Then there was a hot, whispered argument⁠—on the best way of getting the body down, Stephen standing swaying in the boat, with his face upturned, like some ridiculous moonlight lover, John flinging down assertions and reasonings in a forced whisper which broke now and then into a harsh undertone. Stephen thought it should be carted down the steps. John, with an aching objection to further prolonged contact with the thing, said it should be lowered with a rope. “Haven’t you a bit of rope?” he reiterated⁠—“a bit of rope⁠—much the best.”

Sick of argument, Stephen fumbled with wild mutterings in his locker, and brought out in a muddle of oilcans and tools a length of stout cord. Together they made a rough bight about Emily’s middle, together lifted her to the flat stone parapet of the wall.

When she was there a dog barked suspiciously in Hammerton Terrace; another echoed him along The Chase. The two men crouched against the wall in a tense and ridiculous agitation.