I think, my dear, we won''t talk any more about murder during tea. Such an unpleasant subject. -- Agatha Christie, 4:50 From Paddington


    2:00 P.M.


    "Disgraceful, how ungrateful young people are nowadays. It was different when I was a girl. Quite different."


    The other three ladies nodded sagely at Rachael''s remark.


    "You know, I think that niece of yours must be mentally unbalanced," Mrs. Gilpin said. "Have you considered sending her away to a nice place for a rest?"


    As usual after dinner, Rachael had joined three other women for a game of whist in one of the second-class sitting rooms. They''d all heard about Ophelia''s outrageous declaration at dinnertime. Everyone was united in the opinion she was insane. Rachael, now that her initial rage had worn off, was inclined to agree.


    Perhaps it was hereditary. She was convinced her brother had been at the very least dull-witted or he would never have disgraced himself by marrying an actress. Her son was next door to a complete lunatic; no one else would voluntarily spend their life watching birds on some god-forsaken rock in the middle of the ocean. Octavia was certainly not in possession of all her sense, as proved by her choice of occupation, her marriage, and her blackmailing attempt. It was perhaps only inevitable that Ophelia would also go mad.


    "Do you think she might be dangerous?" Mrs. Parker-Smith asked. "I suppose you''ve heard about the American millionaire''s son who went mad and tried to run his father down in their brand new car? They say it started with him shouting at his father. If I were you I''d keep a careful eye on that girl."


    "Maybe you should talk to the detective," suggested Miss Pym.


    Rachael had very little time for detectives. None of the ones back home had ever been able to prove her husband had hidden at least half of his money in some unknown bank account, even though she knew he had. She also knew he''d done it to stop her using it, and that her wretched, useless son had access to it.


    "Detectives are all fools playing at being Sherlock Holmes."


    "Not this one," Miss Pym insisted. "I saw him in Hong Kong before we left. I was talking to Mrs. Walsh-Murray — you know, the former Miss Weston, the one who''s married to the American consulate in Saigon — and she said he''s considered the best detective in Joseon. Oh, but it''s not Joseon any more, is it? I mean the Korean Empire[1]. Apparently he travels the whole world looking for interesting mysteries because he''s run out of ones to solve in Korea."


    Rachael raised an eyebrow disbelievingly. "I doubt a hysterical young girl counts as an interesting mystery for such a famous detective. Besides, I don''t approve of Chinamen."


    "...He''s Korean."


    "So what? All those people are alike."


    <hr>


    2:20 P.M.


    For the first half-hour after the scene at lunchtime Phil took refuge on-deck. There were few other people around; mostly old men who either couldn''t or wouldn''t leave their deck-chairs to go to lunch, so instead had their servants bring their plates to them. They were all too absorbed in their meals or in talking to each other to pay any attention to Phil. She wandered further along the deck until she found a space between two lifeboats.


    She leaned on the railing and watched the waves. The sea stretched out to the horizon without any sign of land. If she remembered correctly they were still two days away from Australia.


    As soon as we land I''m stowing away on a train and never looking back, she thought.


    So what if she didn''t have any money? It couldn''t be that hard to find a job. Anyway, she''d resort to bank robbery before she put up with Rachael for any longer.


    Other passengers wandered past without paying any attention to her. She knew they were there from the sound of their footsteps on the deck. She listened out for her aunt''s distinctive stride, which always reminded her of soldiers on the march. It didn''t come. Instead she heard a set of footsteps approach slowly. They stopped a short distance away.


    Phil looked round, expecting to find her aunt had sent a steward to bring her back. Instead she saw it was only Király.


    "If you''re going to give me a lecture, it''s no use. I''m not sorry and I''m not going to say I am."


    Király looked like someone who had expected the worst but was still disappointed. "So you really did tell your aunt you want to kill her?"


    That was unexpected. "Of course not! Is that what she told you?"


    "I haven''t spoken to her and I wasn''t close enough during dinner to hear what you said. I gathered what happened from all the gossip."


    Phil rolled her eyes. "Well, the gossips got it wrong. I said I wished Rachael was dead, not that I wanted to kill her."


    "Not much of a difference," Király observed.


    "Yes, there is. Anyway, Rachael brought it on herself. Her and Vi."


    Király''s eyebrows shot up. "What has Vi to do with it?"


    He pronounced Octavia''s nickname like the letter V, while Phil pronounced it like the first syllable of violin.


    "She''s taken up blackmail as a hobby, apparently. That''s what dear old auntie says, though how she knows is beyond me."


    Király looked sceptical. "If anyone in this family is likely to be a blackmailer it''s Rachael herself."


    That was undeniable. Phil could only shrug helplessly. "Go and ask her yourself if you want. But I''d leave it until tomorrow so she can calm down. When do we reach Australia?"


    Király didn''t bat an eyelid at the abrupt change of subject. "Three o''clock the day after tomorrow."


    "Then I''d better make myself scarce before we arrive and try to be in the first group to disembark." In answer to Király''s questioning look she elaborated, "I''m running away. I can''t stand it any more."


    Phil had expected an argument, or at least some disagreement. But Király just nodded as if he''d expected it all along.


    "Vi has a bank account in your name," he said.


    Phil had suspected Vi was up to something of the sort. A while ago she might have been too proud to accept. Now she just determined to repay her sister when she had money of her own.


    "Won''t you wait until we''re back home?" Király asked. "You don''t know anyone in Australia."


    "I can''t put up with Rachael for that long, and it would be too easy for her to find me."


    The spectre of the night before their departure rose up before her again. If the police found the body in the lake, if there was anything on it to make them suspicious... It wasn''t as if she''d shot or stabbed the man. He''d tripped and fallen down the stairs. Surely no one would think his death was anything but an accident. But just in case they did, she had another reason for wanting to get as far away as possible.


    <hr>


    3:20 P.M.


    After her talk with Király Phil had gone back to her cabin and tried to read. She hadn''t succeeded very well. For weeks she''d managed to avoid thinking of that night.


    Rachael had sent her down to the boathouse. A shawl left on the boat. Stairs leading down to the lakeside. A man in the shadow of the trees. Beside the path. He spoke to her. She grabbed a fallen branch to defend herself. He talked nonsense. Wanted to see her aunt''s business records. Tried to grab her arm.


    Three things stood out amidst the chaotic, disjointed memories. The crack of the branch hitting him. His cry as he fell down the stairs. The crash of his landing.


    Silence.


    A startled owl hooting overhead.


    Phil had been too scared to move for a long time. Only the thought that Rachael might come to see what was taking so long spurred her into motion. She shone her torch down the stairs. The man lay still at the bottom.


    She crept down closer to get a better look. His neck was twisted at an unnatural angle. His eyes were open and staring. Without having to check she knew he was dead.


    Fear of Rachael''s reaction, fear of being called a murderess, fear of what would happen if the body was discovered, fear of the dead man''s possible accomplices. All of those combined into all-consuming terror. Phil dragged the body off the path and into the concealment of a patch of ferns.


    She staggered down to the boathouse. She collapsed onto the pier. Phil couldn''t remember for sure, but she had an idea she''d been sick at some point. Finally she managed to retrieve the shawl from the boat and started back to the house.


    "What a time you''ve been," she remembered Rachael saying. "Did you fall into the lake?"


    Phil was almost sure she''d replied with, "No, I dropped my lantern and it took a long time to relight it." That had been the best excuse she could come up with.


    She hadn''t been able to sleep that night. In the early hours of the morning she had gone downstairs, climbed out the breakfast room''s window, and went down to the lakeside. It took her a long time to find the body. Even longer to drag it further down the path. Down to a small cove that technically was part of Rachael''s property but where boaters often landed for picnics.Stolen novel; please report.


    She shoved the body into the water. Face-down so it would look like he drowned. If anyone discovered him she hoped they''d think he''d fallen out of a boat. Or had a swimming accident. People could break their necks while swimming, couldn''t they?


    The next morning she''d gone back again and checked to be sure there were no obvious signs of what had happened. It had rained during the night. If there had been any traces, they''d been washed away.


    That night seemed like a bad dream. As days went by without any news — not even news of the body being discovered and put down as an accidental death — Phil began to wonder if it had happened at all. Could she have dreamt all of that?


    She tried to cling to the hope that no news was good news. That the police thought the body was just another of the foolish tourists who rented boats and had no idea what they were doing.


    Last year a boat had been found floating empty on the lake. The woman who''d hired it was found later with her neck and skull broken. It was eventually determined that she hadn''t known how to tack across the lake and had refused all offers of help. It had been an unusually windy day when she went out in the boat. She had apparently sat down to have a sandwich. The boom had swung across unexpectedly and struck her in the neck, killing her instantly and knocking her overboard.


    Surely the police would assume something similar had happened this time.


    Phil had drifted into a kind of half-wakeful doze as she thought of all this. Then she heard something that woke her up instantly.


    Rachael''s way of marching around the place was unmistakeable. She was approaching along the corridor. Phil leapt off the bed and hovered by her door, afraid her aunt would check to see if she was there.


    She was in luck. Rachael went straight into her own cabin. When she closed the door behind her, Phil opened her own door and slipped out. She didn''t bother to lock it in case Rachael heard the noise.


    Muffled voices came from behind a few of the cabin doors as she tiptoed down the hall. No one opened their doors and she didn''t meet anyone walking back to their cabin. As soon as she reached the staircase she ran for the library. There she found a secluded corner to retreat into, partially hidden behind a curtain so no one would be able to find her.


    <hr>


    4:00 P.M.


    The man in Cabin 181 is listening to Dvo?ák on his record player. Symphony No. 7, I believe. I''m surprised he hasn''t had complaints about the noise. Somewhere in a cabin around the corner I can hear a hoover[2]. Certain of my colleagues would object to so much noise around the place where they''re working. Too many potential witnesses, they say.


    I prefer conditions like this. Plenty of noise to cover up the shot, and no one will be sure whether they actually heard it.


    I have already pieced together my gun. The silencer is attached[3]. For jobs like this I always carry it disassembled at the bottom of my suitcase. I have a plan of the cabins around me and from my partially-open door I can see my neighbours come and go. It''s a fine day. Almost everyone is up on deck. The man in 181, my target in 172, and myself are the only people currently in their rooms. That''s why the record player goes unremarked — though I must say I''m surprised the target hasn''t complained.


    I check my watch. It''s time.


    My borrowed skeleton key doesn''t work on the girl''s door. I try the handle. She forgot to lock it! How stupid. Convenient for me, but stupid.


    The chair beside the wardrobe is still in place. I move it quietly out of the way and kneel down so I can see through the hole.


    A minor mystery is solved: my target is fast asleep and is wearing earmuffs. I take careful aim for her head. If she had been sitting up I would have aimed for the chest. Headshots are more reliably fatal than chest shots — you would be astonished to find out how long a person can live with a bullet in their chest — but they''re tricky and tend to miss. But in this case my target is obliging enough not to move.


    I pull the trigger.


    With the silencer the gun sounds like a door closed with force, or even a very loud sneeze.


    Her body jolts. Blood splashes on the wall beside her. I spare a moment to pity whoever finds her, because that means the bullet travelled right through her skull and tore out a chunk on the other side.


    I move the chair back into place. Now for the hardest part: leaving unobserved.


    Dvo?ák''s symphony continues in the background. It''s reached the third movement. The noise of the trumpets, strings and drums may have disguised the gunshot, but they also drown out quieter sounds. If someone was walking past the door I wouldn''t be able to hear them.


    I open the door a crack and peer through it. No one approaching from the left. Someone coming from the right would cast a shadow once they passed the light fixture on the ceiling just outside my door. I wait. No shadow appears. I risk opening the door wide enough to get my head around it.


    The corridor is empty.


    I dart out of the girl''s room, close the door, and return to my room. There I disassemble my gun and conceal it again.


    Two of the passengers are having an engagement party in the first class dining room. I change into my best clothes and go to give them my best wishes.


    It''s 4:11 when I leave my room. No one ever pays close attention to who arrives when at these — comparatively — informal events. If asked for an alibi I''ll swear I was there at four.


    <hr>


    4:25 P.M.


    Phil''s book slipped from her hands and thumped on the carpet. She jolted awake at the noise. For a minute she blinked non-comprehendingly at the curtain beside her. Then she remembered. She had yelled at her aunt, she was planning to run away, and she was hiding in the library.


    She picked up the book — a copy of The Moonstone which she had only read a few pages of before falling asleep — and replaced it on the shelf. She checked her watch. Over an hour before dinner. She had enough time for a bath first.


    Only the first class cabins were en suite. Phil and her aunt were travelling second class, so they had to go to one of the bath cubicles set aside for the women in second class. So far Phil had made do with washing her hair at the sink in her cabin, but when she ran away it might be a week or more before she could get a bath.


    She went back to her cabin and began to gather her clothes. When she opened the wardrobe its door collided with a chair placed too close. Phil stifled an impatient exclamation. Her aunt might still be next door, even though there was no noise from her cabin, and if she thought Phil was here she''d storm in.


    Phil moved the chair out of the way. A discoloured patch on the wall caught her attention. That hadn''t been there before. Puzzled, she looked more closely.


    It wasn''t a discoloured patch after all. It was a square cut right through the wall. She could see the carpet of Rachael''s cabin on the other side.


    "What on earth?"


    Phil knelt down and examined the square. It wasn''t a broken board or anything so simple. It had been sawn out deliberately. She could spot the sawdust on her carpet.


    Her first thought was that Rachael had done this to spy on her. A wave of rage washed over her at the idea. She looked through the square and got a shock. Rachael was in her room. She was fast asleep.


    Phil was angry enough to immediately go to confront her aunt. She stalked out of her room and tried to open Rachael''s door. It was locked, but the key hadn''t turned properly and it opened with a bit of pushing.


    "Did you think I wouldn''t notice?" she demanded, storming in as soon as the door opened.


    Rachael didn''t answer. Those damned earmuffs must have drowned out Phil''s entrance.


    Phil was too angry to notice the red stains on the pillow. She snatched the earmuffs away. Then she got a second shock, because Rachael''s head jolted in a weird, stiff way. The side of her face was a mask of red. She didn''t open her eyes.


    At first Phil''s brain refused to comprehend what she saw. Rachael had hit her head against the wall beside the bed. She''d cut her face. Maybe she''d knocked herself out.


    But there was a small hole on the side of her head facing Phil''s wall. A red line ran from it and pooled on the pillow.


    The cabin lurched as if the sea had suddenly turned choppy.


    The wall beside Rachael''s bed was splashed with blood. Part of Phil''s mind tried to figure out how that could have happened when the bullet-hole — oh god that''s what it is, it can''t be anything else — was on the opposite side. The rest of her thoughts were a tangle of horror and bewilderment.


    The whole thing seemed like a dream. Why, it was just like one of the sensational murder mysteries she had read. It couldn''t possibly happen in reality. Any minute now she would wake up and—


    One memory forced its way to the front of Phil''s mind.


    "I wish you were dead!"


    Oh God. Suddenly she knew two things with absolute certainty. The bullet had been fired from her room. And half the ship would swear to having heard her declare she wanted her aunt dead.


    Phil staggered back. She bumped into the door. It dawned on her that if someone walked past while the door was open like this, she would be arrested on the spot and no amount of protestations would save her from the noose.


    She recoiled from the idea of shutting the door. To close herself in here with— with that... It was unbearable.


    She forced herself to do it anyway. She had to think this through.


    What happened in the murder mysteries? The murderer always wanted an alibi. Phil knew with a sickening sense of dread that she didn''t have one. She had specifically chosen a hiding place where no one would find her. True, she had passed a few people on the way back to her cabin, but how many of them would remember her or know when they''d seen her?


    Király! Király could vouch for her whereabouts at— Phil tried to remember when they had spoken. Half two? Definitely before three.


    How long had Rachael been dead?


    She could probably have guessed from whether rigor mortis had set in. The ghastly memory of dragging the man''s body to the water came back to haunt her. The thought of going over to Rachael''s body again, of touching her, made Phil gag.


    Rachael had definitely been alive at half three. That was when Phil had fled to the library to avoid meeting her. Király''s evidence would be useless once the doctor determined the time of death.


    Wait a minute. The time of death. The time!


    Phil distinctly remembered a novel where the murderer had changed the time on the victim''s watch. Then they had broken the watch to make it look like it had been damaged and had stopped when the victim fell down the stairs. The police had assumed the victim died at the time on the watch when in fact they had been dead almost an hour before.


    Rachael didn''t have a watch. But she did have a clock. It was on her bedside table.


    Phil had been leaning against the door, partly to keep it closed and partly for support. She forced herself to stand up straight. Then to take a step forward. Then another one. She turned her head away to avoid having to see the... the corpse.


    With shaking hands she picked up the clock and wound it forward. A quarter to five. Five. A quarter past five. That would do. Now to make it look like the clock had broken accidentally.


    Phil kept her eyes averted from the bed as she raised the clock. Then she flung it to the floor as hard as she could. There was a loud crash and a definite sound of glass shattering.


    Good. The police would assume the clock had been knocked over by the murderer. Maybe they wouldn''t notice the hole in the wall.


    Just to make sure they wouldn''t, Phil dragged an empty suitcase down from the top of the wardrobe and set it in front of the hole. She took a final look around to make sure she had left nothing to incriminate her.


    Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely turn the door-handle. She stumbled into the hallway and immediately stifled a scream. One of the maids had just gone into a cabin on the other side of the hall.


    There was no time to think. Phil acted. She half-turned her head and forced herself to speak naturally, as if she was talking to a real live person and not a bloodied corpse.


    "I''ll tell them not to disturb you, Aunt Rachael. Sleep well."


    Her words sounded unbearably stilted. Never before in her life had Phil cared if Rachael was disturbed or if she slept well. She felt a deranged desire to laugh. To scream. To run away, to turn herself in, to jump overboard. Her mind felt like it was a leaf being carried along by a fast-flowing stream. Her legs felt like they were made of lead.


    There was no way for her to lock her aunt''s door from this side. She couldn''t bear the thought of reaching around the door to get the key. It was ridiculous but she felt sure something would grab her if she did.


    Phil had a moment of inspiration. She darted into her own cabin, retrieved the "Do Not Disturb" sign, and hung it on her aunt''s door.


    Now to make sure the maid didn''t interfere.


    Phil forced herself to walk down to the cabin the maid had just gone into. She knocked the door. She illogically expected the maid to accuse her of murder on the spot. Instead the woman barely looked at her. She was too busy trying to change the quilt cover to pay any attention to Phil.


    "My aunt in Cabin 172 has a headache and is having a nap," Phil said. "She doesn''t want to be disturbed."


    "All right, I''ll see to her room at dinnertime," the maid said, as if it was a matter of complete indifference to her.


    Phil somehow made it to the bathrooms at the end of the corridor. She stumbled into a cubicle and was promptly sick.


    She knelt on the bathroom floor for ages. If only she could keep the door locked and hide in here until they reached Australia. If only she didn''t have to arrange an alibi and answer questions and deflect suspicion. If only Rachael had never come on this journey! It was all Rachael''s fault. She''d brought it on herself. No wonder someone had decided to kill her. It was only surprising that it had taken this long. It was all Rachael''s fault.


    All Rachael''s fault.


    All—


    Phil felt something wet on her face. She brushed it away and almost expected to see blood on her hand. It came as a shock to realise she was crying.