Blessed Helen. God, what a wonderful anchor she'd been in his life this
past year! Lynley pushed the thought from his mind and returned to his
study of Havers. She reminded him just a bit of a turtle. Especially
this morning when Helen had come into the room. The poor wretch had
absolutely frozen, muttered less than ten words, and retreated right
into her shell. What bizarre behaviour! As if she had something to fear
from Helen! He felt in his pockets for his cigarette case and lighter.
Sergeant Havers glanced up at his movement, then returned to her report,
her face impassive. She doesn't smoke or drink, Lynley thought and
smiled wryly. Well, get used to it, Sergeant. I'm not at all a man who
neglects his vices. Not in the past year, at least.
He'd never quite been able to comprehend the woman's remarkable
antipathy towards him. There was, if one thought about it, the entire
ridiculous subject of class—and God knows he'd taken a fair share of
ribbing once his colleagues discovered he'd inherited a title.
Yet after a week or two of their mocking bows and fanfares whenever he
entered a room, the title had simply ceased to be an issue at all. But
not for Havers, who seemed to hear the orotund words Eighth Earl of
Asherton booming out every time he walked anywhere near her, something
he'd scrupulously avoided doing since she'd been returned to uniform.
He sighed. And here they were now together. What was it exactly that
Webberly had in mind in establishing this grotesque alliance of theirs?
The super was by far the most intelligent man he'd ever run across at
the Yard, so this quixotic little partnership hadn't come out of
nowhere. He looked out the rain-splattered window. If I can only
determine which one of us is Sancho Panza, we'll get on famously. He
laughed.
Sergeant Havers looked up curiously but said nothing. Lynley smiled. "Just look for windmills," he told her.
They were drinking the railway's Styrofoam coffee from its Styrofoam
cups when Sergeant Havers tentatively brought up the question of the
axe.
"No prints on it at all," she observed.
"It does seem odd, doesn't it?" Lynley replied. He winced at the taste
of the liquid and shoved the cup aside. "Kill your dog, kill your
father, sit there waiting for the police to arrive, but wipe the axe
handle clean of your fingerprints? It doesn't follow."
"Why do you think she killed the dog, Inspector?"
"To silence it."
"I suppose so," she agreed reluctantly.
Lynley saw that she wanted to say something more. "What do you think?"
"I…It's nothing. You're probably quite right, sir."
"But you have another idea. Let's hear it." Havers was eyeing him warily. "Sergeant?" he prompted.
She cleared her throat. "I was only thinking that she really wouldn't
need to silence it. I mean…it was her dog. Why would it bark at her? I
could be wrong, but it seems that it would bark at an intruder and an
intruder would want to silence it."
Lynley studied the tips of his steepled fi ngers. "‘The curious incident
of the dog in the night-time,'" he murmured. "It would bark at a girl
it knew if she were killing her father," he argued.
"But…I was thinking, sir." Havers nervously pushed her clipped hair
behind her ears, a gesture that made her more unattractive than ever.
"Doesn't it look as if the dog was killed first?" She leafed through the
papers that she had replaced in the folder and took out one of the
photographs. "Teys's body has collapsed right over the dog."
Lynley examined the picture. "Yes, of course. But she could have arranged it."
Havers's sharp little eyes widened in surprise. "I don't think she could, sir. Not really."
"Why not?"
"Teys was six feet four inches tall." She clumsily pulled out more of
the report. "He weighed…here it is, fourteen and one-half stone. I can't
see this Roberta slinging round fourteen and one-half stone of dead
weight just to arrange a crime scene. Especially if she intended to
confess immediately after. It doesn't seem possible. Besides, the body
had no head, so you'd think there'd be a bit of blood on the walls if
she'd slung it about. But there wasn't."
"Score a point for you, Sergeant," Lynley said, pulling his reading
spectacles out of his pocket. "I think I agree. Here, let me have a look
at that." She handed him the entire fi le. "Time of death was put at
between ten and midnight," he said, more to himself than to her. "Had
chicken and peas for dinner. Something wrong, Sergeant?"
"Nothing, sir. Someone walked over my grave."
