Havers preceded Lynley into the room, but at the sight she cried out
involuntarily, and stepped back quickly, one arm raised as if to ward
off a blow.
"Something wrong, Sergeant?" Lynley inspected the room to see what had
startled her, observing nothing but furniture and a collection of
photographs in one corner.
"Excuse me. I think…" She produced an unnatural grimace to pass for a
smile. "Sorry, sir. I…I think I must be hungry or something. A little
light-headed. I'm fi ne." She walked to the corner of the room in which
the photographs hung, before which the candles rested, underneath which
the flowers had died. "This must be the mother," she said. "Quite a
tribute."
Lynley joined her at a three-cornered table that backed into the wall.
"Beautiful girl," he replied softly, studying the pictures. "She really
wasn't much more than that, was she? Look at the wedding picture. She
looks as if she were ten years old! Such a little creature."
It was unspoken between them. How had she produced a cow like Roberta?
"Don't you think it's a bit…" Havers paused and he glanced at her. She
clasped her hands stiffly behind her. "I mean, if he was planning to
marry Olivia, sir."
Lynley set down what was obviously the final portrait of the woman. She
looked about twenty-four: a fresh, smiling face; golden freckles
sprinkled across the bridge of her nose; long, gleaming blonde hair tied
back and curled. Beguiling. He stepped back from the collection.
"It's as if Teys established a new religion in the corner of this room," he said. "Macabre, wouldn't you agree?"
"I…" She tore her eyes from the picture. "Yes, sir."
Lynley turned his attention to the rest of the room. Everyday living had
gone on in it. There were a comfortably worn couch, several chairs, a
rack holding numerous magazines, a television set, and a woman's
escritoire. Lynley opened this. Neatly stacked stationery, a tin of
postage stamps, three unpaid bills. He glanced at them: a chemist's
receipt for Teys's sleeping pills, the electricity, the telephone. He
looked at the last, but there was nothing of interest. No long distance
calls. Everything neat and clean.
Beyond the sitting room was a small library-office and they opened the
door to this, looked at each other in surprise, and walked into the
room. Three of the four walls had shelves that climbed to the ceiling,
and every shelf was littered with books. Books stacked. Books piled.
Books falling loosely to one side. Books standing up at rigid attention.
Books everywhere.
"But Stepha Odell said—"
"That there was no lending library so Roberta came for the newspaper,"
Lynley fi nished. "She'd read all of her own books—how was that
possible?—and all of Marsha Fitzalan's. Who, by the way, is Marsha
Fitzalan?"
"Schoolteacher," Havers responded. "She lives on St. Chad's Lane. Next door to the Gibsons."
"Thank you," Lynley murmured, inspecting the shelves. He put on his
spectacles. "Hmm. A bit of everything. But heavily into the Brontës,
weren't they?"
Havers joined him. "Austen," she read, "Dickens, bit of Lawrence. They
went in for the classics." She pulled down Pride and Prejudice and
opened it. Tessa's! was scrawled childishly across the flyleaf. This
same declaration was in Dickens and Shakespeare, two Norton anthologies,
and all the Brontës.
Lynley moved to a book stand that was fi xed underneath the room's only
window. It was the kind used for large dictionaries, but on its top
rested an immense, illuminated Bible. He ran his fingers down the page
to which the book was open. "‘I am Joseph your brother, whom ye sold
into Egypt,'" he read. "‘Now therefore be not grieved, nor angry with
yourselves, that ye sold me hither. For God did send me before you to
preserve life. For these two years hath the famine been in the land: and
yet there are five years, in the which there shall neither be earing
nor harvest. And God sent me before you to preserve you a posterity in
the earth, and to save your lives by a great deliverance.'" He looked up
at Havers.
"I'll never understand why he forgave his brothers," she said. "After what they'd done to him, they deserved to die."
The bitterness behind her words burned. He closed the book slowly,
marking the place with a scrap of paper from the desk. "But he had
something they needed."
"Food," she scoffed.
He removed his spectacles. "I don't think it had anything at all to do with food. Not really," he noted. "What's above stairs?"
★ ★ ★
The second floor of the house was simple: four bedrooms, lavatory,
bathroom, all opening off a central, square landing illuminated by a
skylight of opaque glass. An obvious modernisation to the house, this
last architectural feature gave the effect of being in a greenhouse. Not
altogether unpleasant, but unusual on a farm.
The room on their right appeared to be a guest room. A neatly made,
pink-counterpaned bed, a rather smallish affair considering the size of
the house's occupants, stood against one wall on a rug printed with a
design of roses and ferns. It was obviously quite old, and the once
brilliant reds and greens were muted now, bleeding one into the other in
a soothing rust. The walls were hung with paper on which tiny
flowers—dairies and marigolds—sprinkled down. On the bedside table a
small lamp stood upon a circle of lace. The chest of drawers held
nothing, as did the wardrobe.
"Reminds me of a room in an inn," Lynley remarked.
Barbara noted the view from the window: an uninteresting panorama of the
barn and the yard. "Looks as if no one's ever used it."
Lynley was examining the counterpane across the bed. He pulled it back
to reveal a badly stained mattress and a yellowing pillow. "No guests
expected here. Odd to leave a bed unmade, wouldn't you say?"
"Not at all. Why put sheets on it if it's never going to be used?"
"Except that—"
"Look, shall I go on to the next room, Inspector?" Barbara asked impatiently. The house was oppressing her.
Lynley glanced up at the tone of her voice. He drew the counterpane back
over the bed exactly as it had been placed before and sat on the edge.
"What is it, Barbara?" he asked.
"Nothing," she replied, but she heard the edge of panic in her voice.
"I'd just like to get on with it. This room obviously hasn't been used
in years. Why examine every inch of it like Sherlock Holmes, as if the
murderer were going to pop out of the fl oorboards?"
He didn't reply at once, so the shrillness of her voice seemed to linger
in the room long after she had spoken. "What's wrong?" he repeated.
"May I help?" His eyes were on her, dark with their concern, so infi
nitely kind. It would indeed be easy—
"There's nothing wrong!" she exploded. "I just don't want to have to
follow you around like a spaniel dog. I don't know what you expect of
me. I feel like an idiot. I've a brain, goddammit! Give me something to
do!"
He got to his feet, his eyes still on her. "Why don't you go across the landing and deal with the next room," he suggested.
She opened her mouth to say more, decided against it, and left him,
pausing for a moment in the greenish light of the landing. She could
hear her own breathing, harsh and loud, and knew he must be able to hear
it as well.
That damnable shrine! The farm itself was bad enough with its ghastly
lifelessness, but the shrine had completely unnerved her. It had been
set up in the very fi nest corner of the room. With a view of the
garden, Barbara thought weakly. Tony has the telly and she has the damn
garden!
What had Lynley called it? A religion. Yes, sweet Jesus! A temple to
Tony! She compelled her breathing to return to normal, crossed the
landing, and went into the next room.
That's torn it, Barb, she told herself. What happened to agreement, to
obedience, to cooperation? How will you feel back in uniform next week?
She looked about furiously, her lips quivering in disgust. Well, who
bloody well cared? After all, it was a preordained failure. Had she
really expected this to be a success?
She crossed the room to the window and fumbled with the latch. What had
he said? What is it? May I help? The insanity was that for just a
moment, she had actually thought about talking to him, about telling him
everything there was to tell. But, of course, it was unthinkable. No
one could help, least of all Lynley.
