“The best, Deb,” he said lightly in reply. He went to her, hugged her quickly to him, and brushed a kiss against her hair.
And it came to Barbara, as she stood there watching, that for some reason St. James had left the two of them together precisely so that Lynley could do just that.
3
The body had no head. That single, grisly detail was the most prominent feature of the police photographs that were being passed among the three CID officers gathered at the circular table in the Scotland Yard office.
Father Hart looked nervously from one face to the next, and he fingered the tiny silver rosary in his pocket. It had been blessed by Pius XII in 1952. Not an individual audience, of course. One could never hope for that. But certainly that trembling, numinous hand making the sign of the cross over two thousand reverential pilgrims counted for a powerful sort of something. Eyes closed, he’d held the rosary high above his head as if somehow that would allow the Pope’s blessing to strike it more potently.
He was well on his way into the third decade of the sorrowful mysteries when the tall, blond man spoke.
“‘What a blow was there given,’” he murmured, and Father Hart looked his way.
Was he a policeman? Father Hart couldn’t understand why the man was dressed so formally, but now, upon hearing the words, he looked at him hopefully. “Ah, Shakespeare. Yes. Just the very thing somehow.” The big man with the awful cigar looked at him blankly. Father Hart cleared his throat and watched them continue to scrutinise the pictures.
He’d been with them for nearly a quarter of an hour and in that time barely a word had been exchanged. A cigar had been lit by the older man, the woman had twice bitten off something she’d intended to say, and nothing more had occurred until that line from Shakespeare.
The woman tapped her fingers restlessly on the top of the table. She at least was some sort of police person. Father Hart knew that by the uniform she wore. But she seemed so entirely unpleasant with her tiny, shifting eyes and her grim little mouth. She would never do. Not what he needed. Not what Roberta needed. What should he say?
The horrid photographs continued to be passed among them. Father Hart did not need to see them. He knew far too well what they captured. He’d been there first, and it was all so unspeakably engraved on his mind. William Teys sprawled out on his side—all six feet four of him—in a ghastly, quasi-fetal position, right arm extended as if he’d been reaching for something, left arm curled into his stomach, knees drawn up halfway to his chest, and where the head had been…There was simply nothing. Like Cloten himself. But no Imogen there to awaken in horror by his side. Just Roberta. And those terrifying words: “I did it. I’m not sorry.”
The head had rolled into a mound of sodden hay in a corner of the stall. And when he’d seen it…Oh God, the stealthy eyes of a barn rat glittered in the cavity—quite small, of course—but the quivering grey snout was brilliant with blood and the tiny paws dug! Our Father, who art in heaven…Our Father, who art in heaven…Oh, there’s more, there’s more and I can’t remember it now!
“Father Hart.” The blond man in the morning coat had removed his reading spectacles and had taken from his pocket a gold cigarette case. “Do you smoke?”
“I…yes, thank you.” The priest snatched quickly at the case so that the others might not see how his hand trembled. The man passed the case to the woman, who shook her head sharply in refusal. A silver lighter was produced. It all took a few moments, blessed time to allow him to gather together his fragmented thoughts.
The blond man relaxed in his chair and studied a long line of photographs that had been posted on one of the walls of the office. “Why did you go to the farm that day, Father Hart?” he asked quietly, his eyes moving from one picture to the next.
Father Hart squinted myopically across the room. Were those pictures of suspects? he wondered hopefully. Had Scotland Yard seen fit to begin pursuing this malevolent beast already? He couldn’t tell, wasn’t even certain from this distance that the photographs were of people at all.
“It was Sunday,” he replied as if that would somehow say everything.
The blond man turned his head at that. Surprisingly, his eyes were an engaging brown. “Were you in the habit of going to Teys’s farm on Sundays? For dinner or something?”
“Oh…I…excuse me, I thought the report, you see…” This would never do. Father Hart sucked eagerly at the cigarette. He looked at his fingers. The nicotine stains climbed past every joint. No wonder he’d been offered one. He shouldn’t have forgotten his own, should have bought a pack back at King’s Cross. But there was so very much then…. He puffed hungrily at the tobacco.
“Father Hart?” the older man said. He was obviously the blond’s superior. They’d all been introduced but he’d stupidly forgotten their names. The woman’s he knew: Havers. Sergeant, by her garments. But the other two had slipped his mind. He gazed at their grave faces in mounting panic.
“I’m sorry. You asked…?”
“Did you go to Teys’s farm every Sunday?”
Father Hart made a determined effort to think clearly, chronologically, systematically for once. His fingers sought the rosary in his pocket. The cross dug into his thumb. He could feel the tiny corpus stretched out in agony. Oh Lord, to die that way. “No,” he answered in a rush. “William is…was our precentor. Such a wonderful basso profundo. He could make the church ring with sound and I…” Father Hart took a ragged breath to put himself back on the track. “He’d not come to Mass that morning, nor had Roberta. I was concerned. The Teyses never miss Mass. So I went to the farm.”
The cigar smoker squinted at him through the pungent smoke. “Do you do that for all your parishioners? Must certainly keep them in line if you do.”
Father Hart had smoked his cigarette down to the filter. There was nothing for it but to stub it out. The blond man did the same although his was not half-smoked. He brought out the case and offered another. Again the silver lighter appeared; the flame caught, produced the smoke that seared his throat, soothed his nerves, numbed his lungs.
“Well, it was mostly because Olivia was concerned.”
A glance at the report. “Olivia Odell?”
Father Hart nodded eagerly. “She and William Teys, you see, had just become engaged. The announcement was to be made at a small tea that afternoon. She’d rung him several times after Mass but got nothing. So she came to me.”
“Why didn’t she go out there herself?”
“She wanted to, of course. But there was Bridie and the duck. He’d got lost somehow, the usual family crisis, and she couldn’t be settled down until he was recovered.”
The three others glanced at one another warily. The priest reddened. How absurd it all sounded! He plunged on. “You see, Bridie is Olivia’s little girl. She has a pet duck. Well, not really a pet, not in the actual sense.” How could he explain all of it to them, all the twists and turns of their village life?
The blond man spoke, kindly. “So while Olivia and Bridie were looking for the duck, you went out to the farm.”
“That’s so exactly right. Thank you.” Father Hart smiled gratefully.
“Tell us what happened when you arrived.”
“I went to the house first, but no one was there. The door wasn’t locked and I remember thinking that was strange. William always locked everything tight as a drum if he went out. He was peculiar that way. Insisted I do the same with the church if I wasn’t about. Even when the choir practised on Wednesdays he never once left until every person was gone and I’d seen to the doors. That’s the way he was.”
“I imagine his unlocked house gave you a bit of a turn,” the blond man said.
“It did, really. Even at one o’clock in the afternoon. So, when I couldn’t raise anyone with a knock…” He looked at them all apologetically, “I suppose I walked right in.”
“Anything peculiar inside?”
“Nothing at all. It was perfectly clean, as it always was. There was,
however…” His eyes shifted to the window. How to explain?
“Yes?”
“The candles had burned down.”
“Have they no electricity?”
Father Hart looked at them earnestly. “These are votive candles. They were always lit. Always. Twenty-four hours a day.”
“For a shrine, you mean?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what it is. A shrine,” he agreed immediately and hurried on. “When I saw that, I knew at once something was wrong. Neither William nor Roberta would ever have let the candles go out. So I went through the house. And from there, out to the barn.”
“And there…?”
What was there really left to report? The chilling tranquillity had told him at once. Outside, in the near pasture, the bleating of sheep and the cry of birds spoke of sanity and peace. But in the barn, the absolute quiet was the core of diablerie. Even from the door the rich cloying smell of pooled blood had reached him, over the mixed odours of manure and grain and rotting hay. It had drawn him forward with seductive, unavoidable hands.
Roberta had been sitting on an overturned pail in one of the stalls, a big girl born of her father’s stock, used to the labour of a farm. She was motionless, staring not at the headless monstrosity that lay at her feet but at the opposite wall and at the cracks that mapped its surface.
“Roberta?” he had called urgently. He felt sickness rising from stomach to throat and his bowels loosening.
There was no response, not a breath, not a movement. Just the sight of her broad back, her sturdy legs curled beneath her, the axe at her side. And then, over her shoulder, he’d seen the body clearly for the first time.
“I did it. I’m not sorry,” the only thing she’d said.
Father Hart squeezed his eyes shut against the memory. “I went at once to the house and rang Gabriel.”
For a moment Lynley believed that the priest was talking about the archangel himself. The odd little man did seem a bit in touch with other worlds as he sat there painfully struggling through his story.
“Gabriel?” Webberly asked incredulously. Lynley could tell that the super’s patience was wearing thin. He fingered through the report for some indication of the name and found it quickly enough.
“Gabriel Langston. Village constable,” he said. “And I take it, Father, that Constable Langston phoned the Richmond police at once?”
The priest nodded. He looked warily at Lynley’s cigarette case and the other man opened it and offered another round. Havers refused and the priest was about to do so as well until Lynley took one himself. His throat felt raw, but he knew they’d never get to the end of the story unless the cleric was supplied with nicotine, and it appeared that he needed a companion in his vice. Lynley swallowed uncomfortably, longed for a whisky, lit up again, and let the cigarette burn itself to nothing in the ashtray.
“Police came down from Richmond. It was all very quick. It was…they took Roberta.”
“Well, what could you expect? She admitted to the crime.” Havers had spoken. She’d risen from her seat and wandered to the window. Her voice clearly informed them that in her opinion they were wasting their time with this foolish old man, that they ought to be barrelling towards the North at this very moment.
“Lots of people admit to crimes,” Webberly said, motioning her back to her seat. “I’ve had twenty-five confessions to the Ripper killings so far.”
“I just wanted to point out—”
“That can come later.”
“Roberta didn’t kill her father,” the priest went on as if the other two had not spoken. “It’s just not possible.”
“But family crimes happen,” Lynley said gently.
“Not when there’s whiskers.”
To the priest’s bizarre comment—so obviously logical and satisfactory to himself—no one made a response. No one spoke at all or looked particularly at anyone else. There was a lengthy, unendurable pause in the proceedings, broken by Webberly, who pushed away from the table. “Jesus,” he muttered. “I’m terribly sorry, but…” He stalked to a cabinet at the corner of the room and pulled out three bottles. “Whisky, sherry, or brandy?” he asked the others.
Lynley sent a prayer of thanksgiving to Bacchus. “Whisky,” he replied.
“Havers?”
“Nothing for me,” she said primly. “I’m on duty.”
“Yes, of course. Father, what’ll it be?”
“Oh, a sherry would be only too—”
“Sherry it is.” Webberly tossed back a small, neat whisky before pouring again and returning to the table.
They all stared meditatively into their glasses, as if each wondered who’d be the first to ask the question. Lynley finally did so, his throat newly soothed by the fragrant single malt. “Ah…whiskers?” he prompted.
Father Hart looked down at the papers spread out on the table. “Isn’t it in the report?” he asked plaintively. “About the dog?”
“Yes, it does mention the dog.”
“That was Whiskers,” the priest explained, and sanity was restored.
There was collective relief. “It was dead in the stall with Teys,” Lynley noted aloud.
“Yes, don’t you see? That’s why we all of us know Roberta’s innocent. Aside from the fact that she was devoted to her father, there’s Whiskers to consider. She would never hurt Whiskers.” Father Hart eagerly sought out the words to explain. “He was a farm dog, part of the family since Roberta was five. He was retired, of course, a bit blind, but one just doesn’t put down dogs like that. Everyone in the village knew Whiskers. He was a bit of a pet to all of us. He’d wander down of an afternoon to Nigel Parrish’s house on the common, have a bit of a lie in the sun whilst Nigel played the organ (he’s our organist at church, you see). Or sometimes he’d have his tea at Olivia’s.”
“Got on with the duck, did he?” Webberly asked, straight-faced.
“Oh, famously!” Father Hart beamed. “Whiskers got on with us all. And when Roberta was out and about he followed her everywhere. That’s why, when they took Roberta, I had to do something. And here I am.”
“Yes, indeed, here you are,” Webberly concluded. “You’ve been more than helpful, Father. I believe Inspector Lynley and Sergeant Havers have all that they need for now.” He got to his feet and opened the door of his office. “Harriman?”
The Morse-like tapping of word processor keys stopped. A chair scraped on the floor. Webberly’s secretary popped into the room.
Dorothea Harriman bore a modest resemblance to the Princess of Wales, which she emphasised to a disconcerting degree by tinting her sculptured hair the approximate shade of sunlight on wheat and refusing to wear her spectacles in the presence of anyone likely to comment upon the Spencerian shape of her nose and chin. She was eager to advance, swept up in her “c’reer,” as she monosyllabically called it. She was intelligent enough to make a success of her job and would most likely do so, especially if she could bring herself to renounce her distracting manner of dress, which everyone referred to as Parody Princess. Today she was wearing what looked like a drop-waisted pink ball gown that had been shortened for everyday wear. It was utterly hideous.
“Yes, Superintendent?” she asked. In spite of threats and imprecations, Harriman insisted upon calling every employee at the Yard by his or her full title.
Webberly turned to the priest. “Are you staying in London, Father, or returning to Yorkshire?”
“I’m on the late train back. Confessions were this afternoon, you see, and as I wasn’t there, I did promise to have them until eleven tonight.”
“Of course.” Webberly nodded. “Call a cab for Father Hart,” he told Harriman.
“Oh, but I haven’t enough—”
Webberly held up a restraining hand. “It’s on the Yard, Father.”
On the Yard. The priest mouthed the words, coloured with pleasure at the implication of brotherhood and acceptance behind them. He allowed the superintendent’s secretary to shepherd him from the roo
m.
“What do you drink when you do drink, Sergeant Havers?” Webberly asked when Father Hart had gone.
“Tonic water, sir,” she replied.
“Right,” he muttered and opened the door again. “Harriman,” he barked, “find a bottle of Schweppes for Sergeant Havers…. Don’t pretend you haven’t the slightest idea where to get one. Just get one.” He slammed the door, went to the cabinet, and brought out the bottle of whisky.
Lynley rubbed his forehead and pressed tightly at both sides of his eyes. “God, what a headache,” he murmured. “Have either of you any aspirin?”
“I do,” Havers replied crisply and rooted through her handbag for a small tin. She tossed it across the table to him. “Take as many as you like, Inspector.”
Webberly regarded them both thoughtfully. He wondered, not for the first time, if this partnership of two such antipodal personalities had even the ghost of a chance for success. Havers was like a hedgehog, curling herself into a protective ball of thistle at the least provocation. Yet underneath that prickly exterior of hers was a fine, probing mind. What was left to question was whether Thomas Lynley was the right combination of patience and congeniality to encourage that mind to overcome the wrangling of the termagant personality that had made it impossible for Havers to work in successful partnership with anyone else.
“Sorry to take you out of the wedding, Lynley, but there was no other way. This is the second run-in Nies and Kerridge have had up North. The first one was a disaster: Nies was right all along, and crisis ensued. I thought,” he fingered the rim of his glass and chose his words carefully, “that your presence might serve to remind Nies that he can sometimes be wrong.”
Webberly watched carefully for a reaction from the younger man—a stiffening of muscles, a movement of the head, a flicker behind the eyelids. But there was nothing to betray him. It was no particular secret among his superior officers at the Yard that Lynley’s single run-in with Nies nearly five years before in Richmond had resulted in his own arrest. And however premature and ultimately spurious that arrest had been, it was the only black mark on an otherwise admirable record of service, a denigration that Lynley would have to live with for the rest of his career.