She followed Helen into the house's well-appointed drawing room, where she saw that the breakfront cabinet which housed Lynley's stereo system was standing open. All of its various components were lit, and a CD's jacket lay splayed on the tuner. Helen beckoned Barbara to sit, and she took the same place she'd taken on the previous afternoon before Lynley had thrown her off the case.
She said, “I take it the inspector made it back to Derbyshire in one piece?” as a conversational opener.
Helen said, “I'm awfully sorry about the row between you two. Tommy is … well, Tommy's just Tommy.”
“That's one way of putting it,” Barbara admitted.
“We have something we'd like you to listen to,” Helen said.
“You and the inspector?”
“Tommy? No. He knows nothing about this.” Helen seemed to read something on Barbara's face, because she hastened to add rather obscurely, “It's just that we weren't certain how best to interpret what we had. So I said, ‘Let's phone Barbara, shall we?’”
“We,” Barbara said.
“Charlie and I. Ah. Here he is. Play it for Barbara, will you please, Charlie?”
Denton greeted Barbara and passed to her what he carried into the room: a tray on which sat a plate displaying a succulent-looking breast of chicken nestled in an arrangement of tri-coloured pasta. A glass of white wine and a roll accompanied this. A linen napkin cocooned cutlery in an artistic fashion. “Thought you might be able to do with a bite,” he told her. “I hope you like basil.”
“I consider it the answer to a young girl's prayer.”
Denton grinned. Barbara tucked in as he went to the cabinet. Helen joined Barbara on the sofa as Denton fiddled with buttons and dials, saying, “Have a listen to this.”
Barbara did so, munching Denton's excellent chicken and, as an orchestra began something heavy on the woodwinds, she thought that there were certainly worse ways to spend an afternoon.
A baritone began singing. Barbara caught some, but not all, of the words:
… to live, to live, to live onward or die
the question lingers in the mind till mankind questions why
to die, to die, to end the aching heart
to nevermore be shocked and scored as flesh accepts its part
in what it is to be a man, vows made in haste, afraid
why not take death into my breast, eternal sleep within my grave
to sleep, that sleep, the terrors waiting there
what dreams may come to men asleep who think without a care
that they've escaped the whips, the scorns that time brings those who live
That sleep allows a peace to grow within a man who can't forgive …
“It's nice,” Barbara said to Denton and Helen. “It's terrific, in fact. I've never heard it.”
“Here's why.” Helen handed over the very same manila envelope that Barbara herself had brought to Eaton Terrace.
When she slid the stack of papers out, Barbara saw that they were the hand-scored music Mrs. Baden had given her. She said, “I don't get it.”
“Look.” Helen directed Barbara's attention to the first of the sheets. In very short order, Barbara found herself following along with what the baritone was singing. She read the song's title at the top of the page, “What Dreams May Come,” and she took in the fact that the song had been written in his own hand with his very own signature scrawled across the top: Michael Chandler.
Her first reaction was a plummeting of her spirits. She said, “Damn,” as her theory of the motive behind the Derbyshire murders was shot straight to hell. “So the music's already been produced. That puts a serious screw in my thinking.” For there was certainly no point in Matthew King-Ryder's rubbing out Terry Cole and Nicola Maiden—not to mention beating up Vi Nevin—if the music he was purportedly after had already been produced. He couldn't mount a brand-new production with old music. He could only mount a revival. And that was nothing worth killing over, since the profits of a revival of anything by Chandler and King-Ryder would be governed by the terms of his father's will.
She started to flip the music onto the coffee table, but Helen laid a hand on her arm. “Wait,” she said. “I don't think you understand. Charlie? Show her.”
Denton handed over two items: One was the jacket of the CD that was playing; the other was a souvenir theatre programme of the type that generally set one back rather considerably in the lolly department. Hamlet was emblazoned on both the CD and the programme. And on the CD were the additional words: Lyrics and Music by David King-Ryder. Barbara stared at this latter announcement for a number of seconds as she came to terms with everything it meant.
And its meaning boiled down to a single lovely fact: She finally had Matthew King-Ryder's actual motive for murder.
Hanken was adamant. He wanted the Black Angel Hotels records and he wasn't going to be pleasant to be around until he got them. Lynley could accompany him on the expedition or he could tackle Brough-ton Manor by himself, which Hanken didn't advise, since he'd done nothing to get a warrant to search Broughton Manor and he didn't think the Brittons would take to their collective bosom anyone sifting through the muck and dross of a few hundred years of their family history.
“It's going to take a team of twenty to go through that place,” Hanken said. “If we have to, we'll do it. But I'll put money on the square that says we won't have to.”
They had the hotel records in their possession in extremely short order. While Lynley phoned London to track down Nkata for a fax of Havers' SO 10 findings, Hanken took the hotel's registration cards through to the bar, where pork with baked apples was on offer for lunch. When Lynley joined him with the fax of Havers' report, the other DI was dipping into the day's speciality with one hand and going through the registration cards with the other. A second plate—steaming with a similar meal—was set opposite him, a pint of lager next to it.
“Thanks,” Lynley said, handing over the report.
“Always go with the special of the day,” Hanken advised him and nodded at the paperwork Lynley was holding. “What've we got?”
Lynley didn't think they had anything, but he remembered three names that he had to admit, even beyond his own prejudices in the matter, bore looking into. One of them was a former snout of Maiden s. Two others were secondary shadowy figures who'd operated at the periphery of Maiden's investigations but never served time at their monarch's pleasure. Ben Venables was the snout. Clifford Thompson and Gar Brick were the others.
On their way back to the Black Angel, Hanken had perfected a new theory. Maiden, he said, had far too much nouse to be such a fool as to kill his own daughter personally, no matter how much he wanted her dead. He'd have hired the job out to one of the blighters from his past, and he'd have then misdirected the police by telling them it was a vengeance killing to keep them focused on the louts either in prison or on parole while all the others who'd rubbed elbows with Maiden but had no reason to revenge themselves upon him would escape police notice. It was a clever ploy. So Hanken wanted that SO 10 report to see if any names on it matched up with anyone who'd registered at the hotel.
“You see how it could happen, don't you?” Hanken asked Lynley. “All Maiden would need to do after hiring this bloke would be to put him in the picture where the girl was camping. And he knew where she was camping, Thomas. We've seen that from the first.”
Lynley wanted to argue, but he didn't. Andy Maiden, of all people, would understand how risky it was to arrange a contract killing. That he might have done so to rid himself of a child whose lifestyle he found intolerable was an unthinkable proposition. If the man had wanted to eliminate Nicola because he couldn't force her to change her ways, he wouldn't have looked for someone else to do the job, especially someone who might break easily under interrogation and point the finger back at him. No. If Andy Maiden had wanted to eliminate his daughter, Lynley knew, he would have done so himself. And they had sod all evidence to suggest that he'd done it.
 
; Lynley picked at his food as Hanken read the report. The other DI wolfed down his own meal. He finished the report and the meal simultaneously and said, “Venables, Thompson, and Brick,” in an impressive show of reaching the same conclusion as Lynley himself had drawn. “But I say we check them all against the records.”
Which was what they did. They took the records for the previous week and checked the names of all the hotel's residents during that time against the names that were in Havers’ report. As the report covered more than twenty years of Andy Maiden's police experience, the project took some time. But the end of their endeavour left them in the same position as they'd been in in the beginning. No names matched.
It was Lynley who pointed out that someone coming to kill Nicola Maiden would hardly have registered in a local hotel and used his own name. Hanken saw the reason in this. But rather than use it to dismiss altogether the idea of a hired killer who'd stayed at the hotel and left the jacket and waterproof behind, he said obscurely, “Of course. Let's get on to Buxton.”
But what about Broughton Manor? Lynley wanted to know.
Were they going to let that slide in favour of … what? A chase for someone who might not exist?
“The killer exists, Thomas,” Hanken replied as he stood. “And I've an idea we'll track him down through Buxton.”
Barbara looked at Helen and said, “But why'd you phone me? Why not the inspector?”
Helen said, “Thank you, Charlie. Will you see about getting those wallpaper books back to Peter Jones? I've made my choice. It's marked.”
Denton nodded, saying, “Will do,” and took himself up the stairs after switching off the stereo and removing his CD.
“Thank God Charlie loves West End extravaganzas,” Helen said when she and Barbara were alone. “The more I get to know him, the more invaluable I find he's becoming. And who would have thought it, because when Tommy and I married, I wondered how I'd feel having my husband's valet—or whatever Charlie Denton actually is—lurking about like a nineteenth-century retainer. But he's indispensable. As you've just seen.”
“Why, Helen?” Barbara asked, not put off by the other woman's light remarks.
Helen's face softened. “I love him,” she said. “But he's not always right. No one is.”
“He won't like your having shared this with me.”
“Yes. Well. I'll deal with that as it comes.” Helen gestured to the music. “What do you make of it?”
“In light of the murder?” And when Helen nodded, Barbara considered all the possible answers. David King-Ryder, she recalled, had killed himself on the opening night of his production of Hamlet. From his son's own words, she'd heard that King-Ryder had to have known that very same evening that the show was a smashing success. Nonetheless, he'd killed himself, and when Barbara blended this fact not only with the real authorship of the music and lyrics but also with the story that Vi Nevin had told her about how the music had come to be in Terry Cole's hands, she could arrive at only one conclusion: Someone out there had known that David King-Ryder had not written either the music or the lyrics to the show he was mounting under his own name. That person had known because that same person had somehow got his hands on the original score. And considering that the phone call intercepted by Terry Cole in Elvaston Place had been made in June when Hamlet debuted, it seemed reasonable to conclude that that phone call had been intended not for Matthew King-Ryder—hot to produce a show that would not be governed by the terms of his father's will—but for David King-Ryder himself, who was desperate to get that music back and to hide from the world the simple fact that it wasn't his work.
Why else would King-Ryder have killed himself unless he'd arrived at the phone box just five minutes too late to receive that call? Why else would he have killed himself unless he believed that—despite having paid off a blackmailer who was supposed to phone him with directions where to “pick up the package”—he was going to be blackmailed ad infinitum? Or, worse yet, he was going to be exposed to the very tabloids who'd slagged him off for years? Of course he'd kill himself, Barbara thought. He'd have had no way of knowing that Terry Cole received the phone call intended for him. He'd have had no way of knowing how to make contact with the blackmailer to see what had gone wrong. So once that call hadn't come through in that phone box on Elvaston Place when he managed to get there, he'd have thought he was cooked.
The only question was: Who had blackmailed David King-Ryder? And there was only one answer that was remotely reasonable: his own son. There was evidence for this, if only circumstantial. Surely, Matthew King-Ryder had known before his father's suicide that he stood to get nothing when David King-Ryder died. If he was to head the King-Ryder Fund—and he'd admitted as much when Barbara spoke to him—he would have had to be told about the terms of his father's will. So the sole way he had to get his hands on some of his father's money was to extort it from him.
Barbara explained all this to Helen, and when she was finished, Lynley's wife asked, “But have you any evidence? Because without evidence …” Her expression said the rest, You're done for, my friend.
Barbara tossed the question round in her head as she finished her lunch. And she found the answer in a brief review of her visit to King-Ryder in his Baker Street flat.
“The house,” she said to Lynley's wife. “Helen, he was moving house. He said he'd finally got the money together to buy himself a property south of the river.”
“But south of the river … ? That's not exactly …” Helen looked distinctly uncomfortable, and Barbara liked her for her reluctance to draw attention to Lynley's considerable wealth. One would need brass by the bucketful to buy even a cupboard in Belgravia. On the other hand, south of the river—where the lesser mortals bought their homes—would not present such a problem. King-Ryder could have saved enough to buy a freehold there. Barbara accepted that.
Nonetheless, she said, “There's no other explanation for what King-Ryder's been up to: lying about what happened when Terry Cole went to his office, searching Terry's flat in Battersea, buying one of Cilia Thompson's monstrosities, going to Vi Nevin's digs and trashing them. He's got to put his hands on that music, and he's willing to do anything to get it. His dad's dead, and he's to blame. He doesn't want the poor bloke's memory shot to bits as well. He wanted some of his lolly, sure. But he didn't want him destroyed.”
Helen considered this, smoothing her fingers along the crease in her trousers. “I see how you're fitting it together,” she admitted. “But as to proof that he's even a blackmailer, let alone a killer … ?” She looked up and opened her hands as if to say, Where is it?
Barbara thought about what she had on King-Ryder besides what she knew about the terms of his father's will: Terry had been to see him; he had searched Terry's flat; he'd gone to the studio on Portslade Road …. “The cheque,” she said. “He wrote Cilia Thompson a cheque when he bought one of her nightmare-in-the-railway-arches paintings.”
“All right,” Helen said cautiously. “But where does that take you?”
“To Jersey,” Barbara said with a smile. “Cilia made a copy of the cheque—probably because she's never sold a thing in her life and, believe me, she's going to want to remember the occasion, since it's never likely to happen again. That cheque was drawn on a bank in St. Helier. Now, why would our boy be banking in the Channel Islands unless he had money to hide, Helen? Like a major deposit of a few thousand quid—maybe a few hundred thousand quid bled out of his dad to keep a blackmailer's mug plugged—that he didn't want anyone asking questions about? There's your evidence.”
“But still, it's all supposition, isn't it? How can you prove anything? You can't get into those bank records, can you? So where do you go from here?”
That was certainly a problem, Barbara thought. She could prove nothing. The police couldn't get their mitts on King-Ryder's bank records, and even if she herself could do that in some way, what would a hefty deposit made prior to the June phone call prove aside from someone's attempt to avoid
the Inland Revenue's prying eyes?
There was that footprint in the muck in Vi Nevin's flat, of course, that shoe sole with its hexagonal markings. But if such a shoe sole proved to be as common as toast on the breakfast table, what did that add to the investigation? Of course, King-Ryder would have left trace evidence all over Vi Nevin's flat. But he wasn't likely to cooperate if the coppers asked him for a few strands of hair or a vial of blood for a DNA match-up. And even if he gave them everything from his toe jam to his dental floss, that did nothing to pin him to the Derbyshire murders unless the rozzers had a packet of trace evidence left at the scene up there as well.
Barbara knew she'd be more than just demoted and off the case if she phoned up DI Lynley for a little discussion about the Derbyshire evidence. She'd defied his orders; she'd gone her own way. He'd thrown her off the investigation. What he'd do if he discovered she'd put herself back on the investigation did not bear thinking of. So to bring King-Ryder down she had to go it more or less alone. There was only the small point of trying to figure out how to do it.
“He's been clever as the dickens,” Barbara said to Helen. “This bloke's no slouch in the brains department—but if I can come up with a way to get a step ahead of him … if I can use something that I know from everything I've gathered …”
“You've got the music,” Helen pointed out. “Which is what he's wanted from the first, isn't it?”
“He sure as bloody hell searched high and low for it. He tore apart that camping site. He went through the flat in Battersea. He ripped up Vis maisonette. He spent enough time in the studio with Cilia to suss out whether there was a hiding place there. I'd say we're safe in assuming he's after that music. And he knows it wasn't with Terry, Cilia, or Vi.”
“But he also knows it's somewhere.”
True, Barbara thought. But where and with whom? Who was it that King-Ryder didn't know who would convince the man that the music had switched hands more than once and that he—King-Ryder—would have to come forward to get that music? And how the hell could the act of just coming forward for some music—which he could deny knowing about once he saw it—also serve as the act that betrayed him as a killer?