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Aunt Cora raised her eyebrows queryingly. “But if you don’t like the woman, Katherine, surely it shouldn’t worry you if she chooses to lunch with an undesirable character like this man.”

“No.” Katie wished the persistent feeling of uneasiness would go. “But you see, Eleanor Barlow has been seeing quite a lot of John—John Miller lately, and both Fran and Jamie think it may be serious.” She shook her head, as if to rid herself of some unwelcome thought. “Well, you know Fran and Jamie?” she smiled wryly. “They’ll stop at nothing to cause a break between them, and Fran saw this lunch business as a fine opportunity to drive in the wedge. She couldn’t wait to tell John when we got back.”

Aunt Cora studied her hands in her lap as she spoke. “And how did lie take the news?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” her frown deepened. “I don’t profess to understand him, I doubt if anyone does fully, but I did think that it was rather cruel of Fran to tell him like that, if he
is
fond of her.”

Her aunt raised her eyes and smiled slowly, covering Katie’s hands with one of her own. “I think John Miller can stand a little childish teasing from his cousin,” she said gently. “He’s a grown man, and I should say that he’s well able to take care of himself.” Katie sat with her eyes downcast. “It was cruel of Fran,” she insisted. “But Fran can be as ruthless as the rest of the Dennisons, they pride themselves on it. Cruel to be kind, she called it.” She looked up into her aunt’s shrewd gaze and smiled. “He’s a Dennison, too,” she said. “I expect he can more than hold his own.”

The hot weather showed no signs of abating and Katie, taking advantage of her new-found leisure, spent most of her time out of doors, usually in the company of Fran or Jamie or often both of them. The exposure to sun and sea air had tanned her creamy skin to a delightful golden brown that made her look, so Jamie rather extravagantly claimed, like an eastern princess. Jamie himself, like Fran, already very brown before Katie arrived in Mare Green, were now so dark that they made a striking pair with the contrast to their fair heads and blue eyes.

Sitting in her favourite spot on top of the cliffs, hugging her knees, Katie watched the shimmering sea her mind pleasantly relaxed as she thought of nothing at all, until she became aware of voices below her. She frowned her curiosity as she listened to the wordless buzz of voices. There was little or no beach below the frowning, vertical cliffs and she wondered at anyone venturing on to the narrow strip of shingle which was only uncovered at low tide, as now.

Remembering about her own terrifying experience such a short time before she rose from her shadowed patch and tried to look over the edge, but it was impossible to see as the edge sloped slightly towards the sea. It was dangerous also, she realised,
to look
over as she was, for 'the path was set well back and notices warned walkers that it was dangerous to go too near the edge.

She waited to see if the low murmur of the voices would stop and she would hear whoever it was leave their dangerous position, but hearing no lull in the -conversation she decided to act and moved on to the cliff path. The quickest way to warn the unwary talkers was for someone to take a boat round there and warn them.

Clay Pengarth watched her approach from his place on the quay, his narrowed eyes almost closed against the glare of the sun, his weathered face softened in a smile as he watched her. “You’m in a big hurry, miss,” he said, as she came up to him.

“I am,” she admitted. “Clay, there’s someone on the strip of shingle below the cliff,” she pointed at the curve of the harbour hiding the strip she referred to. “I think someone ought to take a boat round there and warn them before the tide comes in.” She looked at the spot where the Dennisons’ launch was usually moored
and saw that it was missing. “Oh, is someone out in
Sea A fist?”

The brown, many-lined face looked at her kindly as he tamped tobacco into a well-worn briar. “That’s right, miss,” he said slowly, his attention centred on the drawing of his pipe. “Mr. Miller went out for a run.”

“Mr. Jamie Miller?” she asked, puzzled, as Jamie had said that he was going into Sea Bar that morning and Katie had refused to accompany him on the grounds that it was far too hot and she wanted to be lazy.

Clay Pengarth shook his head, “No, miss, it’s Mr. John Miller, he took her out about an hour since.” He flicked her a brief smile. “Said ’twas cooler on the water an’ I doubt he’s not right.”

“Then he may see them if he’s round that way,” Katie said, somewhat relieved.

He shook his head, puffing a cloud of smoke about his head that hovered in the still air.

“I reckon you’m mistaken about somebody being under the cliff there, miss, isn’t no one daft enough to get on that bit of a strip.”

“But there
was”
Katie insisted. “I heard their voices, someone was talking down there.”

It seemed to Katie that the sea-faded eyes of the man avoided looking at her, contrary to his usual friendly gaze, and she felt a surge of impatience knowing that the tide was at its lowest and that once it turned the tiny strip of shingle would soon be under several feet of water. Someone could be drowned while the man took his time deciding that she had been imagining things.

“I’ve not seen anyone go out within the last hour,” he said. “Don’t seem likely that there’s anyone there, miss.” He jabbed the stem of his pipe in the direction of the open sea behind her. “Here’s Mr. Miller now. You could ask him if he’s seen aught.”

Katie turned as John Miller brought
Sea Mist
into the harbour and up to the quay. He took off his sunglasses as he came up the stone steps on to the quay and turned his vivid eyes on Katie queryingly. “Good morning.” His voice had the usual incisive, almost impatient edge to it as he cast a frowning glance at her companion. “Something wrong, Clay?”

“I don’t know, sir,” the man’s narrowed eyes passed his employer a meaningful glance as he spoke. “The young lady thought she heard voices on the strip of shingle below the cliffs, she was worried that someone might get trapped down there.”

“I see.” He flicked a glance at Katie, frowning as he ran his fingers through his hair.

“I told Miss Roberts, sir, that ’twas unlikely anyone would be daft enough to get on that strip, ’twould be look too dangerous, even to a stranger,” said Clay.

“I
did
hear someone,” Katie insisted, and glanced at her watch, “and the tide’s on the turn now, if we don’t hurry it will be too late.”

“I just came along past there and I saw no one as I passed,” said John. “I agree with Clay, I think you were mistaken.”

She felt that both men had stubbornly made up their minds not to believe her and her grey eyes darkened angrily at their obstinacy. “I
did
hear someone,” she said crossly, “and you just won’t believe me. It wouldn’t take long to go and look, would it? It would be awful if someone was drowned and I’d been right all along!” The men looked at each other, and she sensed their weakening resistance. "Please,” she begged, her eyes wide and appealing, “Please, John, it wouldn’t take very long just to look.”

“Very well,” he turned and ran back down the steps to the launch, turning as he stepped on board to look back at her. “Hurry, since you seem to think it’s so urgent,” he said impatiently.
“Oh—” she hesitated only a second of surprise, then followed him on board, while Clay, his lips curved into an enigmatic smile, cast them off.

The engine snarled into life and frothed the still water as they moved off, Katie standing beside him at the wheel. “You need convincing that there
is
no one there,” John told her above the engine sound. “This is the best way.” He turned his head briefly and looked at her, ‘You’re stubborn,” he said but without malice, “as stubborn as—”

“As you!” she retorted, and faced the cool, fresh breeze they were creating, her eyes as bright and sparkling as the silver flashing sea.

They rounded the curve of the cliffs, as close inshore as was possible at low tide and he pointed to the already diminishing strip of shingle. “There,” he said, “that’s the place, and there’s no one there.”

She frowned. “But I
heard
someone,” she said, her voice puzzled. “I heard voices, men’s voices, I think they were, they sounded like men.”

He took the boat on past the curve of the harbour “Did you hear what they were saying?” he asked, almost too casually, she thought.

“No,” she admitted, “I couldn’t hear any words, only the voices.”

“Hmm.” She did not like the doubtful sound he made. ‘You must have been having too much sun.” He glanced at her uncovered head, the black hair flying back from her slender neck and wide forehead. “You should wear something on your head.”

She flushed angrily at the implication and flashed him an angry glance. “Put your sunglasses on, too,” he told her shortly.

“Where are we going?” she asked curiously, putting on her sunglasses without making the retort she had intended. She noticed that he had not turned the boat back towards Mare Green but was making for more open water and increasing their speed rather than lessening it, until they seemed to fly over the water, sending it frothing about them like whipped cream.

“Does it matter?” He kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, the ghost of a smile touching the usual taut line of his mouth. “Are you worried?”

“No, of course not,” she sounded far from sure of her answer and tried to see his expression to glean some clue as to his intention, but the dark, concealing sunglasses gave his face an oddly blank look.

The breeze off the sea was gloriously cool and she held her head tilted back to catch the full effect of it as it blew across the tipped glass windshield. She had never been this far along the coast before and she could see in the distance the golden brown of a sandy shore with no sign of cliffs and only the occasional outcrop of grey rock. “Where are we?” she asked.

“Off St. Miram,” he said, and gave the shoreline a brief glance. “Don’t you know it?”

“No,” she shook her head, “I’ve only been as far as Sea Bar the other way, and not along this side at all. It looks nice.” She cast him a long look, feeling oddly safe as she did so behind her dark lenses. His fair, almost blond hair was ruffled by the breeze and somehow gave him a more vulnerable look, and with the disconcertingly steady eyes concealed behind sunglasses, he looked unaccustomedly relaxed.

He turned and looked at her suddenly, as if he sensed her scrutiny. “Would you like to go ashore for a while?” he asked. “It’s not like Sea Bar, no bright lights and a casino, but it’s very peaceful.”

She hesitated only a second, uncertain of him in this new, easy mood. “Yes, please,” she said, “I would, if you’re sure you want to; I mean I don’t want to be a nuisance.”

To her further surprise he smiled, a flash of white teeth against the tanned face, as he turned the launch and headed inshore. “You’ve been that already,” he told her.

She would have retorted, but hesitated to spoil the momentary truce they seemed to be enjoying. Instead she looked at the approaching shore, golden and inviting and completely free of any sign of humanity. He brought the launch right in close and moored it to a short wooden landing stage. “Is it allowed?” she asked cautiously. “It looks like a private beach.”

“It is,” he said, helping her on to the echoing boards of the landing stage, ’‘but I can use it whenever I want to.” He retained his hold on her hand until she stepped on to the soft warmth of the sand.

“Oh,” she glanced at the deserted beach, backed by wind-stunted bushes and salt-sprayed grass that grew in tufts on the rising dunes. There were houses well back above the beach, and little summer houses at the ends of most of the well kept gardens. “It’s a lovely spot for bathing,” she said, “or is it more dangerous than it looks?”

He nodded, dropping on to the sand. “It’s not too safe unless you know it,” he said.

“And you do?” She sat a few inches away from him, trickling the warm sand through her fingers, not looking at him.

“I do,” he answered noncommittally, and stretched out lazily, his hands under his head, the dark lenses still concealing his eyes, though she had the feeling that he was watching her.

She turned and looked above the slight rise to where the houses stood, large and rather complacent in their gardens. It must cost quite a lot of money, she thought, to live in St. Miram, and she wondered who it was that John Miller knew so well that he was familiar with the conditions here.

“Are you going to sit curled up there like the little mermaid?” he asked dryly. “Why don’t you sit back and relax?”

“I’m all right,” she said, flushing at the note of amusement in his voice, and feeling oddly nervous alone with him. “There’s a lovely breeze here.”

“Mmm.” She was not sure whether he still had his eyes open or not and she started almost guiltily as he added. “Janus tells me that you were not part of Fran’s little surprise package the other day.”

She took off her sunglasses and covered her eyes for a second against the glare of the sun, giving herself time to think before she answered. So, she thought rather disappointedly, that was the reason for this rather intimate meeting on a quiet beach, he wanted to talk about Eleanor Barlow, probably find out how much she and Fran had seen in the restaurant.

“I don’t know what surprise package you mean,” she said, running the sand through her fingers and not looking at him.

“I think you do, Katherine.” It was the first time anyone but Aunt Cora had called her Katherine for years and she bit her lip, taking it for a sign of, disapproval.

“I don’t think it’s any concern of mine,” she said hesitantly.

“Nor is it of Fran’s!” he retorted. “But that didn’t stop her from trying to interfere. I won’t question her motives, I’m sure they were excellent as far as she was concerned.”