A Great Deliverance

  Stepha came to join him. They didn’t speak for some moments. “I expect you’ve seen Roberta,” she said gently at last.

  He turned, thinking to find her watching him, but she wasn’t. Instead her eyes were on the glass of ale she held. She turned it slowly in the palm of her hand, as if all her concentration were centred on its balance and the total necessity of not spilling a drop. “How did you know?”

  “She was quite tall as a child, I remember. Almost as tall as Gillian. A big girl.” With a hand dampened by the moisture of the glass, she brushed a few hairs from her brow. Her fingers left a misty streak on her skin. She rubbed it off impatiently. “It happened quite slowly, Inspector. First she was just filled out—chubby, I suppose. Then she was…what you saw today.” The shudder that passed through her body spoke volumes. And as if she realised what her reaction implied, she went on. “That’s horrible of me, isn’t it? I have rather a despicable aversion to ugliness. Frankly, I don’t much like that about myself.”

  “But you didn’t answer me.”

  “I didn’t? What did you ask?”

  “How you knew I’d seen Roberta.”

  A dull flash crept into Stepha’s cheeks. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and looked so ill-at-ease that Lynley was sorry he had pressed her.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said.

  “It’s just that…you look a bit different than you did this morning. More weighted down. And there are lines at the corners of your mouth.” The flush deepened on her beautiful skin. “They weren’t there before.”

  “I see.”

  “So I wondered if you’d seen her.”

  “But you knew without asking.”

  “Yes, I suppose I did. And I wondered how you can bear to look at the ugliness of other people’s lives as you do.”

  “I’ve done it for some years. One gets used to it, Stepha.” The big man strangled as he sat at his desk, the dirty girl dead with the needle in her arm, the savage mutilation of a young man’s corpse. Did one ever really get used to man’s dark side?

  Her eyes met his with surprising directness. “But surely it must be like looking at hell.”

  “A bit.”

  “Then have you never wanted to run from it? Run away madly in the other direction? Never? Not once?”

  “One can’t run forever.”

  She turned from him, moving her eyes back to the window. “I can,” she murmured.

  A sharp rap on the door caused Barbara to stub out her third cigarette. She looked around in a panic, opened the window, and rushed to the lavatory, where she flushed the incriminating evidence down the toilet. A second rap and Lynley’s voice called her name.

  She went to the door. He hesitated, glancing over her shoulder curiously before he spoke. “Ah, Havers,” he said. “Apparently Miss Odell has seen fit to find us a more edible repast this evening. She’s booked us into Keldale Hall.” He consulted his watch. “In an hour.”

  “What?” Barbara cried out in involuntary horror. “I haven’t…I can’t…I don’t think…”

  Lynley raised an eyebrow. “Please don’t go all Helen on me and say you’ve nothing to wear, Havers.”

  “But I haven’t!” she protested. “You go alone. I’ll get something at the Dove and Whistle.”

  “Considering your reaction to last night’s fare, do you think that’s wise?”

  A blow below the belt. Blast him. “I don’t care much for chicken. I never have.”

  “Wonderful. I understand the cook at the hall is a bit of a gourmet. I doubt if anything with feathers will even put in an appearance. Unless, of course, Hannah’s waiting on tables.”

  “But I simply can’t—”

  “It’s an order, Havers. In an hour.” He turned on his heel.

  Damn him! She slammed the door loud enough to signal her displeasure. Wonderful! What an evening to look forward to: fumbling aimlessly with sixteen pieces of silverware; wineglasses everywhere; waiters and waitresses removing knives and forks before one even had a chance to decide what to do with them. Chicken and peas at the Dove and Whistle sounded like heaven compared to that.

  She stomped to the wardrobe and yanked it open. Divine. Now what shall it be for an evening of mingling elegantly with society? The brown tweed skirt and matching pullover? The jeans and hiking boots? What about the blue suit, to remind him of Helen? Ha! Who could ever remind him of Helen, with her impeccable wardrobe, her well-cut hair, her manicured hands, her lyrical voice?

  She yanked a white wool shirtwaist from the wardrobe and tossed it onto the rumpled bed. It really was almost amusing. Would people actually think she was his date? Apollo taking Medusa to dine? How would he handle the stares and the gibes?

  One hour later, as good as his word, he knocked on her door. She looked in the mirror, her stomach churning. Oh God, the dress was awful. She resembled a white-garbed barrel with legs. She jerked open the door and glared at him furiously. He was dressed to the absolute teeth.

  “Do you always carry clothes like that around with you?” she demanded, incredulous.

  “Just like the Boy Scouts.” He smiled. “Shall we go?”

  He escorted her gallantly down the stairs and into the night, where he opened the car door for her and tucked her within the tooled leather comfort of the Bentley. The born gentleman, she thought derisively. On automatic pilot. Get him into his Lord of the Manor outfit and forget Scotland Yard.

  As if he read her mind, he turned to her before starting the car. “Havers, I’d like to give the case a rest for the evening.”

  What on earth would they have to talk about if the murder of Teys was going to be taboo? “All right,” she replied, brusquely.

  He nodded and turned the ignition key. The big car purred to life. “I love this part of England,” he said as they set off down Keldale Abbey Road. “You haven’t been told that I’m an unabashed Yorkist, have you?”

  “A Yorkist?”

  “The War of Roses. We’re deep in their country now. Sheriff Hutton’s not far from here and Middleham’s practically within shouting distance.”

  “Oh.” Wonderful. A discourse on history. Her entire knowledge of the War of Roses began and ended with the conflict’s name.

  “Naturally, I know one’s really obliged to think badly of the Yorks. They did, after all, do away with Henry VI.” He tapped his fingers reflectively against the wheel. “Except I can never help thinking that there was a justice in that. Pomfret and all. Richard II being murdered by his very own cousin. Killing Henry seems to have closed the circle of the crime.”

  She pleated the white dress between her fingers and sighed, defeated. “Look, sir, I’m no good at this sort of thing. I…well, I’d do much better at the Dove and Whistle. If you’d please just—”

  “Barbara.” He pulled abruptly to the verge. He was looking at her, she knew, but she stared ahead into the darkness and counted the moths that danced in the car’s headlamps. “Would you just for an evening be what you are? Whatever you are.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” God, how shrewish she sounded.

  “It means that you may drop the act. Or at least that I wish you would.”

  “What act?”

  “Just be what you are.”

  “How dare you—”

  “Why do you pretend not to smoke?” he interrupted.

  “Why do you pretend to be such a public school fop?” She hadn’t intended the words to be so shrill. At first, as if evaluating her comment, he didn’t respond.

  There was silence. Then he threw back his head and laughed. “Touché. Shall we call a truce for the rest of the evening and go on despising each other with the dawn?”

  She glared at him a moment, then, in spite of herself, smiled. She knew she was being manipulated, but it didn’t seem to matter. “All right,” she said reluctantly. But she noticed that neither of them had answered the other’s question.

  They were welcomed into Keldale Hall by a woman who put to
rest every sartorial fear of Barbara’s that Lynley had not been able to assuage. She was dressed in a moth-eaten skirt of indeterminate colour, a gypsy blouse decorated with stars, and a beaded shawl that she had slung round her shoulders like an Indian blanket. Her grey hair was gathered tightly into two elastic bands, one on each side of her neck, and to complete the ensemble she had perched an elaborate tortoiseshell Spanish comb on the top of her head.

  “Scotland Yard?” she asked and looked Lynley over with a critical eye. “God, they didn’t package ’em that way when I was young,” She laughed uproariously. “Come in! We’re a small party tonight, but you’ve saved me from murder.”

  “How’s that?” Lynley asked, ushering Barbara ahead of him.

  “I’ve an American couple that I’d love to kill. But we’ll leave that. You’ll understand soon enough. We’re gathered in here.” She led them across the massive stone hall, scented with the assorted meats that were roasting in the kitchen nearby. “I haven’t breathed a word that you’re Scotland Yard,” she confided loudly, shouldering her beadwork back into place. “When you meet the Watsons, you’ll know why.” On through the dining room, where candlelight was casting shadows on the walls. A linen-covered table was set with china and silver. “The other couple are newlyweds. Londoners. I like ’em. Don’t paw each other in public the way so many newlyweds do. Very quiet. Very sweet. I expect they don’t like to draw attention to themselves because the man’s crippled. Wife is a lovely little creature, though.”

  Barbara heard Lynley’s swift intake of breath. Behind her, his steps slowed and then stopped altogether. “Who are they?” he asked hoarsely.

  Mrs. Burton-Thomas turned around at the entrance to the oak hall. “Name of Allcourt-St. James.” She threw open the door. “Here’s more company for us!” she announced.

  Barbara was intensely aware of the photographic quality of the scene. A fire burned brilliantly, hissing as the flames devoured the coal. Comfortable chairs were gathered round it. At the far end of the room, touched by shadows, Deborah St. James was bent over a piano, leafing through a family album with delight. She looked up with a smile. The men rose to their feet. And the picture froze.

  “Lord,” Lynley whispered—prayer, curse, resignation.

  At his tone, Barbara looked at him, and it came with a sudden jolt of recognition. How ridiculous that she hadn’t seen it before. Lynley was in love with the other man’s wife.

  “Hi there! That’s one heckuva nice-lookin’ suit,” Hank Watson said. He extended his hand to Lynley. It was fat, slightly sweaty, like shaking hands with a warm, uncooked fish. “Dentistry,” he announced. “Here for the ADA convention in London. Tax write-off to the s-k-y. This is JoJo, my wife.”

  Somehow the introductions were muddled through.

  “Champagne before dinner is my rule,” Mrs. Burton-Thomas said. “Before breakfast as well, if I have my way. Danny, bring the juice!” she shouted, in the general direction of the doorway, and a few moments later a girl came into the room, burdened with an ice bucket, champagne, and glasses.

  “What line-a work you in, fella?” Hank asked Lynley as the glasses went around. “I thought Si here was some sort-a college professor type. Gave me the jumping hee-haws when he said he was a dead-body man.”

  “Sergeant Havers and I work for Scotland Yard,” Lynley responded.

  “Say-hey, JoJo-bean. Did you hear that, woman?” He looked at Lynley with new interest. “You here on the baby gig?”

  “The baby gig?”

  “Three-year-old case. Guess the trail’s kinda cold now.” Hank winked in the direction of Danny, who was putting the bottle of champagne into the bucket of ice. “Dead baby in the abbey? You know.”

  Lynley didn’t know anything, didn’t want to know anything. He couldn’t have answered if his life depended upon it. He found that he didn’t know what to do with himself, where to cast his eyes, what to say. He was only conscious of Deborah.

  “We’re here on the decapitation gig,” Havers responded politely, miraculously.

  “De-cap-i-ta-tion?” Hank crowed. “This is one jumping area of the country! Don’t you think so, Bean?”

  “Sure is,” his wife said, nodding in solemn affirmation. She fingered the long strand of white beads she wore and looked hopefully in the direction of the silent St. Jameses.

  Hank hunched forward in his chair, dragging it closer to Lynley’s. “Well, give us the poop!” he demanded.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The p-o-o-p. The verified, certified poop.” Hank slapped the arm of Lynley’s chair. “Who did it, fella?” he demanded.

  It was too much. The appalling little man screwing his face up in excitement was too much to bear. He was wearing a saffron polyester suit, a matching shirt in a floral print, and round his neck hung a heavy gold chain with a medallion that danced on the thick hair of his chest. A diamond the size of a walnut glittered on his finger, and he flashed white teeth made even whiter by his burnt-sienna tan. His bulbous nose flexed its nostrils blackly.

  “We’re not entirely sure,” Lynley replied seriously. “But you fit the description.”

  Hank stared at him, bug-eyed. “I fit the description?” he croaked. Then he peered at Lynley closely and broke into a grin. “Damn you Brits! I just can’t get the hang of your humour! But I’m gettin’ better, right, Si?”

  Lynley finally looked at his friend and found him smiling. Amusement danced in St. James’s eyes. “Absolutely,” Si replied.

  As they drove in the darkness back to the lodge, Barbara studied Lynley furtively, realising that until this evening it had been entirely unthinkable to her that a man such as he could ever have been unsuccessful in love. Yet here on the outskirts of the village was the undeniable evidence of that fact: Deborah.

  There had been at the hall a horrified moment with the three of them staring at one another before she had come forward, a tentative smile on her face, a hand outstretched in greeting.

  “Tommy! Whatever are you doing in Keldale?” Deborah St. James had asked.

  He’d been at an absolute loss. Barbara saw it and intervened. “An investigation,” she replied.

  Then the horrible little American had thrown himself into their midst—it was a merciful intervention, really—and the other three began to breathe evenly once more.

  Still, St. James had remained in his place by the fire, greeting his friend politely but making no other movement, his eyes for the most part following his wife. If he was concerned about Lynley’s unexpected arrival, if jealousy stirred in him at the man’s blatant feelings, his face betrayed nothing.

  Of the two, Deborah had been more obviously distressed. Her colour was high. Her hands had clasped and unclasped repeatedly in her lap. Her eyes had moved restlessly between the two men, and she hadn’t concealed her relief when Lynley suggested their departure at the earliest opportunity after the meal’s conclusion.

  Now he was pulling the car in front of the lodge and switching off the ignition. He leaned back and rubbed his eyes. “I feel as if I could sleep for a year. How do you suppose Mrs. Burton-Thomas is going to get rid of that dreadful dentist?”

  “Arsenic?”

  He laughed. “She’ll have to do something. He was talking as if staying another month were the dearest thing to his heart. What an appalling man!”

  “Not exactly the sort one wants to run into on a honeymoon,” she admitted. She wondered if he would pick up the conversational thread, if he would say anything about St. James and Deborah and the awkward coincidence that had flung them into his path. Indeed, she wondered further if he would say anything at all about how he had come to position himself on the worst possible side of this unusual love triangle.

  Instead of replying, however, he got out of the car and slammed the door. Barbara watched him shrewdly as he came to her side. Not a ripple appeared on the surface of his calm. He was in firm control. If anything at all, the fop was back.

  The lodge door opened and a squ
are of light framed Stepha Odell. “I thought I heard your car,” she said. “You’ve a visitor, Inspector.”

  Deborah gazed at her reflection in the mirror. He’d said absolutely nothing since coming into their room, merely walking over to the fire and sitting in the chair, the brandy glass in his hand. She’d watched him, not sure what to say, afraid to penetrate the wall of his sudden isolation. Don’t go that way, Simon, she’d wanted to shout. Don’t cut yourself off from me. Don’t go back to that darkness. But how could she say it and risk having Tommy thrown up in her face?

  She ran the water into the bathroom basin and dismally watched its flow. What was he thinking, alone in that room? Was he haunted by Tommy? Did he wonder if she closed her eyes when they made love so she could dream of him? He never once had asked. He never once had questioned. He simply accepted whatever she said, whatever she gave. So what could she say or give to him now, with her past and Tommy’s between them?

  She splashed her face repeatedly, dried it, turned off the water, and forced herself to walk back into the bedroom. Her heart sank when she saw that he’d gone to bed. His heavy leg brace lay on the floor near the chair, and his crutches leaned against the wall next to the bed. The room was dark. But in the dying light of the fire she saw that he was still awake, sitting up in fact, with the pillows behind him, watching the glow of the embers.

  She walked to the bed and sat down. “I’m in a welter,” she said.

  He felt for her hand. “I know. I’ve been sitting here trying to think how I might help you. But I don’t know what to do.”

  “I hurt him, Simon. I never intended to, but it happened all the same, and I can’t seem to forget it. When I see him, I feel so responsible for his pain. I want to make it go away. I…I suppose I’d feel better then. Less guilty about it all.”

  He touched her cheek and traced the line of her jaw. “If it were only that easy, my love. You can’t make it go away. You can’t help him. He’s got to do it alone, but it’s hard because he’s in love with you. And the fact that you’re wearing a wedding ring doesn’t change that, Deborah.”