‘Lizzy’s not that stupid-or that bad.’ Fern put her hand to her cheeks in a gesture of distress. ‘Look, I know this sounds dreadful and I probably can’t prove a thing. But Sam-my fiané-lived next door to Lizzy Hurst all the time he and Lizzy were kids. Lizzy adored him. She always assumed they’d marry.

‘Well, at seventeen, Sam decided he wanted to leave the island and be a lawyer. He didn’t want Lizzy. Lizzy hit the roof. She did all sorts of crazy things. Every time he’s come back she’s made his visits miserable-even though he’s been gone now for over ten years.’

‘So you believe…’ Quinn Gallagher let out his breath on a long, slow whistle. ‘You believe this is a deliberate attempt at sabotage?’

‘Lizzy has an oyster lease south of the island. She knows everything there is to know about oysters. She’ll know just when they start to turn-and she’ll know we won’t be able to prove a thing.’

Quinn gazed round.

‘The photographer’s not ill,’ he said. ‘Was he…?’

‘He wasn’t at lunch.’

‘Your uncle?’

‘He hates oysters.’

‘And you?’

‘I was too nervous to eat anything.’

‘OK, it fits,’ Quinn said decisively, and Fern had a sudden image of him in Casualty Department, complete with white coat and stethoscope. She found the image strong, competent and strangely comforting. ‘But we need to find Lizzy and confirm it.’

‘I guess…’ Fern looked doubtfully over the scattering groups of guests. They were nearly all gone now-taken to their cars and bolting like rabbits to the privacy of their own homes.

‘You know where she lives?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can we phone her?’

‘She doesn’t have a phone.’ Fern grimaced. ‘And if I know Lizzy, she’ll be hard to find. But I agree; she has to be found and I guess I know the places to look. OK, I’ll go.’ She looked ruefully down at her bridal splendour. ‘But I’ll stop on the way and get something more suitable to wear.’

‘What you’re wearing is hardly clinical.’ The smile surfaced again. ‘Though it’s white enough.’