"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 fi rst
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 fi rst 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
offi ce. "Harriman?"
The Morse-like tapping of word processor keys stopped. A chair scraped
on the fl oor. 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 room.
★ ★ ★
"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,
"fi nd 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 fl icker behind the
eyelids. But there was nothing to betray him. It was no particular
secret among his superior offi cers 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.
"It's fine, sir," Lynley replied easily. "I understand."
A knock on the door announced Miss Harriman's successful quest for the
Schweppes, which she placed triumphantly on the table in front of
Sergeant Havers. She glanced at the clock. Its hands were nearing six.
"As this isn't a regularly scheduled workday, Superintendent," she began, "I thought I might—"
"Yes, yes, go on home." Webberly waved.
"Oh no, it isn't that at all," Harriman said sweetly. "But I think in Regulation Sixty-fi ve-A regarding compensatory time…"
"Take Monday and I'll break your arm, Harriman," Webberly said with
equivalent sweetness. "Not in the middle of this Ripper business."
"Wouldn't think of it, sir. Shall I just put it on the tick? Regulation Sixty-fi ve-C indicates that—"
"Put it anywhere, Harriman."
