It was suddenly crucial to stop the direction the conversation was
taking. Barbara gripped the stiff edges of the folded roadmap with dry,
hot fingers and searched for another subject.
"You know that bloke Nies, don't you?" It blurted out badly, all too
obviously an ill-concealed attempt to digress. She shot a wary look at
him.
His eyes narrowed, but otherwise he gave no immediate reaction to the
question. One hand merely dropped from the steering wheel. For a moment,
Barbara thought, ridiculously, that he intended to use it to silence
her, but he simply chose another tape at random and slid it into the
stereo. He did not, however, turn the unit on. She stared out at the
passing countryside, mortifi ed.
"I'm surprised you don't know about it," he fi nally said.
"Know about what?"
He looked at her then. He appeared to be trying to read her face for
insolence or sarcasm or perhaps a need to wound. Apparently satisfied
with what he saw, he returned his eyes to the road.
"Just about five years ago, my brother-inlaw, Edward Davenport, was
murdered in his home north of Richmond. Superintendent Nies saw fit to
arrest me. It wasn't a long ordeal, just a matter of a few days. But
quite long enough." A glance at her again, a self-deprecatory smile.
"You've not heard that story, Sergeant? It's nasty enough to make good
cocktail party gossip."
"I…no…no, I'd not heard it. And anyway, I don't go to cocktail parties."
She turned blindly to the window. "I should guess the turnoff is near.
Perhaps three miles," she said uselessly.
She was shaken to the core. She could not have said why, did not want to
think about it, and forced herself to study the scenery, refusing to be
caught up in any further conversation with the man. Concentration on
the land became imperative, and as she gave herself over to it, the
country began its process of seduction upon her, for she was so used to
the frenetic pace of London and the desperate grime of her neighbourhood
in Acton that Yorkshire came as a bit of a shock.
The countryside was a thousand different shades of green, from the
patchwork quilts of the cultivated land to the desolation of the open
moors. The road dipped through dales where forests protected spotless
villages and then climbed switchbacked curves to take them again up to
the open land where the North Sea wind blew unforgivingly across heather
and furze. Here, the only life belonged to the sheep. They wandered
free and unfenced, unfettered by the ancient dry stone walls that
constructed boundaries for their fellows in the dales below.
There were contradictions everywhere. In the cultivated areas, life
burgeoned from every cranny and hedgerow, a thick vegetation that in
another season would produce the mixed beauties of cow parsley, campion,
vetch, and foxglove. It was an area where transportation was delayed
while two dogs expertly herded a flock of plump sheep across pasture,
down hillside, and along the road for a two-mile stroll into the centre
of a village, directed only by the whistling of the shepherd who
followed, his fate and the fate of the animals he owned left to the
skill of the running dogs. And then suddenly, the plants, villages,
magnificent oaks, elms, and chestnuts—this truly insubstantial
pageant—faded to nothing in the glory of the moors.
Here, the cerulean sky exploded with clouds. It swept down to meet the
rough, unconquered land. Earth and air: there was nothing else, save the
sapient presence of the black-faced sheep, stalwart denizens of this
lonely place.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Lynley asked after some minutes. "In spite
of everything that's happened to me here, I still love Yorkshire. I
think it's the loneliness here. The complete desolation."
Again Barbara resisted the confi dence, the implicit message behind the
words that here was a man who could understand. "It's very nice, sir.
Not like anything I've ever seen. I think this is our turn."
The road to Keldale switched back and forth, taking them to the deepest
section of the dale. Moments after the turn, the woods closed in on
them. Trees arched over the road, ferns grew thickly at its sides. They
came to the village the way that Cromwell had come, and they found it as
he had: deserted.
The ringing of St. Catherine's church bells told them immediately why
there was no sign of life in the village. Upon the cessation of what
Lynley was beginning to believe was surely Sayers's nine tailors, the
church doors opened and the ancient building spewed forth its tiny
congregation.
"At last," he murmured. He stood leaning against the car, thoughtfully
surveying the village. He'd parked in front of Keldale Lodge, a trim
little hostelry, heavily hung with ivy and multipaned windows, from
which he had a sweeping view in four directions. Taking it in, he
concluded that there couldn't possibly have been a more unlikely spot on
earth for a murder.
To the north was the narrow high street, flanked by grey stone buildings
with tiled roofs and white woodwork containing the requisite elements
for comfortable village life: a shoe-box-sized post offi ce; a
nondescript greengrocer's; a shop advertising Lyons cakes on a rusty
yellow sign and looking like the purveyor of everything from motor oil
to baby food; a Wesleyan chapel wedged with delightful incongruity
between Sarah's Tea Room and Sinji's Beauty Shoppe ("Pretty Curls Make
Lovely Girls"). The pavement on either side of the street was raised
only slightly off the road, and water pooled in front of doorways from
the morning's rainfall. But the sky was clear now, and the air was so
fresh that Lynley could taste its purity.
To the west, a road called Bishop Furthing led off towards farmland,
enclosed on either side by the ubiquitous dry stone walls of the
district. On its corner stood a tree-shaded cottage with a front door
only steps from the street. It had an enclosed garden to one side from
which the excited yelping of small dogs burst forth at regular
intervals, as if someone were playing with them, rough and tumble. The
building itself was labelled as inconspicuously as possible with the
single word POLICE, blue letters on a white sign that stuck out from a
window. Home of the archangel Gabriel, Lynley concluded, suppressing a
smile.
To the south, two roads veered off from an overgrown two-bench common:
Keldale Abbey Road, ostensibly leading to the same, and over the humped
bridge that spanned the lazy movement of the River Kel, Church Street,
with St. Catherine's built on a hillock on the corner. It, too, was
surrounded by a low stone wall, and embedded into this was a World War I
memorial plaque, the sombre commonality of every village in the nation.
To the east was the road down which they had wended their way to this
bit of Yorkshire heaven. It had been deserted earlier, but now the bent
form of a woman trudged up the incline, a scarf tucked into her black
coat. Shod in heavy brogues and dazzling blue ankle socks, she carried a
mesh bag over one arm. It dangled there limply, empty. On a Sunday
afternoon there was little hope of filling it with foodstuffs purchased
at the grocer's, for everything was locked up tight, and even if it were
not, she was heading in the wrong direction to be making a purchase:
out of the village, back up towards the moors. A farmwife, perhaps,
having made some delivery.
The village was surrounded by woods, by the upward slope of meadow, by
the feeling of absolute security and peace. Once St. Catherine's bells
ceased ringing, the birds took up, tittering from rooftops and trees.
Somewhere, a fire had been lit and woodsmoke, just the ghost of its
fragrance, was like a whisper in the air. It was hard to believe that
three weeks past, a mile out of town, a man had been decapitated by his
only daughter.
"Inspector Lynley? I hope I haven't kept you waiting long. I always lock
up during church since there's no one else to watch the place. I'm
Stepha Odell. I own the lodge."
At the sound of the voice, Lynley turned from his inspection of the
village, but at the sight of her, his polite introduction died on his
lips.
A tall, shapely woman—perhaps forty years old—stood before him. She was
dressed for church in grey linen, a well-cut dress with a white collar.
The rest of her was black: shoes, belt, handbag, and hat. Except for her
hair, which was coppery red and fell to her shoulders. She was
stunning.
He found his voice. "Thomas Lynley," he said idiotically. "This is Sergeant Havers."
"Do come in." Stepha Odell's voice was warm and pleasant. "I've your
rooms ready. You'll find us a quiet inn at this time of year."
There was a chill in the building they entered, an atmosphere produced
by thick walls and stone floors. These were covered with a faded
Axminster carpet. She led them into a tiny reception area, moving with a
swift, unconscious grace, and produced an oversized register for them
to sign. "You've been told I only do breakfast, haven't you?" she asked
earnestly, as if satisfying hunger were the uppermost thing on his mind
at this moment.
Do I look that desperate? "We'll manage, Mrs. Odell," Lynley said.
Tricky move, old boy. Transparent as hell. Havers stood mute at his
side, her face without expression.
"Miss," their hostess replied. "Stepha really. You can get meals at the
Dove and Whistle on St. Chad's Lane or at the Holy Grail. Or if you want
something special, there's Keldale Hall."
"The Holy Grail?"
She smiled. "The pub across from St. Catherine's."
"That name must certainly propitiate the abstinent gods."
"At least it does Father Hart. But he's been known to tip a pint or two in an evening there. Shall I show you your rooms?"
Without waiting for an answer, she led them up the crooked stairs,
displaying, Lynley noted, a remarkably pretty pair of ankles and above
which rose an even prettier pair of legs. "You'll find us glad to have
you in the village, Inspector," she stated as she opened the door to the
first room and then with a gesture of her hand indicated the room next
door with the unspoken message that it was up to them to decide who
stayed where.
"That's helpful. I'm glad to hear it."
"We've none of us anything against Gabriel, you see. But he's not been a
popular man round here since they carted Roberta off to the asylum."
