Mark of Murder

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"Such a blessing," said Alison, "to be able to walk right off, with never a minute's worry. Mairi's such a dear, and so reliable. Isn't it a beautiful day!" She sat up in her deck chair and conscientiously inhaled several deep breaths of the sparkling sea air.

Mendoza grunted. "All the same, you're worrying because there wasn't a card or letter at Norfolk."

"I'm not really," said Alison. "She probably wasn't sure of catching us, and will write direct to the hotel in Bermuda."

Mendoza grunted again.

"For goodness' sake, look at the pretty ocean or-You're supposed to be enjoying yourself, on vacation."

"I know, I know," said Mendoza. He sat up and looked at the calm blue Atlantic, bright in the sun of early July, said perfunctorily, " Que bello," and leaned back again. "I wish the damn boat would go faster. Maybe I can get a Times in Bermuda."

"And the first vacation you've had in years," Alison went on. "From what I can make out, whenever you have taken a few days, you've found some excuse to go back and hang around the office, and never got a proper vacation at all. It's ridiculous-"

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