Sixteen COLIN LAMB’S NARRATIVE¹ I
I noticed when Sheila Webb slipped quietly out of the Coroner’s Court. She’d given her evidencevery well. She had looked nervous but not unduly² nervous. Just natural, in fact. (What would Becksay? “Quite a good performance.” I could hear him say it!)I took in the surprise finish of Doctor Rigg’s evidence. (Dick Hardcastle hadn’t told me that, buthe must have known) and then I went after her.
“It wasn’t so bad after all, was it?” I said, when I had caught her up.
“No. It was quite easy really. The coroner was very nice.” She hesitated. “What will happennext?”
“He’ll adjourn³ the inquest—for further evidence. A fortnight probably or until they can identifythe dead man.”
“You think they will identify him?”
“Oh, yes,” I said. “They’ll identify him all right. No doubt of that.”
She shivered⁴. “It’s cold today.”
It wasn’t particularly cold. In fact I thought it was rather warm.
“What about an early lunch?” I suggested. “You haven’t got to go back to your typewritingplace, have you?”
“No. It’s closed until two o’clock.”
“Come along then. How do you react to Chinese food? I see there’s a little Chinese restaurantjust down the street.”
Sheila looked hesitant.
“I’ve really got to do some shopping.”
“You can do it afterwards.”
“No, I can’t—some of the shops close between one and two.”
“All right then. Will you meet me there? In half an hour’s time?”
She said she would.
I went along to the seafront and sat there in a shelter. As the wind was blowing straight in fromthe sea, I had it to myself.
I wanted to think. It always infuriates one when other people know more about you than youknow about yourself. But old Beck and Hercule Poirot and Dick Hardcastle, they all had seenquite clearly what I was now forced to admit to myself was true.
I minded about this girl—minded in a way I had never minded about a girl before.
It wasn’t her beauty—she was pretty, pretty in rather an unusual way, no more. It wasn’t her sexappeal—I had met that often enough—had been given the full treatment.

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