The Sirens Sang of Murder by Sarah Caudwell

the first time the curious sensation of coldness which I was afterwards to associate with the Daffodil affair.
    “But so far as I know,” continued Julia, “no one thought there was anything sinister about it. The obvious explanation was that someone else on the terrace had ordered a large vodka and orange juice—one does find people in the Cayman Islands who might think that a suitable breakfast beverage—and the waiter had confused the orders.”
    “But surely,” said Ragwort, “there must have been some kind of investigation to establish whether that had happened?”
    “Well no. As Selena has suggested, the chief concern of Stingham’s was to see, if at all possible, that there was no reference in the newspapers to the fact that Oliver Grynne had been drinking—you can imagine what the
Scuttle
would have made of it, for example. Well, Patrick had one or two quite influential friends in Georgetown, and he thought he could probably arrange for that aspect of the accident to be kept quiet. But that depended on the authorities assuming that it was quite normal forGrynne to have been drinking vodka. If they’d known that it wasn’t they’d have been bound to investigate, and it would have become public knowledge. So they all decided simply to say nothing about his being a teetotaller. Darkside, I need hardly say, was not involved in these discussions, but there didn’t seem much risk that he would think of volunteering that particular item of information to the authorities.”
    Selena divided the remainder of the wine equitably among our glasses.
    “It does occur to me,” she said absentmindedly, “that if one were going to attack someone while they were swimming, it might be rather sensible to ensure that they had consumed a large quantity of alcohol, especially if they weren’t used to it. No doubt I’m being fanciful.”
    “Extremely fanciful,” said Ragwort. “But… how convenient for Gideon Darkside that Oliver Grynne should have died.”

CHAPTER 5

    EXTRACT FROM
THE GUIDE TO COMFORTABLE TAX PUNNING
       Sark: Smallest of the Channel Islands, lying between Guernsey and Jersey. Closer geographically to the former, and comprised in the same Bailiwick, but originally colonised (in 1585) by 40 Jerseymen under the patronage of Helier de Carteret, Seigneur of St. Ouen. Area: 1,348 acres. Population: 500. Capital: None to speak of—social and commercial activity centres on the Avenue, an unmade-up road running between the Bel Air tavern and the Post Office and containing several souvenir and jewellery shops. Tractors are the only permitted form of motor transport; bicycles and horse-drawn carriages can be hired. Principal industries: Tourism and financial services. More company directorships per head than anywhere else in the world. Access: Regular boat service from Guernsey; for boat and hydrofoil services to Jersey and St. Malo, enquire locally.
    Note 1: Avoid if prone to seasickness.
    A slender, fair-haired girl stood hesitating in the doorway of the Corkscrew, as if in surroundings unfamiliar to her, looking from one to another of the groups of lawyers gossiping at candlelit tables. Upon seeing us, she approached our table, and I saw that it was Lilian.
    She accepted with some demur the offer of a glass of wine. The purpose of her coming, it seemed, was to deliver to Julia a telex message received a few minutes earlier in 63 New Square. A colleague of Julia’s, knowing something of her ways, had looked for her next door in 62; Lilian, knowing something more, had volunteered to look for her in the Corkscrew.
    “It’s extremely kind of you,” said Julia, “to take so much trouble. Does it seem to be urgent?”
    “It’s not actually marked ‘Urgent,’ “said Lilian, blushing slightly. “But—I couldn’t help reading the first couple of lines, and I thought you ought to see it right away. Because Mr. Cantrip’s supposed to be in West London County Court tomorrow, and—and Henry’s going