap to quite such a merciless, distorted, prejudiced a pack or wolves as a jury. Perhaps the jury system made sense a thousand years ago, to ensure that a knight could only be judged by his fellows. Today it is an absolute mockery of justice to suppose that twelve people collected at random from the great British public are going, to be good men and true, or even remotely the peers in intelligence and ability of the person they are judging.'
'Sir Charles feels strongly about juries,' Bowen said.
'He's becoming rather depressing,' Cynthia agreed.
'The point I am making,' Sir Charles said, 'is that we must plan our defence upon the assumption that the jury in your case will contain twelve typical members of the middle classes, no doubt given to every possible surreptitious squeeze and fumble at the office party, and even to the occasional adulterous weekend, but absolutely determined to condemn all such activities in everyone else. And before them in the dock will be a woman who has not only got the effrontery to be absurdly beautiful, and absurdly rich, and who is accused not merely of murdering her husband, possibly an acceptable crime in our day and age, but also of enjoying equally the pleasures of heterosexual and homosexual and God knows how many other varieties of love, and is in addition charged with these terrible crimes, not as some pot-smoking teenager, but as, if you will excuse my bluntness, a mature woman of forty. It is this fact, linked with promiscuity, that they are going to have in their minds, that they already have in their minds. No matter how, hard we deny the charges, and attempt to discredit Miss Ericsson, not in itself a difficult task, I'm sure, we will still have this prejudice with which to contend. To so many people brought up in our television society an adulterous middle-aged woman is always the villainess, a Lesbian is always an enemy agent, any sort of a triangle always involves a murder, and a combination of all three leaves a documentary on Messalina suitable only for Watch with Mother.'  'So in your opinion it would make things simpler were I suddenly to contract smallpox and give all of my money to charity.'
'Giving it away would be construed as an act of con-tempt for society,' Bowen said. 'If you were perhaps suddenly charged with tax evasion on a scale sufficient to bankrupt you.'
Tm afraid we must be serious,' Markey said. 'Without prejudice, a simple case. Prejudice makes it dirty. We must destroy Miss Ericsson, absolutely. Her character, her morals, her background and even her personal habits. We must make her appear a dirty little slut, befriended by you, and now turning against you out of sheer envy because she can never shine with your light.'
'When this business is over, Sir Charles, you must come to dinner at Maladay House.' Cynthia unclasped her hands. 'I would like a cigarette.'
Each man produced a cigarette case.
Cynthia selected one from Bowen, bowed her head over Sir Charles's gold lighter, pushed her chair away from the table and crossed her legs. 'You will fail in any attempt merely to load dirt into Imogen's lap, Sir Charles.'
'I assure you, madam...' 'That you have destroyed others, in the past, by these methods? I know you have. But while you are doing that will not the Attorney General be destroying me?'
'He has to get you into the witness box to do that, Mrs. Earlswood, and if we handle Miss Ericsson properly that need never be necessary.'
'But I want to go into the witness box, Sir Charles. I have every intention of going into the witness box. Do you mean you would stop me starring in my own trial?'
'What a remarkable thing to say.’
'I do wish, Cynthia,' Bowen said, 'that you could be induced to take this thing seriously?'
Cynthia smiled at him. 'Darling John, believe me, I do. And believe me. Sir Charles, I absolutely agree with you that Imogen's evidence must be rendered innocuous, and with it the whole prosecution case. But you won't do it by attempting to present me as a helpless, wronged little woman. I'm not. And too many people know that. I'm also perfectly capable of murdering someone, if I put my mind to it. I'm sure I could murder Imogen right this moment, were she available. And I'm sure you, and everyone else, can see that. So just defending, protesting, denying, depicting me as an angel and she as a devil is going to get us nowhere. Besides, even if I were liable to be banged, I would not do it. We'll destroy Imogen my way, Sir Charles, or I’ll damned well plead guilty.'
Markey turned to look at Bowen-.
'I'd listen to what she has to say,' Bowen suggested.
Markey listened, and Cynthia talked for some considerable time. Occasionally the barrister made notes. When at last she finished he remained with bowed head, reading for some minutes. Bowen gave Cynthia another cigarette, took one himself. She smiled at the expression on his face.
'This is all true?' Markey asked at last.
'Do you really think I could make all of that up?'
'No, I suppose not. A clear case of hoisting the opposition with its own petard. It might just work. It might And you would go into the witness stand and answer questions on your private life? This private life?'
'Willingly.'
'Trumbee won't be friendly, you know. He'll launch the most vicious attack in legal history.'
‘I will answer any questions,' Cynthia promised.
'And if there is anyone in the courtroom who doesn't believe your every word, after that' Bowen said. ‘I’ll eat my hat'
'It could work,' Markey muttered again. 'My God, it'll be a case to remember. What the press will make of it... but it could work.'
Cynthia uncrossed her legs, walked to the window. She turned to look at Bowen, and he got up to join her. 'Look.' She opened her right hand, showed him the palm, the three little cuts on the brown flesh.
'What on earth...?’
'My own nails. Last night'
'CynthiaI' He took her hands, pressed them tightly between his own. 'This place?'
'I love this place, darling. And the wardresses are sweet I even enjoy the food. I have indulged in too much rich eating these last few years.'
'You mean you really are worried about the trial? I'm afraid it is going to be nasty.'
'The trial is going to be magnificent. Do you know why I lie there at night, with my fists clenched so hard I have to prise them apart? Patrick wasn't at the funeral, remember? He hasn't been to see me since my indictment. That is a week ago. No one has been to see me in that time. Except you.'
Bowen frowned. 'That's very odd. You've known Mr. Earlswood for a very long time, haven't you?'
'Now there is a strange question to ask me about my own husband. As it happens, the answer is yes. We were evacuated to Canada on the same ship. The Tautenay, remember? Patrick, and I, and Michael Baird, were in that lifeboat together. We got to know each other very well, very quickly.’
'Of course. I merely meant that I do not know him very well. But I'll go and see him, if you wish.'
'I do wish. I want him to come and see me. And I want to see Andy. My secretary, Andrea Burman.'
'Well, I'll go down to Maladay House this afternoon.' Bowen frowned. 'I'm sure there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for his not coming, you know, Cynthia.'
Cynthia gazed out of the window at the prison courtyard. ‘I have got to see him, John. Do understand that.'
Bowen frowned at her. It occurred to him that for the first time in the twenty-odd years he had known her, Cynthia Earlswood was afraid.

The Trial

Baird encountered Detective Inspector Harrington outside Number One Court. The lobby was crowded, with newspaper reporters and spectators attempting to get to their seats, and with policemen attempting to direct them, but Harrington was sufficiently easy to identify.
'Why, good morning to you, Mr. Baird. The day of decision, eh?'
‘I hope so, Inspector..What do you know about this?'
Harrington peered at the summons. 'It didn't come from us.'   
'I know that. I was wondering why it came at all.'
'You mean Bowen hasn't called you in for a chat?'
'I haven't seen him since the preliminary hearing.'
'That is strange. I suppose you re going to be asked to give some sort of a character reference. You've known Mrs. Earlswood since she was a child, haven't you?'
'Yes,' Baird said. 'But I would never have thought she'd ask me for a reference. I suppose this means I shall miss the trial itself?'
'I'm afraid it will, Mr. Baird. Except when you're actually in the box. Constable! Will you show this gentleman to the witness room.'
'Thanks, Inspector. By the way, I see the other Maladay case has disappeared from the newspapers. No luck at all?'
'Not so far, Mr. Baird. But we haven't stopped looking. We don't really want three or four maniacs roaming the country, free as air. Who knows what they might attempt next?'
Baird followed the police constable. Three or four maniacs. Driving a white Bentley to and from their ghastly amusements. And he had presumed that he could step into their midst, and say, I know, and bold up his hand, and cause them to stop. As Imogen had said, he was naive.
Andrea, the girl of the long legs and the provocative manner. What part had she played? What part had she enjoyed most? The thought had haunted him for three weeks. But it was over now. Today, surely, the Coven was going to be destroyed.
But why had the defence called Michael Baird?
There were several people already in the witness room, men and women, smoking, sitting, standing, gazing through the windows. Prosecution witnesses, mainly, he supposed. But at the far end of the room were Patrick Earlswood and Andrea Burman.

II

Mr. Justice Quint took his seat, brushed aside the Newgate flowers with an impatient gesture. Peter Quint was no believer in tradition, except in so far as it directly affected his judgements. As a barrister he had been told on too many occasions that with a name like a seventeenth-century highwayman he would never reach the bench, never even make a successful advocate. He had taken a personal delight in proving his friends wrong, with the assistance of neither a sonorous voice nor a commanding presence, but by using to its fullest capacity a quicksilver mind, which someone had once suggested was actually a computer wrapped up in bone and flesh. Quint recognised relevant facts, and he recognised irrelevant facts, almost before they were uttered; he loved the one and abhorred the other.
He also disliked crowds, and this was as crowded a courtroom as he had ever encountered. Mr. Justice Quint gazed at the press seats with most distaste of all. He regarded them as the chief culprits in the creation of this circus atmosphere.
But now it was time to look at the dock, into which Mrs. Earlswood had just climbed from beneath the court, accompanied by two female warders. Today she wore a pale pink linen dress, a colour revealing not only absolute contempt for the fact that she was on trial for the murder of her husband, but also for the November weather which was at this moment trying to snow outside the Old Bailey.
Her hair was like a black wig, so faultlessly did it sit on her head and shoulders. Her face was composed. She gave a single quick glance towards John Bowen, seated behind Sir Charles Markey, and half smiled. Bowen leaned back with a sigh of relief. His visit to Maladay House had not been fruitful, and he had been almost afraid to return to Brixton. But she had merely nodded, and any doubt he might have had that her momentary despair had fled was now firmly dispelled. How strange, he thought, as he had thought several times during the preceding month, that a woman can be so compelling and yet so unlikable, all at the same time. Or was the dislike really nothing more than jealousy, that a woman could be so handsome, so contemptuous of the world, the man's world, in which she prospered?
But now it was time for the first clash between the red robe and the pale pink dress. For the first fact in the case to emerge, as Mr. Justice Quint well knew. Criminal proceedings may be a question of evidence, of admission and denial, of concrete facts, but they are also contests between human beings. Mrs. Earlswood was gazing at the man who might, later on today or perhaps tomorrow, sentence her to thirty years in prison. Mr. Quint was gazing at the most beautiful woman he had ever tried, and understanding that in thirty years' time, even in ten years' time, that beauty would have ceased to-exist. His was the power to destroy her.
The clerk of the court was on his feet. 'Cynthia Eleanor Earlswood, née Lambert, you are charged on indictment that you, during the fortnight beginning on the 12th day of August two years ago, feloniously, wilfully and of your malice aforethought did procure the murder of Charles Merrivale Maladay, your husband. How say you, are you guilty, or not guilty?'
Mrs. Earlswood continued to gaze at the judge. ‘I plead not guilty.' Her soft voice penetrated to every corner of the room.
'Before we proceed,' said Mr. Justice Quint, ‘I wish a chair brought for the accused.'
'I am quite able to stand, thank you, Your Lordship.'
'A chair,' said Mr. Justice Quint, and a police constable handed up a straight chair to one of the wardresses.
'You are very kind. Your Lordship.' Cynthia sat down.
‘You may continue," the Judge said to the clerk, and raised his head to silence the whispering with a look. But the point remained. Had Mrs. Earlswood gained an early victory? Or was Mr. Quint merely being grotesquely fair to a woman he had already decided was guilty?
The clerk of the court was calling names, and twelve people were filing into the jury box. Nine men and three women. Mrs. Earlswood studied them with interest, and then looked down at her advocates. Sir Charles was leaning back in his seat, gazing at the ceiling. His junior was making notes. Only John Bowen seemed interested, and he was looking unhappy. Cynthia turned back to the twelve people who would decide her fate. Yes. she thought, all definitely members of the middle class. She extended her hands, gazed at the palms. No one could see her doing this, except the wardresses, and they no longer mattered. Was she afraid? Up to this moment she had existed in limbo, an emotionless cloud, preparing herself for whatever came next. She had been truly afraid only once, when she had realised, what might be happening at home. But now she was aware of only a nervous anxiety to start the fight. For this was but the preliminary skirmish. No matter what these twelve small-minded people decided, her war began when she left this building, in whichever direction she travelled. Not that she had any doubt as to their decision, after she had finished with them. She raised her head again, smiled at them, remained smiling at them throughout the next hour, while Mr. Trumbee once again meticulously outlined the case against her, and then once again began to interrogate his roll of witnesses, slightly more of them this time than he had called at the preliminary hearing. The skirmishing had begun.

‘Call P.C. Bledsoe."
P.C. Bledsoe went to the door. He had been first to arrive at Maladay House following Cynthia's frantic telephone call a year before. As he left. Detective Inspector Harrington ushered Dr. Spain through the rear door of the witness room. 'Late as usual,' he said cheerfully to no one in particular, and his smile took in all the people still waiting to be called. 'Ah. Mr. Baird. You've met Dr. Spain?'
Baird got up, glanced at the far corner of the room; Patrick sat on the arm of Andrea's chair, whispered in her ear. His hand was squeezed by Spain's gigantic fingers.
'Welcome again,' the doctor said. 'I see you finally made your point.’
'My point was made for me,' Baird said. ‘I must warn you that I'm appearing for the defence.' Spain raised his eyebrows.
'It's that fellow Markey,' Harrington said. 'He has some deep scheme in mind.'
'I'd be more inclined to think it was Cynthia's idea,’ Baird said.
'And I'd agree, with you,' Spain said. 'Mind you, I'm prejudiced.'
'Aren't we all?' Harrington asked, and turned as the door opened once again.
'Call Dr. Spain.'
'See you in the pub,' Spain said.
'Aren't you appearing?' Baird asked Harrington.
'I've had my say. Now I must get back to the office. But I might join you in that pub, later. Have fun.'
The policeman hurried off. Baird saw Andrea watching him. The tall, blonde murderess. The girl who had sat on Clive Laverne's chest, wearing socks and gloves and nothing else, while Cynthia had emasculated him. He did not doubt this was a fair picture. And they were both women he loved. After a fashion. No, Andrea after a fashion. Cynthia with his whole being.
He walked across the room. Patrick looked up. 'Michael! I don't know whether I should say welcome or spit in your eye.’
'I would save it,' Baird suggested. 'We are temporarily on the same side.' 'You're joking.' ‘I wish I was.'
'Good God! Have you seen Bowen?'
'No. When the summons arrived I telephoned his office, and was told by his secretary that he was unavailable. Anyway, she said he didn't really want to see me until we got to court.'
'How very odd.’ Patrick said. "Mind you, I've only seen him once or twice. He told me the defence was going to call me. but he wouldn't say why. It doesn't altogether make sense, you know. I mean. I didn't come back into Cyn's life until more than a year after Maladay's death.' 'How is Cynthia?'
Patrick raised his eyebrows. 'Are you still interested, old man? We had rather got the impression that you had decided our idea of a good time wasn't yours.'
Tm still interested.'
'She's as well as can be expected.' Patrick sat down, lit a cigarette. 'Did you put Imogen up to this? Cyn thinks you did.'
'We talked it over,' Baird confessed. 'But it wasn't my idea.'
'It was a horrible thing to do.' Hitherto Andrea had stood by, silent and angry.
'We both felt we had to do something, Andy. We were worried by the way things were going. But it seems we were too late.'
She returned his gaze, pink spots rising in the pale cheeks. 'I have no idea what you are talking about, Mr. Baird.'
How utterly incredible, Baird thought, that I should be standing here, actually inside the Old Bailey, chatting with two of the most cold-blooded murderers in British history, and be unable to do anything about it.
‘He thinks we did Oriole,' Patrick said. 'Don't you, Mikey? Oh, it was a marvellous experience. I can't wait to slice into my next pulsing female breast.'
'They'll get to you, eventually, you know, Patrick. They always do.'
Patrick smiled. 'Then you can come along and give evidence as to my character too, Mikey. After all, you've known me longer than you've known Cynthia.'
He turned his head as a police constable opened the door and said, 'Call Imogen Ericsson.'
The inner door opened, a policewoman came through, followed by Imogen. She wore the same beige suit as upon her previous appearance in a witness box. She looked neither to right nor left as she crossed the room.
'So that's where they had her hidden away,' Patrick said. 'I wondered about that.'
'Bitch,' Andrea breathed. 'Bitch, bitch, bitch.'
Patrick took her hand, squeezed it. She gave him one of her quick, sidelong glances. Now that's strange, Baird thought. He had only ever seen her look like that at two people: the boy Laurence and himself. Although presumably she had also glanced at Cynthia, at least once.

IV

Mr. Trumbee had discovered no reason to change his line of questioning. He conducted Imogen through her recent life with the same expertise as before, extracted the same reactions from this new audience, even if most of them had read the script. 'Thank you, Miss Ericsson,' he said at last. 'I am sure the court understands.' He sat down, and Sir Charles Markey stood up. Imogen licked her lips.
'Imogen Ericsson,' said Sir Charles, as if reading the name for the first time in his life. 'I would like to call you Imogen, Miss Ericsson. Do you have any objection?'
Imogen, standing tense and erect, relaxed almost visibly. ‘I should like you to, sir.'
Trumbee commenced to play with his pencil, frowning.
'Good,' said Sir Charles. 'Because, after all, we are today delving into very personal matters. Very intimate matters. As my learned friend has said, the court is endeavouring to understand you, and your terrible experiences. So I am going to have to ask you one or two even more personal questions. You will not mind, will you, Imogen?'
Imogen shook her head.
'Thank you, Imogen. Tell me, are you a virgin?' 'No, sir’
'Were you a virgin when you first went to work for Mrs. Earlswood? Mrs. Maladay as she then was?' ‘Yes. sir.'
'Ah! So your virginity was lost during the time you were employed by the accused. Would you say that Mrs. Earlswood was in any way responsible for this, ah, change in your situation?'
Imogen gazed at him, and then glanced at the judge. Trumbee's junior was also gazing at the judge, and whispering in Trumbee's ear. But Trumbee shook his bead. However odd the line being taken by Sir Charles, he rather felt that Mr. Justice Quint would decide the question of Imogen's virginity, and how and why she lost it, might be a relevant fact.
'You must answer the question. Miss Ericsson.' Mr. Quint spoke almost as quietly as Mrs. Earlswood.
Imogen gazed at the dock for a moment, and Cynthia smiled. Imogen turned back to Sir Charles. 'I suppose so.'
'You would say, then, that Mrs. Earlswood led you astray.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Quite. In fact, Imogen, you could almost claim to have led a blameless life until you encountered Mrs. Earlswood. Would you agree with that?'
Once again Imogen's gaze wandered. She had been warned to prepare herself for a vicious attack upon her morals and her character. 'I don't know. About the word blameless.'
'You are too modest, Imogen.' Sir Charles said. 'You have told the court that you were a virgin when you arrived in this country, and you came here from a country where sexual permissiveness is rather farther advanced than even Britain. Did you have a great many boy friends in Denmark?'
'No. sir.'
Sir Charles half turned, as if including the entire court in his bewilderment. 'Yet you are a most beautiful girl You are you know.' Thank you, sir.'
'Yet boys never interested you. And so eventually you came to England as an au pair girl. I am not going to ask you to mention the name of the family with whom you worked for eight months, but I must ask you why you gave up this employment, Imogen?'
'Mrs. Maladay offered me a better job.'
'On the very day you met her. Yes, we heard all that from my learned friend. But I am sure there was a contributory reason.'
Imogen studied the rail of the witness box. 'Perhaps I was ready for a change.'
'Quite,' Sir Charles agreed. 'And perhaps things were not going altogether as they should have in the house where you worked.’
'Perhaps,’ Imogen murmured.
'Intact, Imogen, would it be true to say that the husband of the woman you worked for was becoming unpleasantly attentive?’
. 'He was becoming interested in me, yes.' 'And you resented this?'
'Well, he had a lovely wife, and two charming children. I did not wish to cause any trouble.'
'Of course not, Imogen. But as we are being honest with each other, and as you have been so honest up to now, you'll admit there was an additional reason?'
'I did not care for him, sir, if that is what you mean.'
'Just as you had not cared for any of the boys in Denmark. Yet you not only went to work for Mrs. Maladay, also a most beautiful woman . . .' he allowed himself a glance at his client, who smiled, and bowed her head in appreciation, '.. on the same day that she met you, but on the very next day, as you have testified, you allowed her to undress you and fondle your private parts.'
Imogen stared at him.
'Would you agree that your sexual instincts are homosexual, Imogen?'
'Imogen's tongue stole out and circled her lips. Her shoulders rose and fell. ‘I do not understand instincts; sir. I only know I liked Mrs. Maladay more than anyone I had ever met previously.'
'Well, if I may put it another way, Imogen, had you ever, before meeting Mrs. Maladay, been intimate with any woman, or girl?'
Once again Imogen licked her lips. Her eyes glowed, with anger. 'I had girl friends.'
'Were you intimate with them?'
'There were.. . sometimes we did things. Young people do. There was never anything serious.'
Trumbee was on his feet. 'Your Lordship, I must intervene here to ask if it is necessary for my learned friend to waste the court's time in this blatant fashion. The prosecution has never pretended that Miss Ericsson is a young woman of blameless morals. She has, if I may remind Your Lordship, confessed to a particularly unpleasant murder.-'
‘I am aware of that, Mr. Trumbee,' Mr. Justice Quint said. 'Sir Charles?'
‘I do assure Your Lordship that it is far from my intention to detract from Miss Ericsson's character,' Sir Charles said, 'but it is essential for me clearly to establish the relationship between my client and Miss Ericsson.'
Mr. Justice Quint looked as if he was about to point out that it was a line of questioning better left untouched, in the prisoner's own interests. But then he recollected that it was no part of his responsibility to advise counsel on how to conduct a case. 'Very well, Sir Charles. You may continue.'
'Thank you, Your Lordship. Would you therefore agree, Imogen, that when you went to the Maladay household you were almost totally innocent, that your relationship with Mrs. Maladay was that of a homosexual love affair, in which Mrs. Maladay was the aggressor, the instigator, the seducer?'
Imogen shot a quick glance in the direction of the dock. Her head jerked up and down. 'Yes, sir.'
'And indeed she established such a hold over you that eventually you even were willing to surrender your virginity in a physical sense. And, of course, Mr. Maladay was aware of this relationship?'
Imogen's head moved from side to side, and then up and down, like a boxer receiving a particularly stunning blow. 'Yes, sir.’
'And would you say this increased his interest in you?'
Imogen shrugged. 'Men are strange, like that.'  'Indeed they are. But him you were not willing to accept.'  Imogen sighed, perhaps with relief; here she was on more substantial ground. 'Mrs. Maladay said I should not.' She half smiled. 'It was part of the plan.'
Sir Charles was not disturbed. 'As you say. But let us revert to Mrs. Maladay. She was your lover. Yet you have said earlier that she had others. Of both sexes?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Would you describe Mrs. Maladay as promiscuous?'
Imogen sucked air into her lungs; the beige suit swelled. There were pink blotches beneath the brown tan on her cheeks. 'Yes, sir.'
'Very promiscuous?'
Imogen's mouth came together like a steel trap. 'Yes, sir.'
'A nymphomaniac?'
Trumbee was on his feet. 'Your Lordship, as my learned friend is well aware, nymphomaniac has a popular connotation which has nothing to do with the true psychological condition, nor indeed has ever been proved to exist outside the realms of fiction.'
Mr, Justice Quint made a unique gesture; he picked up the nosegay of Newgate flowers and sniffed it. 'I must confess that I am becoming increasingly at a loss to remember who is prosecuting this case and who is defending, Sir Charles.'       
Sir Charles smiled, politely. 'I will rephrase the question, Your Lordship. In your estimation, Imogen, was Mrs. Maladay, is Mrs. Earlswood, the most indiscriminately promiscuous woman you have ever met or heard of?'
Imogen sighed. 'She is a difficult woman to satisfy.'
Mr. Justice Quint gazed at the whisperers and gigglers and rustlers. 'This court must be quiet. Immediately.'
The noise subsided.
'And, of course, Mr. Maladay was aware of his wife's weakness?' 'I suppose so,' Imogen said.
'Well, let us put it this way: her various lovers visited her at home?' 'Oh. yes.'
'When Mr. Maladay was present?'
'Oh, yes. But then, Mr. Maladay's mistresses used to come for weekends also.'
Trumbee's turn for a unique gesture. He hit the desk in front of him with clenched fist, bringing a quick glance of reproof from His Lordship.
'Of course they did,' Sir Charles said happily, having been saved a question. 'It was, in fact, open house for lovers at Maladay House. And there was no jealousy between Mr. and Mrs. Maladay?'
Now Imogen glanced at Trumbee. It was at last dawning upon her how deeply she was embedded in Sir Charles's plans. ‘No, sir.'
'I wonder, Imogen, if you could possibly estimate to the court how many lovers, apart from yourself, Mrs. Maladay had, let's say, during the year preceding Mr. Maladay's death?’
'I... perhaps ten.'
'Perhaps ten. And then Mr. Maladay died. I wonder if you could also tell the court, approximately will do, how many lovers Mrs. Maladay has had since? This is also a little more than a year.'
Imogen counted, mentally. 'I suppose six.'
'One of whom she eventually married.'
'Mr. Earlswood was her lover before their marriage, yes, sir.'
'I see. Ten in the year before, six in the year since. Ah!' Sir Charles held up his forefinger, as if struck by a thought. 'Can you also tell us if any of the lovers she has had since Mr. Maladay's death was one of the lovers she had before his death?'
Imogen shook her head. 'No, sir.'
'Not even Mr. Earlswood?'
'Oh, no, sir. She had known Mr. Earlswood as a child, but they only met again quite recently.'
Trumbee buried his head in his hands.
'So in fact it would be true to say that while Mrs. Maladay did not alter her way of life in the slightest because of her husband's death, except that she became slightly less promiscuous, she did in fact make a clean break of-her, ah, former friends.'
'Well, they were mostly his friends, before, you see.' Imogen had given up trying to understand.
'Of course,' Sir Charles said. 'A loving and understanding wife always endeavours to get on with her husband's friends. Now, I know you must be very tired, Imogen, having been standing there all this time. I am not going to keep you very much longer, but I must ask you one thing more. Can you tell us what Mrs. Maladay's income was before Mr. Maladay died?'
'She had no money of her own,' Imogen said. 'Mr. Maladay paid her an allowance.'
'Do you know how much?'
'No. sir.'
Sir Charles consulted his notes. ‘I have, a bank statement here, belonging to Mrs. Maladay, which contains deposits of two thousand five hundred pounds every month, transferred from Mr. Maladay's account. Now tell me, Imogen, did Mrs. Maladay live well?'
'Oh, yes, sir.'
'Would you say she spent as and when she chose, bought everything it occurred to her to buy?' 'Oh, yes, sir.'
Sir Charles consulted the statement 'Yet she couldn't get through an income of thirty thousand a year. No matter how hard she tried, her bank balance continued to go up, and up, and up. Did she pay you out of her allowance, Imogen?"
'Mr. Maladay paid my salary.'
"What about her car? Did she buy that herself?'
'No, sir. Mr. Maladay gave her the car as a birthday present two years ago.'
'As well as all her jewellery, I imagine. Although she never wears any of it. Never has done, in fact?'
'No. sir.'
Sir Charles checked his notes. His whole being wore an air of uncertainty, of confusion, of inability to understand. Then he raised his head, made a futile gesture with his hands. 'This, um, murder which you planned, and executed together, I suppose Mrs. Maladay did give you a reason? I mean, she didn't come along one morning and say, let's do a murder today? What about making it Carter?'
‘I must have silence,' Mr. Justice Quint said. 'And that remark was in rather poor taste, Sir Charles.'
'I apologise, Your Lordship, but I'm afraid I was in a state of some confusion.'
'Well, Miss Ericsson,' said the judge. 'You were given a reason, weren't you?'
Imogen glanced at him, and then looked at the dock, where Mrs. Earlswood was looking as genuinely puzzled as her advocate “It was very like that,' Imogen muttered.

Pandemonium in court. Mr. Justice Quint broke his gavel. Three people were evicted. Order, was restored, slowly.
‘I have no further questions.' said Sir Charles Markey.
Mr. Justice Quint looked at Trumbee, and Trumbee stood up. 'Of course there was a reason, Miss Ericsson. And the court understands your reluctance to discuss it. But I'm afraid you must'
Imogen's shoulders rose and fell. 'Well, he was becoming impotent...'
Sir Charles got up. 'I must object, Your Lordship. This surely is merely a conclusion of the witness. Dr. Spain mentioned nothing of it'
'Mr. Trumbee?'
Trumbee removed a silk handkerchief from his inside pocket, delicately patted his brow. 'Perhaps you can explain what you meant. Miss Ericsson?'
'Well, he had failed to satisfy Mrs. Earlswood, ob, several times, during the preceding couple of weeks.'
Trumbee glanced at His Lordship, and found no solace. A promiscuous woman, happily maintaining a stable of lovers, scarcely murders an indulgent, complacent husband on the first evidence of impotence. ‘I have no further questions of this witness, Your Lordship.'
Mr. Justice Quint nodded, as if he had expected nothing else. 'You may stand down, Miss Ericsson.'
Trumbee remained on his feet. 'I had intended, Your Lordship, that Miss Ericsson should be my last witness. However, I now feel compelled to call one more, with Your Lordship's permission.'
Mr. Justice Quint watched Imogen walk across the well of the court. 'Providing this person can readily be obtained, Mr. Trumbee. I assume he, or she, has not been summonsed?'
'No, Your Lordship. But he is available.' Trumbce turned around to regard the desk behind his own. 'I call Mr. John Bowen.'
The solicitor jerked upright, stared at Sir Charles Markey. Sir Charles shrugged. Mrs. Earlswood's face registered delight.
'Mr. John Bowen to the stand.'
Bowen climbed into the witness box, took the oath.
'I shall not detain you very long, Mr. Bowen,' Trumbee said. 'Our learned friend recently informed the Court that the prisoner's allowance from her late husband amounted to thirty thousand pounds a year, a very large sum of money to almost everyone present, I imagine. However, these things are relative. I wonder if you, as the late Mr. Maladay's solicitor, could inform the court what was the total personal wealth of Mr. Maladay when he died?' Trumbee took a leaf out of Sir Charles's book. 'Approximately will do.'
Bowen hesitated.
‘I can, of course, always call Mr. Maladay's accountant,' Trumbee said. 'But that will involve a delay, which I am sure His Lordship is anxious to avoid.'
Bowen glanced at the dock, raised his shoulders in a helpless gesture. 'The probated value of Mr. Maladay's estate was approximately twenty million pounds.'
Twenty . . . million . . . pounds,' Trumbee repeated, allowing each word to sink into the minds of everyone in the now completely hushed court. 'What made up this vast fortune?'
'It was mostly composed of real estate. Mr. Carter Maladay's father, Mr. Salvatore Maladay, had bought land very shrewdly at the end of the last century. He believed that one day the European would seek the sun, and he obtained considerable areas in Spain and Portugal, as well as some in the West Indies. The Bahamas, to be precise.'
'And, of course, there were no death duties when the first Mr. Maladay died.'
'Oh, there were,' Bowen said. 'Mr. Salvatore Maladay did not die until the age of ninety-one. But he made a deed of gift to his son thirty-two years before.'
'Admirable foresight.' Trumbee agreed. 'Was Mr. Carter Maladay similarly foresighted?'
'Presumably, despite his weak heart, Mr. Carter Maladay hoped to live almost as long as his father had done.' Bowen said, and looked as if he wished to bite off his tongue. But Mrs. Earlswood continued to smile.
‘I’m sure he did,' Trumbee said, his delight tempered by a hasty calculation of the sort of motive he would nave had to display had Carter Maladay perhaps made a deed of gift to his wife seven years before. 'But surely Mr. Maladay had made some preparation for the possibility of punitive death duties?'
'None at all,' Bowen said.
'My word. What exactly was the bill?'
'It was a large sum of money. Roughly fifteen million pounds.'
'Fifteen ... million ... pounds.' Then Trumbee remembered that it was neither necessary nor desirable to imprint this amount on the jury's mind. 'But there was still a considerable sum left?'
'About five million.'
'All of which went to the prisoner?'
'There were several large bequests.'
‘How much would you estimate was inherited by the prisoner?'
'Something over four million pounds.'
'Thank you, Mr. Bowen. And this inheritance, of something over four million pounds, has produced for her in the last year an income of .. . what would you say?'
Bowen shrugged. 'Not all of it is income producing, by any means. Mrs. Earlswood is not what one would call an aggressive businesswoman.'
'But I assume she does have sufficient to live on?' Trumbee asked, with tremendous sarcasm.
'I would say Mrs. Earlswood's income amounts to something in the nature of a hundred and fifty thousand pounds a year.'
'One hundred . . . and fifty thousand pounds.' Trumbee's face registered the expression of a man confronted with the Archangel Gabriel.
'Of course, out of that sum she has considerable obligations to meet. For example, it was her responsibility to pay Miss Oriole Maladay, the late Miss Oriole Maladay, her allowance, which amounted to twenty-five thousand pounds a year. There were other similar salaries and allowances, to her servants, to old retainers, and so on.'
Trumbee hesitated for a moment, obviously tempted. But Oriole Maladay was dangerous ground; he contented himself with the bird in his hand. 'Will you tell the court, Mr. Bowen, what you estimate Mrs. Earlswood's income to be at this moment, after the payment of all her expenses? Once again, round figures will do.'
Once again Bowen shrugged. 'Perhaps a hundred thousand pounds.'
'Thank you. Mr. Bowen.' Trumbee smiled at the jury. But he was taking no risks that in tossing around such vast sums of money he might have left his audience in a state of euphoria. 'There is just one more thing, Mr. Bowen. My learned friend has estimated that Mrs. Earlswood's allowance, while her first husband was still alive, amounted to thirty thousand pounds a year. Would you agree with that figure?'
Bowen gazed at his client. Cynthia smiled at him. 'Yes,’ Bowen said.
'Thirty thousand before, in excess of a hundred thousand after, plus a capital of nearly five million.' Trumbee even smiled at Mr. Justice Quint. 'That concludes the case for the prosecution. Your Lordship.'
Mr. Justice Quint glanced at the clock. It was only just after noon. He picked up his hitherto untouched glass of water, considered it for a moment, visibly decided that mere water was not at this moment sufficiently stimulating. 'Court will adjourn for lunch,' he said, and smiled at Mrs. Earlswood.

V

The brown-haired girl looked very demure, allowed herself a single glance at Mr. Justice Quint from under long lashes.
Sir Charles had lunched well. His cheeks were glowing, and he exuded good brandy and a strong cigar. He smiled at the witness box. 'Your name is Anne Doult?'
'With a U,' Miss Doult pointed out.
'Oh, quite. Miss Doult. And you are a . . .' Sir Charles frowned at his notes. 'A managerial assistant?'
'It's a sort of senior secretary,' Miss Doult explained. 'I do everything for my boss.'
'Everything. How long have you been employed in this capacity. Miss Doult?'
'Three years.'
'You are good at your job. Now will you tell the court, Miss Doult, what happened on the afternoon of June 18th, two years ago?'
'My boss invited me to go to a party with him.'
'Had he ever done this before?'
'No, sir.'
'Your relationship was entirely that of employer and employed?'
'Oh, yes. He has an inflexible rule. Never scr... I mean, never mess about with the girls in the office.'
Mr. Justice Quint had also lunched well. His new gavel rose and fell almost casually.
Sir. Charles pulled his ear. 'But on this afternoon he asked you to accompany him to a party. Did you accept?'
'Ob, yes. The rule was his, not mine. If you see what I mean.'
'I'm sure we do, Miss Doult. Can you tell us anything about this party?'
'All sorts.' Miss Doult smiled. 'Not many wives, though.’
'It was at a flat in Mayfair. And there was a lot of gambling, and drinking, and dancing. There was a three-piece group.'
‘What sort of people were there?.
'And can you tell us who owned the flat?' 'Mr. Carter Maladay.' 'Had you ever met Mr. Maladay before?' 'We had never been introduced.' 'What do you mean?'
'Well, he had called on my boss, on business. And he had been attracted to me. I remember, he came over to my desk, when he left my boss's office, and . . . well, he sort of stroked me.'
'Where?'
Miss Doult looked down at herself, passed her left hand over her chest. 'He said he had never seen such a nice pair.'
'Were you upset? Shocked, perhaps?'
'Well, no. It was Mr. Maladay, wasn't it?'
'Of course,' Sir Charles agreed. 'And then you .were invited to his party. Can you recognise anyone in this court who was at the party?'
Miss Doult gazed at Mrs. Earlswood, who nodded in recognition. 'Mrs. Maladay was there, of course.'
'Why, of course, Miss Doult? You have just said that there were very few wives there.'
'Only Mrs. Maladay, really,' Miss Doult said. 'But she was always at Mr. Maladay's parties.'
'Oh?' Sir Charles appeared surprised. 'Now can you tell us something about the party itself?'
'It was a lot of fun.'
'What exactly would you call fun?'
'Like I said, there was drinking, and dancing, and gambling, and a bit of what you fancy, too.' She glanced at the judge. 'You know.'
'Alas, we do not know,' Sir Charles said. 'You mean there were certain goings-on of a sexual nature?'
'Well, naturally.'
'Quite so. There was indiscriminate intercourse?'
'I wouldn't call it indiscriminate,' Miss Doult said.
'I'm sorry, I should not have said that,' Sir Charles agreed. 'Who was your especial partner on this occasion?'
'Why, Mr. Maladay, of course.' 
'You slept with him. Was there any subterfuge about this? Any concealment of what was going on? In view of the presence of Mrs. Maladay?'
'Not so far as I could see. I mean to say, she beat us to it.'
'She beat you to it. With whom?'
'Search me. Some long-haired rocker.'
'I see. Now will you tell the court, Miss Doult if you ever saw Mr. Maladay again, after the party?'
'Several times. He asked me down to Maladay House. Every weekend for a month.'
'You went down alone?'
'Lord, no. The house was always full. Never less than a dozen guests. Mr. Maladay liked company.'
'Was Mrs. Maladay always there?'
•Oh. yes.'  'And Miss Ericsson?'
'Oh, yes.'
'And what took place at these weekend parties?' 'We had fun.'
Sir Charles glanced at his notes. 'Which means, ah, drinking, dancing, gambling, and sexual freedom.'
'Yes,' Miss Doult said. 'But seeing as how we were snug inside Maladay House, they sometimes went a bit far.'
'Tell us,’ Sir Charles invited.
'Well, my bottom was raw sometimes.'
'They caned you. Mrs. Maladay took part in these activities?'
‘Oh, yes.'
'And there were other things as well?'
‘Oh. yes.' She smiled at the judge. 'Shall I tell you?'
'I think the court has obtained an accurate picture, thank you, Miss Doult,' said Mr. Justice Quint.
'Just one more question, Miss Doult,' said Sir Charles. 'You first attended one of these parties on 18th June two years ago. When was the last you attended?'
'Well, it would have been the 5th of August'
'August the 5th, in that same year. And the usual people were there?'
‘Oh, yes.'
'And Mr. Maladay was in his usual form?'
Miss Doult gazed at him with wide eyes. 'I've never thought of it like that. But he wasn't really. He was having trouble... well...' Her right arm flopped up, and flopped back again.'He couldn't sort of...'
Sir Charles came to her rescue. 'He was having difficulty in obtaining an erection, Miss Doult?'
‘That's right. He said, "Anney, the old tool has gone dull, at last.'" ‘And what did you reply, Miss Doult?' ‘I laughed.'
'Thank you, Miss Doult' Sir Charles sat down.
'Mr. Trumbee?' asked Mr. Justice Quint.
But Trumbee had abandoned any attempt to seek a sexual motive for the death of Carter Maladay. For the moment he was satisfied with his exposition of the improvement in Mrs. Earlswood's finances. 'I have no questions of this witness, Your Lordship.'
Cynthia was writing on a piece of paper, and one of the wardresses handed it down to John Bowen.
Sir Charles Markey was on his feet once again. 'I call Mr. Patrick Earlswood.'
Patrick took the oath, glanced at his wife, half smiled. Surprisingly, her gaze was less warm than usual.
'Your name is Patrick Earlswood, and you are the husband of the accused?' asked Sir Charles.
'Yes.'
'Will you tell the court how long you have known your wife?' Sir Charles was suddenly very brusque and businesslike.
Thirty years,' Patrick said.
'You were friends as children. But the friendship did not remain unbroken?'
'No. We did not see each other for more than twenty years.’
'And then you met again. How?'
'I received an invitation to visit Maladay House.'
'Which you accepted. What happened?'
'Mrs. Maladay, as she then was, was having a small party. We had dinner, and then we played games.'
"What sort of games?'
Patrick shrugged. 'Games like forfeits.'
'Would you say the motive was mainly sexual in these games?'
'Very definitely.'
'Perhaps you would go further, Mr. Earlswood?' Blatant leading of the witness. But Trumbee did not.even raise his head. 'I could,' Patrick agreed. 'Could you describe the party as an orgy?'
'Were you shocked by what went on, Mr. Earlswood?' 'It was a private party, and we were all consenting adults. What we chose to do was our business.’ 'In a word, you enjoyed yourselves.' 'Yes.'
'And you attended other parties of a similar nature?' 'Yes.'
'And again enjoyed yourself, so much so, in fact, that eventually you proposed marriage to Mrs. Maladay?'
Patrick smiled. 'She proposed to me. But it seemed a delightful idea.'
'Did she give you to understand that there had been similar parties while her first husband was alive?'
'Yes.'
'And that there would be others after you were married?' ‘Yes.'
'But this did not upset you?' 'I looked forward to them.'
'Now, Mr. Earlswood, presumably, having been married to the accused for some time, and having known her since she was a child, you know her as well as any living person?'
'Presumably,' Patrick agreed.
'Is she vicious, Mr. Earlswood? Would you describe her as a scheming, jealous woman, perhaps?'
Patrick smiled. 'Certainly not jealous. All women scheme, Sir Charles. I think all women are capable of being vicious, too.'
Sir Charles was not to be disturbed at this last stage. 'Do you think your wife could have murdered Carter Maladay, Mr. Earlswood?'
Patrick smiled at his wife. ‘What a ridiculous idea.'
'Thank you, Mr. Earlswood. I have no further questions.'
Neither did Trumbee. He was not even interested in pursuing the possibility of a continuing relationship, if only by letter, between Patrick and Cynthia. Sir Charles sat down for a moment, read the note which had been passed down by his client. He frowned, glanced up at her, and then turned round to check with John Bowen.
'Yes, Sir Charles?'asked Mr. Justice Quint.
Sir Charles stood up. ‘I beg your pardon. Your Lordship.' He glanced once again at the dock, and Cynthia frowned at him. 'I call Anthony Giles.'
Trumbee sat up. He understood that there had been a change in the defence plans, and he also understood that he was about to receive a knock-out blow, if it could be landed.
Mr. Giles was a tall, thin man with horn-rimmed spectacles. He moved and stood and took the oath, and regarded Mr. Justice Quint, all with an air of total confidence.
'Your name is Anthony Giles, and you are a chartered accountant?' asked Sir Charles. 'That is correct,' Mr. Giles agreed. 'And is Mrs. Earlswood a client of yours?' 'That is correct,' Mr. Giles agreed. 'For how long has she been a client?' 'For eight years.'
'In that time have you handled all her financial affairs?' 'That is correct.'
'According to her bank statement, while Mr. Maladay was alive, Mrs. Earlswood received an allowance of two thousand five hundred pounds a month, or thirty thousand pounds a year. Is that correct?'
'That is correct.'
'Presumably the income tax payable on this allowance must have been considerable?'
'Mrs. Earlswood paid no income tax,' said Mr. Giles. "Not while she was Mrs. Maladay.'
Sir Charles looked horrified. 'You mean her allowance was kept a secret from the authorities?'
Mr. Giles almost smiled. 'Mrs. Earlswood has never been a woman to keep secrets, Sir Charles. I mean that the thirty thousand a year was free of tax, because Mr. Maladay insisted on paying the tax himself.'
'My word,' said Sir Charles, and allowed himself a glance down at a stricken Trumbee. 'Thirty thousand a year, free of tax, while her first husband lived. And then he died, and her income rose to a hundred and fifty thousand a year. But now there was no benevolent figure standing between herself and the tax man. We are over halfway through Mrs. Earlswood's first full year of tax as a widow. Can you possibly estimate what sort of a bill she is likely to receive from the Income Tax Authority next April?'
'Of her gross income,' said Mr. Giles, 'fifty thousand goes in salaries and allowances, or did before the tragic death of Miss Oriole Maladay. Of the remainder, I have set aside eighty thousand pounds to meet probable tax demands. It may be a little less than that'
'I'm afraid mathematics has never been my strongest point,’ Sir Charles lied glibly. 'May we break down these figures? Total income, one hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Deduct fifty thousand for salaries and allowances, and eighty thousand for tax. What do we have left, Mr. Giles?'
'Twenty thousand pounds.'
'Whereas, while Mr. Maladay lived, she received thirty thousand, after tax.' 'That is correct'
'Thank you, Mr. Giles.' Sir Charles sat down. Obviously there was a great yawning cavern here, the mouth of which he was prepared to seal the moment Trumbee entered. But Trumbee no longer had any alternatives.
He stood up. 'You have just explained to the court, Mr. Giles, with admirable clarity, that Mrs. Earlswood has actually suffered a diminution in real income, following the death of her first husband. My learned friend, however, omitted to ask you about the capital position, and I am sure the court will be interested in this. Have you any knowledge of Mrs. Earlswood's total worth, when you took over her financial affairs?'
'The figure will have to be approximate,' Mr. Giles said. 'Jewellery and furs are constantly changing in value. But I would say about ten thousand pounds.'
'These jewellery and furs had presumably been given to Mrs. Earlswood by Mr. Maladay?'
'That is correct'
'The prisoner had no outside capital of her own?' 'No.'
'So her total worth was ten thousand pounds in furs and jewellery. Now we have already been given an approximate figure for her present worth. I wonder if you would estimate what that might be at this moment?'
'I can give you an exact figure, as of last week,’ said Mr. Giles. ‘I have recently completed an audit of Mrs. Earlswood's affairs, and her net worth is four million, seven hundred and fifty-seven thousand, four hundred and two pounds and sixty-three pence.'
'And sixty-three pence,' Trumbee said. 'Thank you, Mr. Giles.'
Sir Charles got up, smiling. 'My learned friend has elicited the fact that Mrs. Earlswood might be said to have made a profit of over four million, seven hundred thousand pounds by the death of her first husband. To obtain this, and with it a diminution in her income, she had to make the Government a present of something like fifteen million pounds. Did she at any time give you any instructions as to how this enormous sum was to be raised?'
'She left it to my discretion,' Mr. Giles said.
'But it was necessary to sell some of the Maladay real-estate holdings, I imagine?'
'I am still engaged in negotiations. But it will be a considerable proportion.'
'Now, turning to what is left, this four and a half million pounds, it is rather surprising to me that this still vast sum of money should be producing only one hundred and fifty thousand a year. That represents...?’
'Three and a third per cent,' Mr. Giles said. 'I'm afraid not all of it is producing a proper return, or any return at all.'
. 'Are you satisfied with this state of affairs?' ‘I am not.'
'Then why haven't you adjusted your client's investments?'
'Because in order to buy and to sell investments I need Mrs. Earlswood's signature, and that means she has to be prepared to devote some time to business matters.'
'And will she not do this?'
Mr. Giles gazed at his client in the dock with mild censure. 'Very seldom, and for very brief periods.'
'Would you say that Mrs. Earlswood is aware of how wealthy she is?'
‘I have told her,' Mr. Giles pointed out.
'Was she interested?'  'No.'
'Would you say that Mrs. Earlswood is interested in money at all?’
'Not in the slightest.'
'Is she extravagant?'
'Extravagance is an inexact term,' Mr. Giles said. 'She spends freely on food and drink, and occasionally goes on a clothes-buying spree. She pays her servants very well. But she is not given to entertaining a great deal, and she has travelled very little this last year. Certainly she is living well within her present income.'
"Thank you, Mr. Giles. I have no further questions’  But Sir Charles remained on his feet while the accountant descended from the witness box. ‘I call Cynthia Eleanor Earlswood, née Lambert.'

VI

Baird looked at his watch. Anthony Giles had been gone over fifteen minutes, and there were only two people left in the witness room. 'He must be holding an audit.'
Andrea continued to stare out of the window. Her hands kept going up to her mouth, offering her nails to her anxious teeth.
'I wonder which of us will be next?' Baird asked.
'I don't know why I'm here,' Andrea said. 'I don't know anything about it. I only work for Mrs. Earlswood.’
'Do you enjoy your work?' Baird asked.
'Yes. Yes, I enjoy it,' she said fiercely. 'I can't understand how I ever existed before.'
'Did you enjoy meeting Oriole Maladay?'
Her head started to turn, and checked. Colour flitted across her cheeks, like a shaft of sunlight chased by a heavy cloud. 'I've never met Miss Maladay.'
Baird sighed, selected words, watched the door open. It was John Bowen. 'You can come into court, if you like, Mr. Baird,' he said. 'We've decided not to call you, after all. Or Miss Burman.'
Andrea leapt to her feet. 'You mean I don't have to give evidence?'
'What brought this on?' Baird asked.
'It's Mrs. Earlswood's decision. She feels she has proved her point sufficiently, that her mode of life while Carter was alive and since his death has not altered in the slightest, and she doesn't see any reason why you or Miss Burman should be exposed to cross-examination on your, ah, parties at Maladay House. I think that's very decent of her. Don't you, Mr. Baird?'
‘I do. indeed. May we follow you?'
'Out this door.' Bowen led them into the corridor. 'I thought you'd like to be in at the death, so to speak. Cynthia is about to take die stand.'
'Is that a good idea?'
Bowen shrugged. 'She insisted. But it's hard to imagine Cynthia making a mistake. If you'll go through that door, the usher will find you two seats.'
He hurried away. Andrea hesitated. 'Do we have to sit together?'
'You are a changeable child. You used to be my favourite pupil. I promise I won't even hold your hand.'
She opened the door. The usher directed them to seats at the back of the court, from where they watched Cynthia descend the few steps from the dock, disappear into the well of the court, and reappear in the witness box. She smiled at the spectators, did not see Baird and Andrea, took the oath in a low but clear voice.
Sir Charles had remained on his feet, also smiling, at his client; it was an intimate, confident smile. 'Cynthia Earlswood. I wonder if you would tell the court your age?'
'I was forty on my last birthday,' Cynthia said.
'And how old were you when you married Carter Maladay?'
'Seventeen.’
'Who was your mother, Cynthia?' 'Annette Lambert. She was an actress.' 'And your father?'
Cynthia's shoulders rose and fell, gently. 'I'm afraid I don't know.'
Mr. Justice Quint gave a short tap with his gavel.
‘I see,’ said Sir Charles. 'And so your early life was one of travelling in suitcases, following your mother from engagement to engagement?'
'Not exactly. When I was a little girl I lived mostly with my Aunt Alice; Mother's sister. But she was drowned in the war, on her way to America.'
'She was a passenger on board the S.S. Tautenay. Were you also a passenger on that boat?'
'Yes.'
'And what happened?'
'The ship was torpedoed and sank. There were very few survivors.'

'But you were one of them. Can you give the court the name of any other survivor?'
Cynthia glanced over the courtroom. 'Patrick Earlswood.'
'Of course. But you did not see him again after you reached Canada?' 'I did not see him again for thirty years.' 'Did you ever hear of him?' ‘No.’
'What happened after your return to England?'
That wasn't until after the war. Before then I lived with various families in the States. Then I tried Mother for a year. We didn't get on. We'd lived apart for too long, I think. But she introduced me to Carter.'
'And you fell in love with him?'
'Good lord, no,' Cynthia said. 'I didn't even like him very much, at the beginning. But he was very rich.'
'So you married him. What was your relationship?'
'It began as purely sexual,' Cynthia said. 'Carter had some very unusual ideas about sex.' She hesitated, glanced at the judge and then at the jury. ‘I found them unusual at the time, anyway.'
'Would you say he seduced your morals? Your seventeen-year-old innocence?'
Cynthia smiled. 'It takes two to tango, Sir Charles. I think maybe he made me take a fresh look at the whole question of morals, and sexual morals in particular. He made me understand their absurdity.'
'Can you give this court some idea of what he believed?’
'Two things, mainly,' Cynthia said. 'He believed that pure pleasure becomes dull, and is harmful to the spirit Like eating nothing but dessert and drinking nothing but brandy. The human system needs an appetiser, and then a main course, before getting to the sweet So love, sexual love, while the ultimate end of each sexual meal, should be preceded by two or three courses beforehand, by pain, by disgust, by fear, even by horror, all calculated to stimulate the senses and make the final act more pleasurable.'
'He practised this theory upon you?'
'For the first year or two of my married life only upon me. Every night I think that's why he needed a very young, very fit wife.'
Mr. Justice Quint glared at the courtroom. "This is a trial for murder,' he said, 'not a television comedy. I will have absolute quiet. And, Mrs. Earlswood,' his tone became slightly more gentle, 'I think it would be best for you to content yourself with answering counsel's questions, certainly while on this subject.' 'I am sorry, Your Lordship.'
'You said your first husband had two main beliefs, Mrs. Earlswood,' Sir Charles reminded her.
'The second went with the first. He believed in freedom. Absolute freedom to do and think and say what he chose, whenever he chose. He bestowed this freedom upon me. Of course, we could not practise this in public very often, but inside Maladay House it was the rule.'
'I see. Now may I take you, very quickly, through the twenty-two years of your marriage? In relation to these beliefs of Carter Maladay?'
'It was a way of life with him,' Cynthia explained. 'There were parties, orgies, if you like. But there were also some very beautiful times. There was lots of travel, endless luxury. He was a very tasteful man, in literature, in music, just as he could be an absolutely disgusting man when he chose. It was very exciting.'	-
'Exciting. You found all of your married life exciting?’
'Every minute.'
'And you joined in all of his pleasures?' 'I was not always allowed to. But I joined whenever I could.'
'And what did you do when you were left out?' 'I discovered some pleasures of my own.' 'With your husband's knowledge?' ‘With Carter's blessing.'
‘I see. What would you say were your feelings towards your husband during the main part of your married life?'
'I loved him. Don't misunderstand me.' Cynthia looked at the jury. 1 was not in love with him. I don't think I was ever in love with him. But I loved him more than I have ever loved any human being. As much as I love myself. I should think. He was everything to me. A God figure.' She smiled. 'No. A Satan figure would be more accurate.'
'If there is one more disturbance,' said Mr. Justice Quint, 'I shall clear the court.'
'And then your husband died,' said Sir Charles. 'I shall return to that in a moment, but I'd like to move on for a while. After Carter Maladay died, Mrs. Earlswood, what did you do?'
'Well ... it seemed like the end of the world. I mean, after twenty-two years! I knew he had a weak heart, but no one had ever told me how weak. It had never occurred to me that he would die like that. I'm afraid I did very little for several months. Then I tried to pick up the pieces.’
'You mean you tried to get your old way of life started again. With the same people?'
'Oh. no. I couldn't have stood that. Every one would have reminded me of Carter.'
'So you had to discover new people who would share your point of view. And in this you succeeded?'
'Most people share my point of view, Sir Charles. Or they would like to, if they dared.'
'Quite so, Mrs. Earlswood. And how did you find Mr. Earlswood again?'
‘I had a private detective agency do it.'
'Why did you do that?'
Cynthia shrugged. 'I suppose I was lonely.’
'You had Miss Ericsson, did you not?'
'Oh, yes. But I needed more.'
‘I now want to ask you about Miss Ericsson, Mrs. Earlswood. You have heard her story of how you met, and how she came to work for you, and what happened on her first day. Is that story substantially correct?'
Cynthia gazed at the jury. 'That story is absolutely correct, Sir Charles.'
'Would you describe yourself as a homosexual?’
'Good heavens, no. I am sexual. And Imogen is the most beautiful female I have ever beheld. I adore strength.'
Mr. Justice Quint picked up his glass of water, stared at it, and sighed. The jury was looking collectively petrified.
'Then this was never a casual affair?' asked Sir Charles. 'It was far more than that.'
'Far more indeed. Leaving aside her accusation, at this moment, she was present, she was in a sense responsible for your husband's death, and yet this made no difference to your relationship?'       
'It brought us closer together.'
'Then can you account for any reason why she should now turn against you so violently?'
'Imogen has never been the slightest bit jealous of my relations with men, but she has a pathological jealousy of other women. It so happens that I have recently formed an attachment with a young woman, and this upset Imogen. So much so that she walked out.'
'She left Maladay House. But you had no idea what she was going to do?'
'Of course not. I supposed she would eventually get over her mood and come back.'
'Instead of which she went to the police. Now I must ask you this, Cynthia. Is one word of what she has told this court about the death of your husband true?'
'Almost all of it,' Cynthia agreed, and waited for the noise to subside. 'The facts are there, and that is what happened.'
'What part of her story is untrue?'
That it was planned.' Cynthia's shoulders heaved yet again, helplessly. 'And I imagine that it was she threw the key out of the window.'
'Can you suggest why, apart from her jealousy of your new friend, Miss Ericsson should have concocted such a tale?'
T know she was terribly upset by what had happened. Well, I mean, who wouldn't have been? I know I would have been quite out of my mind.' Cynthia stared at the judge with wide eyes. 'She didn't show it to anyone, except me. I often thought it was bad, bottling it up like that. But that is Imogen. And there were other things, you know. She did reject Carter, time and again. I didn't interfere. I couldn't. Imogen was just that way. at that time. I could see her guilt curdling inside her over this last year. I really wouldn't be surprised if by now she really imagines that the whole thing was planned.'
Trumbee was on his feet. 'Really. Your Lordship, I cannot permit the prisoner to start giving us her opinions as to the mental condition of a prosecution witness.'
'Quite so, Mr. Trumbee. You will confine yourself to answers only, please, Mrs. Earlswood.'
'I am sorry, Your Lordship.'
'I am nearly finished with you, Cynthia,' said Sir Charles. 'But I must ask you this. Did you plan the murder of your husband?'
'No.'
'Did Imogen Ericsson plan the murder of your husband, with your knowledge?'
‘No.’
'Do you consider that you bear any responsibility for the death of your husband?'
'I must bear some of the responsibility, in that I permitted him to be .alone with Imogen. But it never occurred to me that he would go berserk.'
'One last question. Cynthia. When you returned to England a week early from your holiday, in August of last year, and went down to Maladay House, did you have any idea what you would find there?'
'No.'

'Thank you, Cynthia.' Sir Charles looked at the judge. 'I have no further questions.'
The courtroom was absolutely quiet as Trumbee got to his feet. No one present could doubt that all which bad gone before had been but a preliminary to this final clash. Possibly Mrs. Earlswood was also aware of this, but if so she gave no sign, and waited with an expression of polite interest for his first question.
Trumbee consulted his notes for some moments. 'Cynthia Earlswood,' he said at last, 'under examination by counsel, a few minutes ago, you denied that you were specifically a homosexual, but preferred to describe yourself as a sexual woman. Would the court be right in assuming that by that you meant that you had very strong sexual instincts?'
‘I think I have strong sexual instincts,' Cynthia said.
'Have you always had such instincts?'
'As long as I can remember.'
'You got married very young, Mrs. Earlswood. Presumably you were innocent when you got married?’
'I wasn't a virgin, if that's what you mean.' .
'Weren't you. Mrs. Earlswood? At seventeen?'
'But I was innocent enough,' Cynthia pointed out. 'I've always thought the first time increases innocence. And the second. I know my first time merely left me scared stiff.’

-
Mr. Justice Quint banged his desk with his gavel. 'Ushers! Ushers!' The noise subsided. 'Mrs. Earlswood,' said Mr. Justice Quint, 'if you persist in adding these personal observations I am going to have to charge you with 
Contempt. ‘So, Mrs. Earlswood,' said Trumbee, 'you were innocent, if you were not a virgin. Then you married Carter Maladay, who was not an innocent.'
Cynthia smiled. 'No, he was not an innocent.'
Sir Charles Markey was frowning.
'Your husband taught you to enjoy sex. rather than be afraid of it.'
‘Why. yes.'
Sir Charles leaned back to mutter at Bowen. Trumbee's turn to lay traps.
'And then he taught you to use it,' Trumbee suggested. 'He taught you the pleasures of perversion, and sadism, and masochism as well, perhaps.'
'I had to learn to be a masochist,' Cynthia explained. 'Carter was rather inclined to sadism.'
Mr. Justice Quint sighed, and clearly contemplated removing his wig.
Trumbee pressed on. 'You have told the court that Mr. Maladay taught you to be free. To practise freedom. But this was specifically an immoral freedom. Would you agree with that?'	
‘Only in the sense that all moral restrictions are impositions upon the freedom of the individual.'
'Ah!' Trumbee saw his opening. 'Then it would be right to say that he taught you to make no difference between right and wrong?'
'No one can do that,' Cynthia said. 'A human being surely has an innate sense of what is right and what is wrong.'
'But some have different ideas on that subject to others.'
Sir Charles was smiling. Trumbee could hardly have intended to indulge in an ethical argument with the prisoner.
'Of course,' Cynthia acknowledged, gracefully. 'You, for instance?' Tm sure of it.'
'Are you a Christian, Mrs. Earlswood?'
'I don't think so.'
'You do not attend church?'
'Never.'
'Do you believe in God?'
‘I’m afraid I don't. Not in the normal sense, anyway. Perhaps some people have so much moral goodness within them that they could be said to contain a godhead.'
'But you wouldn't apply that description to yourself?’ 'No.'
'Perhaps you believe in the devil?' Trumbee suggested, slyly.
'Oh, I do. Certainly in the sense I just described. Far more people are basically evil than are basically good.'
'I am sure almost everyone in this room would disagree with that point of view, Mrs. Earlswood. Perhaps you would be good enough to tell this court just what you consider yourself, in a religious sense?'
Cynthia appeared to consider. ‘I think I'd describe myself as a witch,' she said at last.
Mr Justice Quint called for order, but this time it was quite ten minutes before quiet was restored.
Trumbee glared at the witness box. ‘I am sure we have all heard enough, Mrs. Earlswood. You have stood there and confessed to every possible moral crime, to debauchery and perversion on an unimaginable scale. You have denied God, admitted to practising your own conception of right and wrong. And in addition to that you are accused of murder. This you have seen fit to deny, because, such are the laws of our land, only for this of your many crimes can you be punished. But your denial will avail you not one whit, Mrs. Earlswood. Cynthia Eleanor Earlswood, I put it to you that as Carter Maladay grew older, and your desire for ever-widening sexual perversion grew, you conceived this monstrous plan for murdering your unfortunate husband, while you yourself preserved the most perfect of alibis, the alibi of distance.'
'Certainly I wasn't there,'Cynthia agreed.
'Do you deny that you wished your husband dead?''
'Yes.'
‘I put it to you that you are lying, that you did plan your husband's death, and that in the unfortunate Imogen Ericsson you found a willing accomplice, a young woman so consumed with passion for you and your way of life that she would obey you without question.'        
'Nonsense.'
'I put it to you that your crime was inspired not only by the desires I have mentioned, but by the certainty that you would inherit a vast sum of money as a result of your deed, and in the certainty that you could never be found out in your wickedness, unless Imogen Ericsson betrayed you.'
Cynthia made no reply.
'You must answer the question, Mrs. Earlswood,' said Mr. Justice Quint
'What question. Your Lordship. I have been told a theory.'
Mr. Justice Quint whacked his desk, waited for the laughter to subside. 'That is true enough, Mr. Trumbee.'
'Cynthia Earlswood, you killed your husband. Carter Maladay,' Trumbee said.
‘I did not'
'You inspired and planned his death.' 'I did not' Cynthia said.

VII
T am not going to keep you very long,' Sir Charles told the jury. ‘I consider that your time, and the time of this court, has been wasted long enough as it is. My client has been accused of murder, one of the most serious crimes in the criminal calendar. I will ask you only to consider three points. Firstly, has the prosecution given you any proof, not only that my client has committed murder, but indeed that a murder has, been committed? I say not. Their "proof” consists of a confession made by Miss Imogen Ericsson, a confession which implicates my client. So let us consider these two women. My client has told us everything about herself. She has admitted that she has unusual moral views, has indulged in activities which many of us may consider morally indefensible. But Mrs. Earlswood is not on trial here for her moral conduct. And I would remind you that if anything has emerged from her long and gruelling examination, both by myself and my learned friend, it is Mrs. Earlswood's love for her first husband. Perhaps love is the wrong word. Worship might be more accurate. Cynthia Maladay worshipped her husband. Now possibly his character also leaves a lot to be desired. Indeed, as he took his wife as a young, inexperienced girl of seventeen and turned her into what can only be described as a hardened woman of the world, he must take the major blame for her moral faults. But that she was happy with him, was happy to be his wife, to obey him, to adore him, can be denied by no one who has heard her give evidence. And what can we say of Miss Ericsson? That she in turn was seduced and fell hopelessly in love with Mrs. Maladay. This is a ghastly story, a tale which most of us may feel is best forgotten. But it must be aired in this court. Miss Ericsson adored Mrs. Maladay, but there was a vital difference in the characters of the two women. Whereas Mrs. Maladay was content to be the wife of Carter Maladay, and allowed him to go his own way. Miss Ericsson developed a pathological jealousy for Mrs. Maladay, and when in the course of time Mrs. Maladay, or Mrs. Earlswood as she now is, developed an affection for another young woman, Miss Ericsson's love turned to hate. She first of all left her former lover's home, and then her brooding discontent turned into a vicious desire for vengeance. We must sympathise with the young woman. Whatever happened in that locked and barred bedroom, over a year ago, whether she or Mr. Maladay was the aggressor, it was a most terrible experience for anyone to have to undergo. And to be crossed in love is always unpleasant We may find nothing to admire, and much to loathe in Cynthia Earlswood . . .' He paused to look at Cynthia, who was listening attentively, a half-smile on her hps. 'But British justice is not based upon personal feeling. It is based upon facts, upon proof, and the only certain thing in this case is that everything presented to you by the prosecution has been manufactured in the tortured brain of Imogen Ericsson. On that certainty I ask—no, I demand—the acquittal of my client'
‘Will they?' Andrea whispered. 'Will they?'
Baird watched her fingers curling into tight little balls.
Trumbee got up. 'My learned friend, despite his protestations, seems to find nothing terribly wrong in the goings-on at Maladay House over the past quarter of a century. But in another respect everything he said to you just now is correct. In the characters of these two women lies the key to this case. For make no mistake about it, ladies and gentlemen, these are two extraordinarily wicked women. Mrs. Earlswood, earlier this afternoon, was proud to lay claim to the title of witch, and no doubt a few hundred years ago this would have been entirely appropriate. Certainly there can be no doubt that she bewitched that unfortunate young woman Imogen Ericsson, and that when she was ready to put her nefarious plan into action she had at hand a willing accomplice, no longer able to tell right from wrong, as indeed Mrs. Earlswood had long forgotten. Mrs. Earlswood's error was in mistaking the character of Miss Ericsson. For Miss Ericsson was only bewitched by an evil woman, not evil in herself, and as a result, with the passage of time, her true self, her good self, her real self, reasserted itself. Perhaps this final change of heart was brought about by a realisation that Mrs. Earlswood no longer loved her. It often takes a traumatic shock to bring us to our senses. This cannot alter the fact that this young woman, of her own accord, went to the police and laid her story bare, regardless of the certain consequences to herself. The defence has asked, how can you possibly believe the tale of a woman when that very tale proves her to have perjured herself at the inquest a year ago.' Trumbee waited for a moment, gazing at the jury. Then he lowered his voice, turned, and pointed at Mrs. Earlswood. 'I would like to ask how you can possibly disbelieve her when you have heard from Mrs. Earlswood's own lips such a confession of evil and misdoing, delivered with a brazen effrontery which lias left us all gasping. I say to you, ladies and gentlemen, look closely upon this woman, self-confessed adulteress, sadist, masochist, Lesbian, seducer of young girls, look closely upon her, ladies and gentlemen, remember what she had to say in her defence and the manner in which she said it, and decide for yourselves whether she is not also a murderess.'
Trumbee sat down, and took out a large handkerchief to wipe his brow. His junior whispered words of encouragement. Bowen leaned over the back of the barristers' desk to mutter at Sir Charles. Cynthia, who had remained standing during the speeches, sat down and crossed her legs. She looked at the judge, and the judge looked at her. Then he considered the clock. It was a quarter to five.
'Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,' said Mr. Justice Quint, 'normally I would adjourn at this time, and give my summing-up tomorrow morning. However, like the two learned counsel you have just heard, I have very little to say about this case, at least very little which can possibly be of any assistance to you. In addition, this has been an exhausting day for us all, and I am hesitant to inflict upon you a further day in so heady, for want of a better word, atmosphere. I shall therefore review the facts of this most extraordinary case for you now.'
Which he proceeded to do, in great detail, and with scrupulous fairness.
'Now the prosecution case,' he said at last, 'is based upon the most conclusive possible evidence, a confession of murder. Were Miss Ericsson alone involved there would be no further need for argument Her confession fits all the known facts. What appeared to be a regrettable accident could very easily have been premeditated murder. However, Miss Ericsson has chosen to implicate her employer, who at that time was also her lover, and this person, the accused before you, has chosen to deny the charge, thus throwing a doubt upon the whole of Miss Ericsson's confession.'
Mr. Justice Quint drank some water. 'Now, you may have formed some idea as to the moral condition of the two women involved. But that is not your province here today. Whatever learned counsel for the prosecution may think, an adulteress, a sadist a masochist, a Lesbian, and a seducer of young girls, while presumably not a very nice person, is not necessarily a murderess. That has to be proved, and the case for the prosecution rests entirely upon Miss Ericsson's confession, and the point made by Miss Ericsson's confession, that it is not possible for her to have planned and carried out such a crime by herself, as her survival depended on her being extracted from that room of death before she too died. Thus, if it is your conclusion that Carter Maladay was murdered, then Miss Ericsson has told the truth, and Mrs. Earlswood is guilty. If you have come to the conclusion that Carter Maladay was not murdered, then of course Mrs. Earlswood is innocent. Now the facts fit either possibility, so what it really boils down to is this: which of the two stories told by Miss Ericsson do you believe? The story she told at the inquest, immediately after the tragic events in which she was involved, which may, or may not, have been carefully rehearsed, but which, it seems, impressed everyone at the time with its truth and sincerity, or the story she has now told, a year and three months after the event, the result, we are asked to believe, of a growing heart-searching, and also, for this is relevant, especially as it has been admitted by counsel for the prosecution. the outcome of acute jealousy. We are asked to believe that the plan for this crime, certainly the most bizarre it has ever been my misfortune to judge, were gleaned from the pages of The Golden Bough, a collection of fantastic legends. You may well wish to ask yourselves whether a woman as clear-headed, as alert, as intelligent as Mrs. Earlswood has revealed herself to be in this court, however unhappy the channels into which she has chosen to direct her intelligence throughout the main part of her life, would require to delve into magic to learn now to kill successfully, or whether a reading of such a book as The Golden Bough by such a woman as Miss Ericsson, haunted by a tragic event in her past, confused and unhappy, her misery accentuated by the desertion of her by Mrs. Earlswood, might not have induced her to relate this remarkable account of the habits of the, ah . . .' Mr. Justice Quint consulted his notes. The Shilluk, to her own unhappy past. These things are for you, and for you alone, to decide. But I must remind you that to convict Mrs. Earlswood of this crime you must be absolutely certain in your mind that everything said in evidence by Miss Ericsson today has been true, and that, correspondingly, everything said in rebuttal by Mrs. Earlswood has been a lie. I must now ask you if you wish to withdraw to consider your decision.'
The foreman of the jury turned round to consult his fellows. Trumbee buried his face in his hands. Mrs. Earlswood leaned forward, eyes bright. Andrea Burman inadvertently gripped Baird's hand, released it again as if it had been on fire.
The foreman stood up. ‘We do not think it necessary to withdraw. Your Lordship.'	
Mr. Justice Quint nodded, as if he had expected the reply. The clerk of the court stood up. 'Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?'
'We have,' said the foreman. 'We find the defendant not guilty of the murder of Carter Maladay.'

The Execution

There was some applause, frowned upon by Mr. Justice Quint. The reporters poured from the courtroom, hurried to telephones or to advantageous positions on the stairs. Andrea Burman leaned forward, hands clasped, staring at Cynthia Earlswood, a smiling figure as the judge formally discharged her, who then descended from the dock and kissed Sir Charles Markey on the cheek.
'The most evil woman in the world,' Baird said. 'Free to do what now, Andy?'
Andrea glanced at him, seemed about to say something, was distracted by an usher, who pushed his way through the crowd towards them. 'Miss Burman? Mr. Earlswood left this note for you.'
Andrea snatched the envelope, tore it, read the paper. Her cheeks glowed red. 'Will you tell Mrs. Earlswood that her car will be waiting?' she asked the usher.
'Of course. Miss Burman.'
'Well, goodbye, Mr. Baird.' she said. 'Perhaps we'll get together again, one of these days.'
'Perhaps,' he agreed, but she was already gone, a thin-slip of a girl in black stockings and far too short a dress for a court of law. Cynthia's creature. But, then, the whole court was filled with Cynthia's creatures. She had made them hers, just as she bad made Michael Baird hers, with a snap of her marvellous fingers.
He could no longer see her, lost in the well of the court amidst congratulating barristers. Even Trumbee was down there. Baird walked through the now empty seats, reached the door, encountered Joan Ogilvie.
'I just had to come,' she said. 'But I didn't see you, before.'
'I was in the witness room, but I wasn't called.' 'Lucky you.' She led him into the corridor. 'Was it all true? Everything she said? Everything the Doult girl said?' Tm afraid it was.'
'You're a man of hidden depths, Michael Baird. I always said so. What do you mean to do now?'
'It's gone six. I think I'm going to have a stiff drink.'
'Do you mind if I join you?'
'Be my guest. Well, Inspector?'
Harrington shrugged. 'It was on the cards from the moment Markey attacked poor Imogen. Mind you, it was very clever. Very clever indeed. It's the one thing we never thought she'd dare. And it loses nothing by being true. It was all true, I suppose, Mr. Baird?' He grinned. 'I suppose a lot of people will be asking you that. Mind you, from your point of view, there's one good thing. We won't be proceeding with the charge against Miss Ericsson. I mean " to say old Quint ruled it out, didn't he? If there was a murder, then they were both guilty, if they are not guilty, then there wasn't a murder.'
'Then she was lying, by the same reasoning,' Joan said.
'Who knows, miss? Who knows? Let's say we feel she was distraught. If Mrs. Earlswood wishes to proceed against her or us for false arrest, well, that would be a different matter. But somehow I don't think she will. Anyway, for obvious reasons, Mr. Baird, we think it would be best for her to leave by the back door.'
'When?'
'In about fifteen minutes. I'll tell her you'll be there. Good afternoon to you, miss.'
Joan watched him walk along the corridor. 'You mean you're waiting for that Danish girl? Whatever for?'
'To take her home.'
'But how can you? I mean, after what she said on the stand, what she admitted, and especially if you think she did do that murder. I wish I could understand. I wish I could understand anything about this business.'
‘Understanding,' Baird said. 'If everyone understood everyone else, life would be too simple.'
He went to the top of the steps, watched Cynthia Earlswood descending between the two rows of policemen, escorted by John Bowen. Andrea waited, at the foot of the steps, beside the white Bentley. And what happens now, Michael Baird? What indeed?
Cynthia reached the car, spoke to the reporters, posed for a photograph, and looked back up the steps. She was smiling, but the smile faded when she saw Baird. He could not see her eyes properly, but the brandy would be bubbling, heated by the name behind it. Then she disappeared into the interior. The Queen of Darkness, with her handmaiden, riding in regal splendour to her palace, and to new crimes, ever more horrible, ever more unimaginable.
He hailed a taxi, drove round the corner. Imogen wore her fox-fur coat, pulled close against the evening chill. She sat beside him, her hands folded together, her fingers tight ‘How do you feel?' Baird asked.
'As if I have been through a wringer. I feel squeezed. As if I have spent the day being flogged. I suppose I have spent the day being flogged. Mentally.'
'Would a stiff drink be any good?'
'Where do I have this drink, Michael? Where do I go now?'
'We could try my flat'
She refused to lock at him. 'After all this?'
'After all what? You didn't say anything on that witness stand I didn't know, or guess.'
1 do not want to be protected. No, that is a lie. I do want to be protected. I want to be protected now, more than ever before. I am more frightened now than ever before. I no longer understand myself. I left her because I was jealous, yes. But I did not go to the police out of jealousy. I am sure of that. I was sure of that up to this afternoon. I went because I wanted to stop her committing another crime. And I went out of love for you. I wanted to do one decent, one moral thing. But I cannot accept protection from you. It would not be fair. What would your schoolmastering friends say? What would they do?'
'It's still a free country, in that sense. Anyway, I don't give a damn. I happen to be in love with you, top.'
'No more jokes, Michael, darling. Please.'
'No more jokes, Imogen. Besides, I bet there's something you haven't thought of. I've just seen Cynthia leaving. You and I have to stick together, darling. You don't imagine she is going to forget what you did to her, do you? Or tried to do. And she's not likely to overlook me, either.’
The next day passed in an endless dream. Neither Andrea nor himself figured in the newspaper reports of the trial, but everyone at school knew who Andrea had gone to work for. and that Cynthia Earlswood was a friend of Baird's. The class regarded him with a hypnotised expression, and comments amongst the staff varied from a benevolent, 'Remarkable woman, that Mrs. Earlswood', from the boss, to a frozen, 'Did you sleep well. Michael?' from Joan.
But Baird could not believe he had seen the last of Cynthia. He could not get back to the flat quickly enough, burst in the street door, encountered Mrs. Hollihan in the front hall. There's a policeman to see you, Mr. Baird. Really. I don't know what's happening at all. The neighbours are starting to talk. If that Mrs. Earlswood isn't really your sister, then who is this Miss Ericsson, I should like to know? And after what she admitted on the stand . . 'We'll talk about it later,' Baird promised, and hurried upstairs. Imogen, with her great determination to appear English, had made Harrington one of her cups of tea, and he was sipping uneasily, sitting in the centre of the settee, while he watched her ranging the room with her tremendous prides, pausing every moment to stare out of the window, Clearly the inspector thought he was in grave danger of physical assault.
Michael!' Imogen kissed him on the cheek. 'I have been going mad here today.'
'But I gather you've had company. Good afternoon to you, Inspector.'
'It's been worse since he came.' Imogen grumbled. 'He just sits there, doing nothing, saying nothing.'
'It's a strange world, Mr. Baird,' Harrington said. 'Why don't you sit down.'
'Don't tell me you've got a lead on Oriole Maladay's murder?' Baird sat down in the easy chair. Imogen perched on the arm, uncovering more leg than Harrington seemed to appreciate.
'Well, I don't know. It may well be that we have. Tell me, how would you describe Mrs. Earlswood, yesterday afternoon?'
'Happy,' Baird said.	
‘At least. The word I’d use would be triumphant. Certainly on top of the world. It's a nun business?
What is a rum business. Inspector?'	
'Well Mr. Baird, Mrs. Earlswood's car was discovered this afternoon, upside down, at the foot of the cliffs at Beachy Head. It had gone in at high water, but was exposed when the tide went out. Mrs. Earlswood herself has disappeared.'

III

‘It's not possible,' Imogen whispered.
‘You're not claiming Cynthia was in it when she went over?' Baird asked.
‘I’m afraid she was. According to Mr. Earlswood, she was in a very odd mood when she got back from court last night, and in an even odder mood this morning. She had invited John Bowen down to lunch, but as the morning wore on she became more and more tense. Just before twelve she got into that car of hers and drove off. She actually passed Bowen on the drive, travelling at a tremendous speed, he says. Well, they didn't worry too much at the time, because they thought she'd get over it and come back.
But after a couple of hours Mr. Earlswood became worried and got in touch with the police. They were able to trace the movements of the car, but it took a while, and by the time they got as far as Eastbourne it was four o'clock.
And there was the car at the foot of the cliffs. Empty. Apparently no one saw it go over.'	
And Bowen actually saw Cynthia behind the wheel?'
'He saw a woman with long black hair, wearing dark glasses and a mink coat. He can't be more positive than that. Why, Mr. Baird, you're not suggesting it wasn't Mrs. Earlswood in that car?'
'Cynthia? Commit suicide the day after being acquitted of murder? Anyway, aren't you suggesting the same thing? When did you hear about it? One hour ago? And you're here already, telling us.'
'I thought you'd be interested, Mr. Baird. And you. Miss
Ericsson. Oh, I’ll agree it's a rum business. But we'll know
for sure when we recover the body.'	
'Are you certain you'll recover the body?' 'Oh, the bodies always come back at Beachy Head. Well, nearly always.' 'Nearly,' Baird said.
'I'll bear what you had to say in mind, Mr. Baird. But at present we must assume that Mrs. Earlswood was in that car. And between you, me, Miss Ericsson and that wall over there, that is the best news I have heard in a month. It could happen, you know. People often appear quite different on the outside to the way they really are, underneath. I always felt that icy calm of hers had to be unnatural.'
'You said there were four people involved in Oriole's murder.'
'So I did. But if Mrs. Earlswood was one of them, then she was the leader. With her gone, we'll get the others, don't you worry about that. Well, I must be off. If anything further develops, I'll let you know.'
The door closed.
'It can't be true,' Imogen whispered. 'It just can't.'
'Of course it isn't true.' Baird went down to the telephone, dialled. 'Good evening. Is Mr. Bowen still there?'
'He's just leaving, sir,' said the girl. 'What name is it?'
'Michael Baird.' He waited, fingers tapping nervously.
'Baird! Have you heard the news?'
'Five minutes ago. I can't believe it.'
'Neither can I, frankly. I'm reeling. I mean, it just doesn't make sense.'
'Quite,’ Baird agreed. T wonder if I might ask you a question?'   'What about?'
'Well, you went down to Maladay House for lunch today, didn't you? You passed Cynthia in the car?'
That's right. If I only had known...'
'But you went on to the house, and lunched, didn't you?'
‘I stayed for two hours, until Patrick began to get anxious. Then we all left.'
'Can you tell me who else was there?'
'Well, that girl Andrea Burman, of course.'
'Nobody else?'
'Earlswood himself.'
'Who served the meal?'
The girl. Andrea.'
‘Margaret Pilling wasn't there? The housekeeper?'
'I didn't see her. She was probably in the kitchen.'
‘And the gates were open when you arrived. Tom Pilling wasn't on duty?'
‘I didn't see him either. But I don't understand what you're getting at.'
'It's not important. Thanks very much.' Baird hung up.
Imogen stood on the stairs. 'It's not conclusive. Margaret wasn't there the night you first came. Cynthia might have been planning to bring Bowen into the Coven.'
'Bowen? Now that is incredible. And anyway, having decided that, would she then rush off and commit suicide?' He led her back up to the apartment. 'As far as I'm concerned, that is proof, darling. Cynthia is pulling a disappearing trick. But why? She's got clear away with Carter's murder. She can't be tried for that again. And if it's anything to do with Oriole, then there are others involved. Patrick, for one. And Andrea. I'm sure of that. And they stayed behind. It just doesn't make sense.'
Imogen stood at the window, looked down at the street. 'There is another possibility,' she said softly. 'Do you remember I told you she was off Patrick, and she was training Andy in the gym, just as she trained me. Patrick must have been following the case in the papers. And he was alone at Maladay House, all those weeks, with Andrea, and with the Pillings, too.'
Baird remembered the witness room, the way Andrea had looked at Patrick. 'My God! If that's the case . . . but no one could make Cynthia commit suicide.'
'Of course not. But if your theory is right, and the woman in the car was Margaret in a long black wig, then ...'
'Come on,' Baird said, and picked up his coat.

IV

They took a minicab; Baird was not prepared to endure the train journey. They drove most of the way in silence, while the dusk dwindled into night; and the street lamps winked at them out of the mist. Imogen remained huddled in the far corner of the back seat, a brooding flame. 'We will be too late, anyway,' she muttered at last. 'Whatever has happened, has happened. And: anyway, whatever has happened, doesn't she deserve it?' ‘I have got to know,'he said.
'Because you are in love with her. Her, not me. It is impossible not to love Cynthia, eh, Michael?'
'It is impossible for either of us to go on living, not knowing,’ Baird said. 'Without Cynthia, life is completely different.'
The taxi pulled into the driveway, halted. Baird rolled down the window. 'We'll get out here.' He paid, unlocked the small gate with the key Cynthia had given him two months before. They stood in the darkness, waited while the car turned and hurried into the night.
'This is pointless.' Imogen slipped her hand into his. "There is no one here. Even the Pillings' bungalow is in darkness.'
'They may be up at the house.' A thought which was suddenly terrifying. They might all be up at the house. Cynthia as well. A Cynthia who had officially committed suicide. Because after all he loved her. as Imogen had said.
They took the path through the trees, following the way he had come in September, to begin a new chapter in his life. To meet Imogen. And Cynthia. It had not rained today, but the trees still dripped their wintry moisture, and the leaves were thickly carpeted beneath their feet, deadening the sounds of movement. They were entering a dead world. Dead, or still dying?
The house was in darkness. 'I told you so,' Imogen said. 'This place gives me the creeps. It's always given me the creeps. Let's go back to town, Michael'
He went up the steps, rang the bell. He could hear it, beginning its jangle just inside the door. He pressed again.
'Let's go, Michael' Imogen had remained on the drive.
The door opened. 'Mr. Baird!' Margaret Pilling said. 'How good to see you, after all these weeks. And is that you, Imogen? Welcome home.'
'We heard the news,' Baird said.
'Of course. Mr. Earlswood will be so glad you came.' She stepped aside, and Baird entered the hall. Imogen hesitated for a moment, and then followed. "They're in the white drawing room.'
The fire blazed. Patrick stood before the mantelpiece.
Andrea sat on the settee. Thomas Pilling was opening champagne on a side table.
'Michael!' Patrick clasped his hand. 'And Imogen.’ He kissed her on the cheek. 'It's very good of you to come.'
'We felt we had to,' Baird said. 'The moment we heard'
'Of course. I think we're all suffering from a slight sense of shock.’ His eyes were amused, his pointed features even more Satanic than usual. 'Do sit down. Thomas!'
Pilling served champagne. Baird chose an armchair, Imogen sat beside him. 'There is no further news?’
Patrick shook his head.
'There won't be now,' Andrea said. 'She was here, and now she is gone. It's unbelievable. I don't know what we are going to do.'She watched Patrick.
'Life must go on. She would wish that' Patrick raised his glass. 'To Cynthia. At least we can sav that she lived her life as she chose. Presumably she also died as she wished.'
'To Cynthia!' They drank. Imogen's hand rested on Baird's arm; her fingers were like claws, eating into the flesh. The house was utterly silent, save for the roar of the flames in the grate.
‘Would you mind terribly if we stayed the night?' Baird; asked.
'My dear chap, Maladay House is yours as much as anyone's. It belongs to all of us, just as Cynthia belonged to all of us.'	
‘I’ll lay two more places for dinner,' Margaret Pilling said. She did not move from the doorway.
'But we haven't brought our things,' Imogen said.
'No trouble. No trouble at all As a matter of fact your things are still in your room, Imogen. And Michael will manage.'
'I'm sure I shall. Well, do you think we could go and wash up, before dinner?' Baird stood up. 'We'll find our own way.'
Patrick chuckled. 'You are a sly fellow, Michael. Isn't he a sly fellow, Andy? I believe he wants to search the house. Whatever for, Mikey? Cynthia isn't here, you know. Only in spirit. Do sit down and have another drink, and we'll tell you our news.'
'News?' Baird sat down.
'Andy is writing a book. A historical novel.’
'How interesting.'
Tm sure you will find it so. It deals with your subject Witchcraft. I suppose she's been reading all those hideous old tomes in the library.’
"They're fascinating,' Andrea said. 'But it was Mr. Baird who first really got me interested in the occult.'
'And I'm sure he'd like to hear about it, Andy,' Patrick said. 'As you can imagine, Michael, the centrepiece of the book is the trial of the witch. I'm not sure whether Andy intends her to be the villainess or the heroine. But it's told exactly as they reported witch trials three hundred years ago. Read the trial scene to Michael and Imogen, Andy. Michael will be able to tell you where you've gone wrong.'
Andrea gazed at him, then glanced at Thomas Pilling. 'Are you sure, Mr. Earlswood?'
'I think Michael and Imogen should hear it, Andy. After all, they've shared everything else. Almost everything else. It would be unfair of you not to let them hear our book. Oh, yes, Mikey, we all had a share in it. It's a collaboration. They're all the rage nowadays. Novels written in collaboration.'
Imogen's fingers were back, and were positively painful. Baird stared at Patrick, his mind coagulating as a terrible suspicion took shape.
Andrea opened a drawer underneath the bar table, took out a folder, sat down again, the manuscript on her lap. Thomas gave her a glass of champagne, and she sipped, nervously. 'Well,' she said. I’ll begin with the arrest, shall I?'

V

Released by the secular authorities, the Witch was placed under arrest once again by the Inquisitor, who understood the true nature of her crimes. Because of her powerful friends, this second arrest had to be carried out with subterfuge, and so, unsuspecting, she was escorted to the chamber of interrogation, where she was introduced to the Inquisitor, the Executioner, the Executioner's Assistant, and the Scribe. No one else was present. The chamber was in darkness when she entered, but once she was in the room the lights were put on so she could see the instruments of torture. Once, the room had been a gymnasium, but for the interrogation of the Witch the Inquisitor had caused the various exercising facilities to be removed, and in their place had erected a rack, and a whipping post, and a block and pulley for the strappado, while on a table before these instruments of severe torture there were the instruments of ordinary torture, the thumbscrew and the boot and the irons. Hitherto the Witch, who had not seemed to understand that she was again under arrest, had revealed either amusement or irritation. At the sight of the instruments of torture she revealed a very proper agitation, and endeavoured to leave the chamber. This she was prevented from doing by the Executioner and the Scribe, who held her while the Executioner's Assistant tied her hands behind her back.
Thus secured, the Witch was led before the Inquisitor, who indicted her in the following terms:
'The jurors for our sovereign lady the Queen present that Cynthia Earlswood, formerly Maladay, née Lambert, of Maladay House in the County of Surrey, housewife, on the 12th day of the 8th month of the last year and oh divers other days since the said day. did practise certain detestable arts, called in English witchcraft and sorcery, did maliciously and feloniously practise and exercise these arts, at and within Maladay House, in the County of Surrey, aforesaid, in, upon and against one Carter Merivale Maladay, of Maladay House, in the said County of Surrey, art dealer, through which same arts the said Carter Merrivale Maladay from the 12th day of the 8th month, in the year aforesaid, most dangerously and mortally sickened and languished; and on the 15th day of the 8th month of the year aforesaid the same Carter Merrivale Maladay through the aforesaid arts died in the same County of Surrey. And so the said jurors do present that the same Cynthia Earlswood of the aforementioned place, by ways and means above stated, by her malice, as is suspected, voluntarily, maliciously, and feloniously through the said arts, killed and murdered the same Carter Merrivale Maladay within the said Maladay House, against the peace of our said Sovereign lady the Queen: and against the laws of the statute in the Parliament of our lady the Queen, in such cases made and provided.'
After which the Witch, having recovered her spirits, laughed, and said, 'Well, come on, N.N., if you are determined to have fun, let's get it over with;’
The Inquisitor then asked, 'Do you deny that you are a witch?'
'I have admitted it.'
'Do you deny that you caused the death of Carter Maladay?'
Here the Witch hesitated. Then she answered, 'I have been acquitted of that crime.'
'By an inferior court. The two charges stand or fall together. But there is a third. Do you deny that by this same witchcraft you also planned and plotted the death of your present husband?'
Now the Witch was frightened. She stared at the Inquisitor for some time, and there was no red in her cheeks. Then she said, 'What nonsense.'
'That remains to be seen,' said the Inquisitor. 'Let the Witch be stripped and searched for the mark of the devil.'
The Witch was then stripped naked, by the Executioner and his Assistant. During this procedure they made free with her body in all manner of painful and obscene manners, so that the Witch cried out, 'I shall not forgive you for this, N.N.'
The Witch was then laid upon the floor of the chamber, and shaved. To this she made no comment, but when she saw the Inquisitor's needle, she cried out, 'Do not dare touch me with that thing, N.N!'
The Inquisitor thrust the needle into her flesh fifteen times, on each occasion drawing blood, and on each occasion causing the Witch to scream, and to throw her body about the floor, albeit her legs and her arms were held by the Executioner and his Assistant, while she continued to utter the most dangerous and malicious threats. The sixteenth thrust of the needle, however, elicited no response. It was observed that the Witch was temporarily exhausted and out of breath at this moment, but the thrust was of so painful a nature that had she been other than a witch she would surely still have cried out. So the Inquisitor was satisfied, and declared that the mark of the devil's kiss had been discovered upon her body. Her association with the devil having been proven, the Inquisitor commanded that the Witch be put to the question.
'Stop it!' Imogen shouted. 'I won't listen to any more. You cannot have done this.'
'Sit down, Imogen,' Patrick said. 'It gets better.'
'Where is she?' Baird asked. 'We will not listen to another word until we've seen her.'
Patrick shrugged. 'How can you see her, Michael, when she isn't here? Oo ahead. Search the house, if you like. We won't stop you. And you'll miss the rest of the story. Go on, Andy.'

VII

The question was then put to the Witch, 'Do you admit to being a witch?'
'Yes,' she answered, shouting. 'How many times do I have to admit it?'
'Then do you also admit to having murdered your husband. Carter Maladay?'
'You can go to hell,' the Witch replied, clearly not understanding her true situation.
The Inquisitor thereupon ordered her to be flogged. The Witch was tied to the whipping post, and the Executioner flogged her until the blood gathered between her feet. After the seventh stroke she could no longer stand, and after the eighteenth stroke she fainted, but the Scribe revived her with water and strong drink. At which she said, 'Oh God, when I am free of you...'
'Which will be when you are dead,' said the Inquisitor. 'Confess to having murdered your first husband.'
In reply to which the Witch spat at him.
The Inquisitor then commanded her to be placed in a chair while the thumbscrew was applied to her left hand. During this procedure the blood ran out from under her nails, and she cried out in pain. She was again asked to confess to the murder of her husband, and she again refused.
The Inquisitor then commanded that her right foot be laced in the boot, and this was done, after which the leather was heated in the flames, so that the Witch cried out and burst into tears, and after this application had lasted for five minutes she said yes; she would confess to the murder of her first husband. Carter Maladay.
Whereupon the Inquisitor commanded that she be warmed by the fire and given a cup of spirits to drink, which seemed somewhat to revive her. But she no longer spoke, and only stared from one to the other of the four people present, and the expression in her eyes was frightening to behold.
The Inquisitor then called upon her to confess that she had also planned the murder of her present husband, and had secured and was in the act of training an accomplice to this end when she had been arrested. But the Witch refused to make answer, whereupon the Inquisitor commanded her to be racked. The Executioner and his Assistant thereupon placed the Witch upon the rack, secured the ropes to her wrists and ankles, and drew her body tight, and again, whereupon she screamed so loud that she filled the room with noise, and then she fainted clear away. Whereupon she was taken down, and revived with cold water by the Scribe, and made to sit in the chair and given another glass of spirits, after which she was again asked to confess to the planned murder of her current husband. Yet still she made no reply, but instead kept hugging herself and stroking her body, while it was observed that she had changed her appearance, and that her skin, which had once possessed the texture of velvet, had become creased and aged, that her cheeks had become sunken, and that her hair no longer shone, but had become dulled, and even streaked with grey.
As she had refused to answer the question, the Inquisitor decreed that she should undergo the question extraordinary, beginning with the strappado. Whereupon the Executioner tied her wrists behind her back, attached a rope to her arms, and hoisted her from the floor to the ceiling by means of a pulley. When she was secured there» twenty feet above the ground, she was again asked to confess, but again she made no reply, whereupon the Inquisitor commanded the torture to proceed, and the Executioner released the rope, causing the Witch to fall from the ceiling, but checking the fall two feet from the floor, the suddenness of her arrest causing the Witch's arms to be pulled from their sockets, while she emitted a great scream, and once more fainted right away.
She was released from the ropes, and her dislocated arms were replaced in their sockets, and she was revived, arid once again asked to confess, but as she continued to refuse to answer, the Inquisitor decreed that to the torture of the strappado should be added the torture of squassation, whereupon the Executioner secured two large iron weights and tied one to each of the Witch's ankles, so that the next time she was dropped from the ceiling not only her shoulders but also her thighs should be dislocated. But at this point the Witch could hold out no longer, and in a low voice she confessed to having planned the murder of her present husband, and to having procured and begun the training of an accomplice to that end.
At which the Inquisitor pronounced himself satisfied, and commanded the Witch to sign the confession, but this she was unable to do because of the shaking of her fingers, so the Scribe held her hand while she made a mark, and the validity of this mark was attested by all present.
The Inquisitor then pronounced sentence, in the approved form, saying, 'Since you, Cynthia Earlswood, formerly Maladay, tide Lambert, confess that you, Cynthia Earlswood, formerly Maladay, nee Lambert, have committed the crimes of witchcraft, of murder, and of attempted murder, so I, N. N., your judge, decree that you, on account of the aforesaid crimes of witchcraft, and murder, and attempted murder, should be sentenced by burning from life to death, and that before the fire is lit, your body shall be torn with red-hot irons.' After saying which, the Inquisitor broke his staff of office, to indicate that the trial was at an end.

VIII

Baird leapt to his feet, ran at the door. Pilling made to stop him, but Patrick waved him aside. Baird pulled the door wide, ran down the hall, Imogen at his heels. The door to the cellar was closed, but the key was in the lock. Baird turned it, groped for the light switch, went down the steps, paused. The room was once again a gymnasium, with every piece of equipment in its original place. But the floor had recently been washed. Oh, they must have worked like absolute demons. Like absolute demons.
The end room.’ Imogen said.
Baird reached the fourth door, hurled it inwards, stumbled on to the blackness of the balcony. He stroked the wall, but there was no switch. Only his nostrils could register, and the scent was faintly sweet. Cynthia's scent.   The lights came on, and he blinked. The table waited beneath him, bare now, as was the smaller table on the first dais, the chair beyond. Baird ran down the steps, across the room, halted at the edge of the pit. Nothing but ashes. Now. Andrea's voice came from the balcony. 'When she realised what was going to happen to her, the Witch fell to her knees and begged for mercy, because despite the mistreatment of her body during the torture, she still seemed to cling to the hope that it was nothing more than a game. But now she begged, and wept, and fought the Executioner and his Assistant as they dragged her from the torture chamber and into the place of execution. Here the stake had already been erected, and to this the Witch was tied, whereupon, understanding that there was now no hope for her, she ceased her struggles and in a quiet voice requested the privilege of being strangled before the flames were lit, as she ad confessed. But the Inquisitor decreed that in view of the enormity of her crimes she should be burned alive, after I which the Witch closed her eyes and seemed to await her I fate with equanimity.
'Meanwhile the Executioner had been heating his irons, which he then applied to all the most tender parts of the Witch's body. During this final punishment, she fainted three times, and was each time revived by the pouring on of cold water.. Following which, her body covered in blood,  she was surrounded with faggots of green wood, which were set alight. She cried out three times and was then silent, but the flames burned for two hours and seventeen minutes, at the end of which time the Witch, and the stake, were utterly consumed.'
Baird was in the pit, on his knees, in the ashes, dragging his fingers through the dirt. No doubt someone had been here before him, seeking the last remnants of bone. For there was no bone. But something had been missed. His fingers, deep in the soft black powder, touched hardness. He thrust farther, got his hand around the tiny piece of metal, pulled it up, opened his palm. The object glinted, through the dust. It was melted now into a shapeless mass. But once it had been a plain gold wedding band.

'Would you like to keep that, Michael?' Patrick asked: 'You may. I think you were always Cynthia's favourite.'
Slowly Baird straightened. Imogen stood beside him, had watched him search the ashes. The other four had remained on the balcony.
'She deserved to die, you know,' Patrick said. 'And she deserved to die in just that fashion. Not only because she was guilty of everything with which she was charged, but because that was how she wanted to die. Oh, no doubt the pain was too much for her in the end. But she always claimed she wanted to know she was dying. And I assure you, she did.'	
Baird walked across the room. Imogen hesitated, and then followed.
'But I had Andrea make the record of her trial and execution, especially for you,' Patrick said. 'If you had no come here, I was going to mail it to you. After all, you are responsible for everything that happened; You, and Imogen.'
Baird halted at the foot of the steps.
'Aren't you, Michael? Wasn't it you who was not satisfied just to belong, but who had twinges of conscience, who wooed Imogen away from us, worked on her conscience until she went to the police? Don't you realise that if she hadn't done that, I might never have understood what was going on? I would have quietly died, sometime fairly soon I imagine, because Cyn had worked up quite a dislike for me. I wonder how she would have done it. I will always wonder that.'
Baird climbed the steps.
'So what will you do now, Michael?' Patrick asked. do assure you, there is not a trace of Cynthia left in existence, saving that ring, and you will never be able to prove anything with that. Oh, there is Andrea's story. It is yours to do with what you wish. Take it to the police, if you like You see, we learned something from darling Cyn. We were always learning from her, weren't we? She perverted the course of justice by laughing at the jury's morals, establishing that she was far worse than they ever imagined, that i she had chosen to murder she would have done so without a qualm. That record is so terrible no policeman in his right mind could believe that we could have done those 1 things to her. They'll laugh at you, Michael. Or lock you , up in a loony bin. My advice to you is to go home. Take Imogen. She should be sufficient for you, and we certainly don't want her here. And you can remember. We can all remember.'
Baird gazed at them. Cynthia had taught them how to dream, and then she had taught them now to transmit dreams into reality. With Cynthia at his side, it might be possible to transmit this dream into reality, to shed twenty
years and gain several inches in height, to destroy them all with a few gigantic blows, as he wished. But Cynthia was not at his side. Cynthia no longer existed,  'While you do what?' he asked.
Patrick shrugged. 'We will go on, much as before, I imagine. We have fallen into a way of life. We understand each other.'
Baird remembered what Harrington had said. 'You delude yourself. Without Cynthia, you are nothing. What you did to her, you could only do because it was her, because, even if unwillingly, she was participating. Without her, you will fly apart I think Cynthia was mad. I think she had to be mad, to live as she did, do what she did. But her madness was controlled, and she controlled yours, ours. Now you're really free, Patrick. And you, Thomas. And you, Margaret. And you, Andy. You're as free as the air.'
They stood aside to let him through. He went up the stairs and into the hall, pulled on his coat opened the front door and inhaled the night air. It was raining, softly. It had been raining on the first day he had come here.
He went down the steps, waited. 'Aren't you coming?'
'Do you want me?' Imogen asked. 'With Cynthia gone, there is no danger now. For me or for you.' No,' Baird said. 'With Cynthia gone, there is nothing at all, for you, or for me. Except each other.'
They took the path through the wood, saw the gates in front of them.
There's a bus stop by the chemist's shop, just down the road,' Imogen said. 'We can catch a bus into Epsom.' They waited, in the rain. 'Why?' Imogen asked.

'Given Cynthia’ Baird said. 'The rest was inevitable.
'But Cynthia herself. Was she inevitable?'
'According to a friend of mine, a Cynthia every so often is inevitable. He feels there may be many more of them, in the immediate future. And one Cynthia can affect a lot of people.'
'She was a monster,' Imogen said.
'For allowing her dreams to come true?'
'Yes,' Imogen said fiercely. 'No one can allow their dreams to come true. Not those dreams. She was the most evil woman in the world. Your friend is wrong. He must be wrong. There can never be another Cynthia!’
The bus came round the corner, rattled to a stop beside them. It was the last bus of the evening, and it was full of young people returning from the cinema.