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second-guessing the murderer. They had a weekly prize of a bottle of wine for whoever was the quickest to spot the villain. Edwin usually won.
    ‘The trick is to spot the person most unlikely to have committed the crime. They got the idea from Agatha Christie.’
    ‘In that case,’ Vi pointed out, ‘surely Columbo should commit at least one murder.’ She herself preferred Dr Kildare .
    The bottle of wine was often drunk over discussions of poetry. One evening, Edwin said, ‘I am thinking of starting a poetry magazine. Will you help?’
    ‘How?’ Vi was clearing away spaghetti, one of their supper staples.
    ‘Write to people, help with the typesetting, advise the editor…’
    ‘That’s you, I take it?’
    ‘Who else?’
    ‘How will you fund it? Neither of us has a bean.’
    ‘The Persians debated everything twice,’ Edwin said. ‘Once sober, once drunk. There’s another bottle of Valpol in the kitchen. Fetch it here and we can debate.’
    The next morning, hungover from the unaccustomed alcohol, Vi asked, ‘Did the Persians really debate everything drunk?’
    ‘Sober as well.’
    ‘How do you know? How is it known, I should say?’
    ‘It’s in Herodotus.’
    ‘You’ve always said Herodotus was fanciful!’
    ‘No more than any other historian.’
    Vi had finished her salad and drunk the glass of Chablis and was looking out at the sea which in a mood of gracious gaiety was spangling with light.
    ‘Another glass, Mrs Hetherington? Or can I get you something else?’ It was the dancing waiter again.
    ‘Thanks, no. Although, have you any Valpolicella?’
    ‘I believe there is a good one. I’ll fetch the list.’
    ‘No, no. I trust your judgement. Just bring me a glass, if you would.’
    How funny that Valpol, the very cheapest plonk around when she and Edwin were being Persians, nowadays appeared on grand wine lists.
    ‘Shall I send the cheese board over, Mrs Hetherington?’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘And will I see you later, for the dancing?’
    ‘You do this as well as dance?’
    ‘The sommelier is sick. I am filling in.’
    ‘You do it very well. The wine was lovely.’
    ‘I am glad. I shall see you later, then, Mrs Hetherington?’
    ‘I don’t know, Dino. Perhaps.’

10
    The recent presence of Renato was noticeable. The doors to the balcony in Vi’s cabin had been shut fast and bolted, top and bottom, and there was an aggressive smell of synthetic lemon. A leaflet, offering as a ‘taster’ a free private dance lesson with Marie or George, had been propped ostentatiously against the pile of books on the desk.
    Maybe, Vi thought, I should take this as a form of spiritual exercise. She forced back the bolts and opened the doors to the cleansing sea air. What a pity no similar cleanser existed for the heart. Outside, she leaned on the balcony watching the water and letting Ted’s rings slip up and down on her fingers, the way he used always to warn her not to lest she lose them. She was remembering the poetry magazine.
    Edwin revealed an unexpected talent for acquiring money for his proposed publication. Whereas he was generally lackadaisical over money, over the magazine he became ruthless. He mounted a fierce campaign for donations, haunting the rooms of colleagues and bombarding their pigeonholes with written appeals until they gave in and coughed up. Retired dons, and their wives, were targeted at their own parties where an apparently indefatigable Edwin stayed on late, till to get rid of himthey pledged their financial support. Under his direction, Vi typed letters to charitable trusts pleading the cause of poetry. The strategy produced enough funds for an estimated print run of two hundred for the first edition of Ariel .
    How to fill the magazine exercised Edwin more. His own poems, some running to several pages, took up much of the space. He had contacts on the poetry circuit to whom, in her capacity as assistant editor, Vi wrote asking for contributions. Many of those appealed to were