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II
At twenty past six, Vera felt that to sit there longer was unbearable. She
would go to her room and bathe her aching head and temples in cold wa-
ter.
She got up and went towards the door. Then she remembered and came
back and got a candle out of the box. She lighted it, let a little wax pour
into a saucer and stuck the candle firmly to it. Then she went out of the
room, shutting the door behind her and leaving the four men inside. She
went up the stairs and along the passage to her room.
As she opened her door, she suddenly halted and stood stock still.
Her nostrils quivered.
The sea…The smell of the sea at St Tredennick.
That was it. She could not be mistaken. Of course, one smelt the sea on
an island anyway, but this was different. It was the smell there had been
on the beach that day—with the tide out and the rocks covered with sea-
weed drying in the sun.
‘Can I swim out to the island, Miss Claythorne?’
‘Why can’t I swim out to the island?…’
Horrid whiney spoilt little brat! If it weren’t for him, Hugo would be
rich…able to marry the girl he loved…
Hugo…
Surely—surely—Hugo was beside her? No, waiting for her in the room…
She made a step forward. The draught from the window caught the
flame of the candle. It flickered and went out…
In the dark she was suddenly afraid…
‘Don’t be a fool,’ Vera Claythone urged herself. ‘It’s all right. The others
are downstairs. All four of them. There’s no one in the room. There can’t
be. You’re imagining things, my girl.’
But that smell—that smell of the beach at St Tredennick…That wasn’t
imagined. It was true.
And there was someone in the room…She had heard something—surely
she had heard something…
And then, as she stood there, listening—a cold, clammy hand touched
her throat—a wet hand, smelling of the sea…
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