A Great Deliverance Page 13
When he returned, the weeping had stopped. She still lay on the bed, her ivory body shimmering in the moonlight, and stared at the ceiling. Her hair was darkness; the rest of her was light. His artist’s eyes travelled the length of her: the curve of cheek, the fullness of breast, the swelling of hip, the softness of thigh. An objective study in black and white, translated quickly to canvas. It was an exercise he often engaged in, one which disassociated mind from body, something he most particularly wanted to do right now. His eyes fell on the curling triangle of darkness. Objectivity shot out the window.
“For God’s sake, get dressed,” he snapped. “Am I supposed to stand here staring at you as retribution?”
“You know why ’tis,” she whispered. She made no other move. “You know why.”
“That I do,” he replied. He stayed across the room by the lavatory door. It was safer there. A few feet closer and he’d be on her again, and there’d be no stopping it. He felt his jaw tighten, felt every muscle coil with a life of its own. “You don’t lose a chance to remind me.”
Danny sat up, swung on him. “Why should I?” she shouted. “You know wha’ you did!”
“Be quiet! Do you want Fitzalan to report back to your aunt? Have some sense, won’t you?”
“Why should I? When did you?”
“If you won’t let it go, then what’s the point, Danny? Why see me at all?”
“You c’n ask that? Even now? When everyone knows?”
He crossed his arms in front of him, steeling himself to the sight of her. Her hair was tangled round her shoulders; her lips were parted; her cheeks were wet with tears, glistening in the dull light. Her breasts…He forced his eyes to remain on her face.
“You know what happened. We’ve been over it a thousand times. Going over it a thousand times more won’t change the past. If you can’t let it go, then we’ve got to stop seeing each other.”
More tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks. He hated to see her cry. It made him want to cross the room and crush her in his arms, but what was the use? It would only begin again and end in disaster.
“No.” She was still crying, but her voice was low. She hung her head. “I don’ want that.”
“Then what do you want? I need to know because I know very well what I want, Danny, and if we both don’t want the same thing, then there’s really no use, is there?” He was struggling to summon up control but what little he had was vanishing quickly. He thought he might actually cry with frustration.
“I want you,” she whispered.
Oh God, that cuts it. That really does. “You don’t want that,” he replied miserably. “Because even if you did, and even if you had me, at every juncture you’d throw the past in my face. And I can’t bear that, Danny. I’ve had enough.” To his horror, his voice caught on the last word.
Her head flew up. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. She slipped off the bed and came across the room, her body sculpted by moonlight. He looked away. Her smooth fingers found their way to his cheek, across it, into his hair. “I never do think o’ your pain,” she said. “Only my own. I’m so sorry, Ezra.”
He drove his gaze to the wall, the ceiling, the square of night sky beyond the window. If he met her eyes, he knew he was lost.
“Ezra?” Her voice was like a caress in the darkness. She smoothed back his hair, took a step closer.
He could smell her musky fragrance, feel the tips of her breasts sear his chest. Her hand dropped to his shoulder and pulled him closer. “Don’t you think,” she continued, “we both have t’forgive?”
It was finally too much. There was nowhere else to look. His last sane thought was: Better lost than alone.
Nigel Parrish waited until they returned from the lounge to the public bar. He was still sitting in his usual corner, taking his time about nursing a Courvoisier, when they finished their meal.
He regarded them with the kind of interest he usually reserved for the village inhabitants, quite as if they were going to be around for the next few years. They were certainly worth the time and consideration, he decided, for they were so deliciously bizarre a couple.
The man’s dressed absolutely to kill, Nigel thought and chuckled inwardly at his tasteless pun. Charcoal suit, hand-tailored and fairly shrieking Savile Row, gold pocket watch looped across waistcoat, Burberry tossed casually onto the back of a chair—why is it that people with the money to buy Burberries always toss them about without a second thought?—shoes polished to a sombre, unscuffed shine. This was Scotland Yard?
Somehow the woman was more what he had in mind. She was short and dumpy, sort of a walking rubbish-bin type. She wore a wrinkled, stained suit that fitted her badly. Entirely the wrong colour for her as well, Nigel noted. Baby blue’s a lovely colour, but not on you, dumpling. Her blouse was yellow and did distressing things to her sallow complexion, not to mention the fact that it was very badly tucked in all around. And the shoes! Sensible brogues were what one would expect of the police and indeed she wore them. But with blue tights to match the suit? Lord, what a vision the poor woman was. He clucked his disapproval and got to his feet.
He sauntered over to the table they had chosen near the door. “Scotland Yard?” he began chattily, without introduction. “Has anyone told you about Ezra?”
As he lifted his head to look at the newcomer Lynley’s first thought was, No, but I should guess you’re about to. A man stood there, brandy glass in hand, obviously waiting for an invitation to sit. When Sergeant Havers automatically opened her notebook, he considered himself a member of their party and pulled out a chair.
“Nigel Parrish,” he introduced himself.
The organist, Lynley recalled. He guessed that the man was somewhere in his forties, and he was blessed with features that middle age enhanced. Thinning brown hair, touched by grey at the temples, was combed neatly off an intelligent brow; a firm, straight nose gave Parrish’s face distinction; a strong jaw and chin were indications of strength. He was slender, not particularly tall, and striking rather than handsome.
“Ezra?” Lynley prompted him.
Parrish’s brown eyes darted from person to person in the room, as if he were waiting for someone to enter. “Farmington. Our resident artist. Doesn’t every village have a resident artist, poet, novelist, or something? I thought that was a virtual requirement of country life.” Parrish shrugged narrow shoulders. “Ezra’s ours. Watercolours. The occasional oil. Not bad, actually. He even sells some of them in a gallery in London. He used to come here for just a month or so each year, but he’s become one of us now.” He smiled down at his drink. “Dear, dear Ezra,” he mused.
Lynley was not about to be played like a fish on the line. “What is it you’d like us to know about Ezra Farmington, Mr. Parrish?”
Parrish’s startled glance betrayed that he hadn’t quite been expecting so direct an approach. “Aside from the fact that he’s just the teeniest bit of a village Lothario, there’s what happened on the Teys’s place that you ought to know.”
Lynley found Ezra’s romantic inclinations to be neither here nor there, although obviously they were of interest to Parrish. “What happened on the Teys’s place?” he asked, ignoring the other dangling line.
“Well…” Parrish warmed to his topic but a sad glance at his empty glass cooled the fires of the story.
“Sergeant,” Lynley said tonelessly, his eyes on the other man, “would you get Mr. Parrish another—”
“Courvoisier,” Parrish said with a smile.
“And one for me.”
Havers obediently left the table. “Nothing for her?” Nigel asked, face wrinkled with concern.
“She doesn’t drink.”
“What a bore!” When Havers returned, Parrish treated her to a sympathetic smile, took a genteel sip of the cognac, and settled down to his story. “As to Ezra,” he said, leaning into the table confidentially, “it was a nasty little scene. The only reason I know about it is that I was out that way. Whiskers, you see.”
“Pardon?”
“Father Hart told us that Whiskers liked to lie on the common and listen to you play the organ.”
Parrish laughed. “Isn’t it the absolute devil? I practise my fingers to the bone, dear ones, and my most enthusiastic audience is a farm dog.” His words dealt with the matter in a lambent fashion—as if nothing on earth could really be more amusing. Yet Lynley could see it was a brittle performance, a facade made frangible by the force of a current of bitterness that ran, swift and sure, just beneath the surface. Parrish was working at joviality and rather too industriously.
“Well, there you have it,” he continued. He turned the snifter in his hands, admiring the variety of colours that the cognac produced as it caught the light. “A virtual Sahara of musical appreciation in the village. In fact, the only reason I play at St. Catherine’s on Sundays is to please myself. God knows no one else can tell a fugue from a scherzo. D’you know that St. Catherine’s has the finest organ in Yorkshire? Typical, isn’t it? I’m sure Rome purchased it personally to keep the RCs in control in Keldale. I’m C of E, myself.
“And Farmington?” Lynley asked.
“Ezra? I don’t think Ezra’s religious at all. Except,” seeing no amused appreciation on Lynley’s face, “what you probably mean is what do I have to say about Ezra.”
“You’ve certainly read me, Mr. Parrish.”
“Ezra.” Parrish smiled and took a drink, perhaps for courage, perhaps for solace. It was difficult to tell. He lowered his voice momentarily, however, and as he did so, a brief glimmer of the real man emerged, brooding and moody. But the chatty gossip replaced him almost at once. “Let me see, loves, it must have been about a month ago when William Teys ran Ezra off the farm.”
“Was he trespassing?”
“Absolutely. But according to Ezra, he has some sort of ‘artistic licence’ that allows him to trespass everywhere. And I do mean everywhere. He was doing what he call ‘light studies’ of High Kel Moor. Your basic Rouen Cathedral sort of thing. Start a new picture every fifteen minutes.”
“I’m familiar with Monet.”
“Then you know what I mean. Well, the only way—let’s say the quickest way—up to High Kel Moor is right through the woods behind Gembler Farm. And the way to the woods—”
“Was across Teys’s land,” Lynley finished.
“Exactly. I was trotting along the road with Whiskers in tow. He’d put in his usual appearance on the common and, as it seemed late to let the old boy find his own way home, I was taking him there myself. I had hoped our darling Stepha might be willing to do the job in her Mini, but she was nowhere to be found. So I had to drag the old thing out there on these poor, stiff legs.”
“You don’t own a car?”
“Not one that runs with any reliablity, I’m afraid. Anyway, I got to the farm and there they were, right in the road having the most god-awful row I’ve ever seen. There was William in his jimjams—”
“Excuse me?”
“His pyjamas, Inspector. Or was it his dressing gown?” Parrish squinted at the ceiling and considered his own question. “It was his dressing gown. I remember thinking, ‘Lord, what hairy legs old William has,’ when I saw him. Quite like a gorilla.”
“I see.”
“And Ezra was standing there, shouting at him, waving his arms, and cursing in ways that must have made poor sainted William’s hair stand on end. The dog got hot into the action and took quite a piece out of Ezra’s trousers. While he was doing that, William ripped three of Ezra’s precious watercolours into shreds and dumped the rest of the portfolio right onto the verge. It was dreadful.” Parrish looked down as he concluded his story, a mournful note to his voice, but when he lifted his head his eyes said clearly that Ezra had got what he’d long deserved.
Lynley watched Sergeant Havers climb the stairs and disappear from view. He rubbed his temples and walked into the lounge, where a light at the far end of the room illuminated the bent head of Stepha Odell. She looked up from her book at his footsteps.
“Have we kept you up to lock the door?” Lynley asked. “I’m terribly sorry.”
She smiled and stretched her arms languidly over her head. “Not at all,” she replied pleasantly. “I was nodding a bit over my novel, however.”
“What are you reading?”
“A cheap romance.” She laughed easily and got to her feet, which, he noticed, were bare. She had changed from her grey church dress into a simple tweed skirt and sweater. A single freshwater pearl on a silver chain hung between her breasts. “It’s my way of escaping. Everyone always lives happily ever after in a romance novel.” He remained where he was, near the door. “How do you escape, Inspector?”
“I don’t, I’m afraid.”
“Then what do you do about the shadows in your life?”
“The shadows?”
“Chasing murderers down. It can’t be a pleasant job. Why do you do it?”
There was the question, he admitted, and knew the answer. It’s penance, Stepha, an expiation for sins committed that you couldn’t understand. “I never stopped to think about it.”
“Ah.” She nodded thoughtfully and let it go. “Well, you’ve a package that’s come. Brought by a rather nasty man from Richmond. He wouldn’t give me his name, but he smelled like a large digestive tablet.”
An apt description of Nies, Lynley thought, as she went behind the bar. He followed. She had evidently been working in the lounge in the late afternoon, for the room was scented richly with beeswax and the yeasty smell of ale. That combination took him right back to Cornwall, a ten-year-old boy hurriedly wolfing down pasties in the kitchen of the Trefallen farm. Such delicacies they were to him, meat and onions folded into a flaky shell, fruit forbidden and unheard of in the formal dining room of Howenstow. “Common,” his father would snort contemptuously. And indeed they were, which was why he loved them.
Stepha placed a large envelope on the counter. “Here it is. Will you join me for a nightcap?”
“Thank you. I’d like that.”
She smiled. He noticed how it curved her cheeks, how the tiny lines round her eyes seemed to vanish. “Good. Sit down then. You look exhausted.”
He went to one of the couches and opened the envelope. Nies had made no effort to put the material in any sort of order. There were three notebooks of information, some additional photographs of Roberta, forensic reports identical to the ones he already had, and nothing whatsoever on Whiskers.
Stepha Odell placed a glass on the table and sat opposite him, drawing her legs up into the seat of the chair.
“What happened to Whiskers?” Lynley asked himself. “Why is there nothing about that dog?”
“Gabriel knows,” Stepha responded.
For a moment he thought it was some sort of village expression until he recalled the constable’s name. “Constable Langston?”
She nodded, sipping her drink. Her fingers on the glass were long and slender, unencumbered by rings. “He buried Whiskers.”
“Where?”
She shrugged a shoulder and pushed her hair back off her face. Unlike the ugliness of the gesture by Havers, in Stepha it was a lovely movement, chasing shadows away. “I’m not sure. I expect it was somewhere on the farm.”
“But why was no forensic study done on the dog?” Lynley mused.
“I suppose they didn’t need one. They could see how the poor thing died.”
“How?”
“His throat was slit, Inspector.”
He fumbled back through the material, looking for the pictures. No wonder he had failed to see it before. Teys’s body, sprawled right over the dog’s corpse, obscured the view. He considered the photograph.
“You see the problem now, don’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Can you imagine Roberta slitting Whiskers’s throat?” An expression of distaste passed across Stepha’s face. “It’s
impossible. I’m sorry, but it’s just impossible. Beyond that, no weapon was ever found. Surely she didn’t slit the poor animal’s throat with an axe!”
As she spoke, Lynley found himself beginning to wonder for the first time exactly who the real target of the crime had been: William Teys or his dog.
Suppose a robbery had been in the works, he thought. The dog would need to be silenced. He was old, certainly incapable of attacking someone, but well enough able to make a din if a foreign presence were found in his territory. So the dog would have to be dealt with. But perhaps not quickly enough, so that when Teys rushed out to the barn to see what the yelping was all about, he would have to be dealt with as well. Perhaps, thought Lynley, we have no premeditated murder here, but a crime of an entirely different nature.
“Stepha,” he said thoughtfully. He reached in his pocket. “Who is this?” He handed her the photograph that he and Havers had found in Roberta’s chest of drawers.”
“Where on earth did you get this?”
“In Roberta’s bedroom. Who is it?”
“It’s Gillian Teys, Roberta’s sister.” She tapped the photograph lightly for emphasis, studying it as she spoke. “Roberta must have kept this well hidden from William.”
“Why?”
“Because after Gillian ran off, she was dead to William. He threw away her clothes, got rid of her books, and even destroyed every picture that she was in. Burnt her birth certificate as well as everything else in a great bonfire right in the middle of the yard. How on earth,” she asked, more to herself than to him, her eyes on the photograph, “did Roberta manage to save this?”
“More importantly perhaps, why did she save it?”
“That’s easy enough. Roberta adored Gillian. God knows why. Gillian was the great disaster in the family. She turned out quite wild. She drank and swore and ran around like mad, having the time of her life, off to a party in Whitby one night, out with some hellion God-knows-where the next. Picking up men and giving them a run for their money. Then one night, some eleven years ago, she left. And she never came back.”