A Great Deliverance

by Elizabeth George

  Langston was staring at his plate, attempting to formulate an answer.

  “I expect that was the quickest way to go about it,” Havers offered. Langston nodded gratefully.

  “Did Roberta speak to anyone at all?” Langston shook his head. “Not to you? Not to anyone from Richmond?” Again, the negative. Lynley glanced at Havers. “Then she only spoke to Father Hart.” He considered the situation. “Roberta was sitting on the overturned pail, the axe was nearby, the dog was under Teys. But the weapon used to slit the dog’s throat was missing. Is that correct?” A nod. Langston bit into his third chicken leg, his eyes on Lynley. “What happened to the dog?”

  “I…b-buried h-him.”

  “Where?”

  “Out the b-back.”

  Lynley leaned forward. “Behind this cottage? Why? Did Nies tell you to do so?”

  Langston swallowed, rubbed his hands on his trousers. He looked miserably at his two companions by the fire and, seeing themselves the focus of his attention, they wagged their tails supportively. “I…” It was embarrassment rather than his speech that stopped him this time. “I love d-dogs,” he said. “D-didn’t want th-them to burn old Wh-Whiskers. He…was a p-pal o’ the l-lads.”

  “Poor man,” Lynley murmured when they were on the street again. Darkness was falling quickly. Somewhere a woman’s voice rose, calling to a child. “No wonder he brought in Richmond.”

  “What could have possessed him, becoming a police constable?” Havers demanded as they crossed to the lodge.

  “I expect he never thought he’d come across a murder. At least not one like this. Who would expect it in a place like Keldale? God knows before this, Langston’s most serious duty was probably patrolling the village and checking shop doors to see they were locked at night.”

  “Then what’s next?” Havers asked. “We won’t have the dog till the morning.”

  “True.” Lynley flipped open his watch. “That gives me twelve hours to talk St. James into abandoning his honeymoon for the thrill of the chase. What do you think, Havers? Have we a chance?”

  “Will he have to choose between the dead dog and Deborah?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “I think we’ll need a miracle, sir.”

  “I’m good at that,” Lynley said grimly.

  It would have to be the white shirtwaist again. Barbara took it out of the wardrobe and looked at it critically. A different belt and it wouldn’t look bad. Or perhaps a scarf at the throat. Had she brought a scarf? Even one for the head could be tied someway to give a touch of colour, to change the outfit somehow, to make it look a bit different. Humming beneath her breath, she rummaged through her things. They were tossed into the chest of drawers in a heap, but she found what she was looking for easily enough. A scarf of red and white checks. A bit like a tablecloth, but it couldn’t be helped.

  She went to the mirror and saw her reflection with a start of pleased surprise. The country air had whipped colour into her cheeks and her eyes had sparkle to them. It was being useful that did it, she decided.

  She had enjoyed her day in the village alone. It was the first time a DI had allowed her to do something all by herself. It was the first time a DI had assumed she had brains. She felt bolstered by the experience and realised how much her confidence had been destroyed by her humiliating return to uniform. What a horrible time that had been in her life: the seething anger boiling over into imcomprehensible rage, the festering sore of unhappiness, the knowledge of being evaluated by others as not good enough, not up to snuff.

  Snuff: the image of Jimmy Havers’s little pig eyes looked back at her from the mirror. Her eyes were his. She turned from the glass.

  Everything was going to be better now. She was on her way, and nothing could stop her. She would sit for the inspector’s exam again. She would pass this time. She knew it.

  She stepped out of her tweed skirt, struggled out of the pullover, and kicked off her shoes. Of course, no one had given her any information about Russell Mowrey, but everyone had taken her quite seriously in her questioning. Everyone had seen her for what she was: a representative of New Scotland Yard. A fine representative: competent, intelligent, insightful. It was what she had needed. Now she could really be part of the case.

  She completed her dressing, tied the scarf jauntily round her throat, and descended the stairs to meet Lynley.

  He was in the lounge, standing before the water-colour of the abbey, lost in thought. Behind the bar, Stepha Odell watched him. They might have been part of a painting themselves. The woman stirred first.

  “A drink before you leave, Sergeant?” she asked pleasantly.

  “Thank you, no.”

  Lynley turned. “Ah, Havers,” he said, absently rubbing his temples. “Are you ready for another assault on Keldale Hall?”

  “Quite,” she replied.

  “Then we’re off.” He nodded a detached goodnight to the other woman and, hand on Barbara’s elbow, guided her from the room. “I’ve been meditating on our best approach,” he said once they were in the car. “You’ll have to keep that dreadful American couple engaged in conversation long enough for me to have a word with St. James. Can you do that? I hate to abandon anyone to such a fate, but if good old Hank hears me, I have the most appalling suspicion that he’ll demand to be part of the case himself.”

  “No problem, sir,” Barbara replied. “I’ll keep him enthralled.”

  He glanced at her suspiciously. “How?”

  “I’ll have him talk about himself.”

  In response, Lynley laughed, suddenly looking younger and far less fatigued. “That should do it, all right.”

  “Now lookit, Barbie,” Hank said with a wink, “if it’s investigating you and Tom are up to in this burg, then you oughta get yourselfs hooked up in this place for a nighter two. What say, JoJo-bean? This place j-u-m-p-s after dark, huh?”

  They were taking their postprandial drinks in the oak hall. Hank, wearing blinding white trousers, an embroidered south-of-the-border shirt open to the waist, and the requisite gold chain, leered at Barbara knowingly. He stood as if hoping to become at one with the garlands and cherubs of the carved chimneypiece. One hand was resting on a stylised stone primrose, the fingers curling round a generous measure of brandy: his third or fourth. The other hand was at his waist, the thumb cocked into the loop of his trousers. It was quite a pose.

  His wife sat in a high-backed chair, directing her mournfully apologetic gaze alternately betweeen Deborah and Barbara. Lynley and St. James, Barbara noted with satisfaction, had managed to effect a disappearance in the direction of the stone hall almost immediately after dinner, and Mrs. Burton-Thomas had dozed off noisily on a well-padded couch nearby. Barbara reflected upon the uneven quality of Mrs. Burton-Thomas’s snores and decided the woman was faking it. She couldn’t blame her. Hank had been holding forth for a good quarter hour.

  Barbara cast a quick look at Deborah to see how she was dealing with her husband’s sudden desertion of her to Hank’s clutches. The other woman’s face, crossed by fire and shadow, was tranquil, but when she felt Barbara’s eyes on her, a mischeivous smile touched her lips for an instant. She knows perfectly well what’s happening, Barbara decided, and liked Deborah for the generosity implied behind her acceptance of the fact.

  As Hank was opening his mouth to continue his description of the after-dark j-u-m-p-s at Keldale Hall, Lynley and St. James rejoined them by the fire.

  “Now you gotta get the pitcher here,” Hank was continuing. “I go to the window two nights ago to shut out that damned screeching. Ever hear peacocks make such a ruckus, Debbie?”

  “Peacocks?” Deborah asked. “Good heavens, Simon, it wasn’t the baby in the abbey at all! Did you lie to me?”

  “I was obviously misled,” St. James replied. “It sounded remarkably like a baby to me. Are you telling me we warded off evil for nothing?”

  “Like a baby?” Hank demanded, incredulous. “You must be lost in the throes of l-u-v, Si. Tha
t was a peacock screeching fit to beat the band.” He sat down, knees spread apart, his arms resting on his chunky thighs. “So I go to the window to either shut the thing or give the old heave-ho to a shoe and kill that damn bird. I’m one helluva shot. Did I tell you that? No? Well, we got this alley in Laguna, see, where the queers hang out.” He waited to see if he would once again have to explain the denizens of Laguna Beach to his audience, but they were caught in the grip of his pictorial pun. He went on happily. “And I get puh-lenty of practise heaving shoes out at them, lemme tell you. Whatsay, Bean? Truth or not?”

  “Truth, honey,” JoJo replied. “He can hit anything,” she swore to the others.

  “I have no doubt,” Lynley said grimly.

  Hank flashed his capped teeth. “So, here I am at the window, ready to heave it, see, when what I notice is a heckuva lot more ’an some bird.”

  “Someone else screeching?” Lynley enquired.

  “Hell no. The bird was there all right, but I got an eyefull-a something else!” He waited for them to ask what it was. There was polite silence. “Okay, okay!” He laughed. He lowered his voice. “Danny and that fella, whatsisname, Ira…Hezekiah…”

  “Ezra?”

  “Yep! And they are liplocked like I never s-e-e-n. Whew! ‘You two gonna come up for air?’ I yell.” He howled appreciatively.

  Polite smiles all around. JoJo gazed from one face to another like a puppy eager to be loved.

  “Only, this is the best part.” Hank lowered his voice again. “What we got on our hands isn’t Danny at all. But it’s Ezra all right.” He smiled triumphantly. Their complete attention was his at last.

  “More brandy, Deborah?” St. James asked.

  “Thank you.”

  Hank squirmed forward in his seat. “But he’s gettin’ it on with Angelina! Can you see it?” He barked with laughter and pounded his knee. “This Ezra’s busier than a rooster in a henhouse, fellas. I don’t know what he’s got, but he sure likes spreading it around!” He slurped at his drink. “I made a few pointed remarks to Angelina in the A.M., but that girl is deep. Not a twitch of the e-y-e. I’m telling you, Tom, if it’s action you’re looking for, you oughta get yourself down here.” He sighed with satisfaction and fingered his heavy gold chain. “L-u-v. Wonderful thing, huh? Nothing messes with the mind like l-u-v. Bet you can attest to that, Si, huh?”

  “I’ve been distraught for years,” St. James acknowledged.

  Hank brayed. “Cotcher heart pretty young, did she?” He pointed a knowing finger at Deborah. “After him for a while, huh?”

  “Since childhood,” she replied smoothly.

  “Childhood?” Hank crossed the room to slosh more brandy into his glass. Mrs. Burton-Thomas snored loudly as he passed her. “You two’re school sweethearts like me and the Bean, I’ll bet. Remember it, Bean? A little you-know-what in the back of the Chevy. You got drive-in movies here?”

  “I think that’s a phenomenon endemic to your country,” St. James replied.

  “Say what?” Hank shrugged and fell back into his seat. Brandy splashed out onto his white trousers. He ignored it. “So you met in school?”

  “No. We were formally introduced at my mother’s house.” St. James and Deborah exchanged innocent glances.

  “Hey, she set you two up, I bet. The Bean and I met on a blind date, too! We got something in common, Si.”

  “Actually, I was born in his mother’s house,” Deborah added politely. “But I grew up mostly in Simon’s house in London.”

  Hank’s face fell. These are dangerous waters. “Did you catch that, Bean? You two related? Cousins or something?” Visions of haemophiliacs languishing behind closed doors clearly danced in his head.

  “Not at all. My father is Simon’s…well, what would you call Dad?” She turned to her husband. “Footman, servant, butler, valet?”

  “Father-in-law,” St. James replied.

  “Did you catch that, Bean?” Hank said in awe. “This is some romance.”

  It was sudden, unexpected. She was trying to adjust. Lynley’s was turning out to be such a multifaceted character, like a diamond cut by a master jeweller, that in every situation a new surface glittered that she had never seen before.

  In love with Deborah. All right, certainly. That was understandable. But in love with the daughter of St. James’s servant? Barbara struggled to assimilate the information. How had it ever happened to him? she wondered. He had always seemed to be in such complete control of his life and his destiny. How had he ever allowed it to happen?

  She now saw his peculiar behaviour at St. James’s wedding in an entirely new light. Not anxious to be rid of her as soon as he could, but anxious to be away from a source of considerable pain: the nuptial happiness of a woman he loved with another man.

  At least she understood now why of the two men Deborah had chosen St. James. Obviously, she’d never even been given a choice, for Lynley would never have allowed himself to speak to her of love. To do this would ultimately have led him to speak of marriage, and Lynley would never marry the daughter of a servant. It would shake his family tree to its very roots.

  Yet he certainly must have wanted to make Deborah his wife, and how he must have suffered, watching St. James placidly break the ridiculous code of social behaviour that held Lynley immobilised.

  What had St. James said? Father-in-law. In four short syllables he had coolly wiped away every class distinction that might ever have separated him from his wife.

  No wonder she loves him, Barbara realised suddenly.

  She glanced warily at Lynley as they drove back to the lodge. What must it be like for him, knowing that he had lacked the courage to tell Deborah that he wanted her, knowing that he’d put his family and his title before his love? How he must hate himself! What regret he must feel! How horribly lonely he must really be!

  He felt her looking at him. “You did nice work today, Sergeant. Especially at the hall. Keeping Hank at bay for a quarter of an hour shall get you a citation, rest assured.”

  She felt absurdly warmed by the praise. “Thank you, sir. St. James agreed to help?”

  “He did indeed.”

  He did indeed, Lynley thought. He let out his breath sharply in self-derision and tossed the file onto the bedside table. He dropped his spectacles on top of it, rubbed his eyes, and adjusted the pillows behind his back.

  Deborah had spoken to her husband. Lynley could see that. They’d already discussed what his response would be when he was asked to assist. It was a simple one: “Of course, Tommy. What can I do?”

  How like both of them! How like Deborah to have seen in their conversation that morning all of his concerns about the case. How like her to have paved the way for him to ask St. James’s help. And how like St. James to have agreed without hesitation, for any hesitation would have aroused the guilt that always lay like a dangerous, wounded tiger between them.

  He leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes wearily, allowing his mind in its exhaustion to drift back to the past. He gave himself to the bewitching visions of a former happiness that remained unclouded by grief or pain.

  The lovely Thais by his side,

  Sate like a blooming Easter bride,

  In flow’r of youth and beauty’s pride.

  Happy, happy, happy pair!

  None but the brave deserves the fair.

  Dryden’s words came from nowhere, unbidden and unwanted. He swallowed them down and demanded that they recede into his mind, an effort that took every ounce of his concentration and prevented him from hearing the door open and the footsteps cross to the bed. He was quite unaware, in fact, of the presence in the room until a cool hand touched his cheek gently. His eyes flew open.

  “I think you need an Odell’s, Inspector,” Stepha whispered.

  12

  Nonplussed, he stared at her. He waited for his smooth persona to click into place, for the arrival of that illusory man who laughed and danced and had a quick-witted answer for everything. But nothi
ng happened. Stepha’s appearance in his room, materialising for all he knew out of nowhere, seemed to have destroyed his only line of defence, and all that was left in his repertoire of engaging behaviours was the ability to meet, without wavering, her beautiful eyes.

  He needed to give reality to the moment, to make her something he hadn’t dreamt up from the mist of his dispirited memory, so he reached out and touched the fall of her hair. Soft, he thought wonderingly.

  She caught his hand and kissed the palm, the wrist. Her tongue lightly traced the length of his fingers. “Let me love you tonight. Let me drive away the shadows.”

  She spoke on the merest breath of a whisper, and he wondered if her voice were a part of the dream. But her smooth hands played across his cheeks and jaw and throat, and when she bent to him and he tasted the sweetness of her mouth, felt the caress of her tongue, he knew she was part of a searing reality, a present calmly laying siege to the castellated walls of his past.

  He wanted to flee from the onslaught, to escape to that haven of bliss-charged remembrance that had kept him well armoured in the year that had passed, a year during which all desire had been absent, all longing dead, all life incomplete. But she allowed no evasion, and as she purposefully destroyed the ramparts that shielded him, he felt once again not a sweet liberation but that terrifying need to possess another person, body and soul.

  He couldn’t. He wouldn’t allow it to happen. He desperately sought out last, shattered defences, uselessly willing back into being an insensate creature who no longer lived. In its place was reborn—quiet and vulnerable—the man who had been there, inside, all along.