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chicken letalone a man the general feeling is that Victor did it himself. But as that notion is distressing to dear Wilfred’s feelings we’re all busy pretending that it was an accident. I miss Victor, I liked him. He was about the only person here I could talk to. But the rest hated him. And now, of course, they’ve all got bad consciences wondering if they may have misjudged him. There’s nothing like dying for putting people at a disadvantage. I mean, when a chap keeps on saying that life isn’t worth living you take it that he’s just stating the obvious. When he backs it up with action you begin to wonder if there wasn’t more to him than you thought.”
    Dalgliesh was spared the need to reply by the sound of a car on the headland. Maggie, whose ears were apparently as keen as his own, sprang from her chair and ran outside. A large black saloon was approaching the junction of the paths.
    â€œJulius,” Maggie called back to him in brief explanation and began a boisterous semaphoring.
    The car stopped and then turned towards Hope Cottage. Dalgliesh saw that it was a black Mercedes. As soon as it slowed down Maggie ran like an importunate school-girl beside it, pouring her explanation through the open window. The car stopped and Julius Court swung himself lightly out.
    He was a tall, loose-limbed young man dressed in slacks and a green sweater patched army fashion on the shoulders and elbows. His light brown hair, cut short, was shaped to his head like a pale glinting helmet. It was an authoritative, confident face but with a trace of self-indulgence in the perceptible pouches under the wary eyes and the slight petulance of the small mouth set in a heavy chin. In middle age he would be heavy, even gross. But now he gave an immediate impression of slightly arrogant good looks, enhanced rather than spoilt by the white triangular scar like a colophon above his right eyebrow.
    He held out his hand and said:
    â€œSorry you missed the funeral.”
    He made it sound as if Dalgliesh had missed a train. Maggie wailed:
    â€œBut darling, you don’t understand! He hasn’t come for the funeral. Mr. Dalgliesh didn’t even know that the old man had snuffed out.”
    Court looked at Dalgliesh with slightly more interest.
    â€œOh, I’m sorry. Perhaps you’d better come up to the Grange. Wilfred Anstey will be able to tell you more about Father Baddeley than I. I was at my London flat when the old man died so I can’t even provide interesting death bed revelations. Hop in both of you. I’ve got some books in the back for Henry Carwardine from the London Library. I may as well deliver them now.”
    Maggie Hewson seemed to feel that she had been remiss in not effecting a proper introduction; she said belatedly:
    â€œJulius Court. Adam Dalgliesh. I don’t suppose you’ve come across each other in London. Julius used to be a diplomat, or is it diplomatist?”
    As they got into the car Court said easily:
    â€œNeither is appropriate at the comparatively lowly level I reached in the service. And London is a large place. But don’t worry, Maggie, like the clever lady in the TV panel game, I think I can guess what Mr. Dalgliesh does for a living.”
    He held open the car door with elaborate courtesy. The Mercedes moved slowly towards Toynton Grange.
II
    Georgie Allan looked up from the high narrow bed in the sick bay. His mouth began to work grotesquely. The musclesof his throat stood out hard and taut. He tried to raise his head from the pillow.
    â€œI’ll be all right for the Lourdes pilgrimage won’t I? You don’t think I’ll be left behind?”
    The words came out in a hoarse, discordant wail. Helen Rainer lifted up the edge of the mattress, tucked the sheet neatly back into place in the orthodox hospital approved style and said briskly:
    â€œOf course you won’t be left behind. You’ll be the most important patient on