Lynley was positively white with rage, but there was not the slightest
indication of that emotion in his voice. Barbara watched his performance
on the telephone with grudging admiration. A virtuoso, she admitted.
"The name of the admitting psychiatrist?… There wasn't one? What a
fascinating procedure. Then upon whose authority…When exactly did you
expect me to stumble upon this information, Superintendent, since you've
conveniently left it out of the report?…No, you've got things
backwards, I'm afraid. You don't move a suspect to an institution
without formal paperwork.…It's unfortunate that your police matron is on
holiday, but you fi nd a replacement. You don't move a nineteen-yearold
girl into a mental hospital for the simple reason that she refuses to
speak to anyone."
Barbara wondered if he would allow himself to explode, if he would show
even a crack in that well-tailored Savile Row armour of his.
"I'm afraid that bathing daily is not the preeminent indication of
unshakable sanity, either…. Don't pull rank on me, Superintendent. If
this is any indication of the manner in which you've handled this case,
there's no wonder to me that Kerridge is after your skin…. Who's her
solicitor?…Shouldn't you be getting her one yourself, then?…Don't tell
me what you have no intention of doing. I've been brought in on this
case and henceforth it shall be conducted correctly. Am I being quite
clear? Now please listen carefully. You have exactly two hours to get
everything to me in Keldale: every warrant, every paper, every
deposition, every note that was taken by every officer on this case. Do
you understand? Two hours…Webberly. W-e-b-b-e-r-l-y. Phone him then and
have done with it." Stone-faced, Lynley handed the telephone back to
Stepha Odell.
She replaced it behind the reception counter and ran a finger along the
receiver several times before looking up. "Should I have said nothing?"
she asked, a trace of anxiety in her voice. "I don't want to cause
trouble between you and your superiors."
Lynley flipped open his pocket watch and checked the time. "Nies is not
my superior. And yes, you should have told me. Thank you for doing so.
You saved me a needless trip to Richmond that no doubt Nies was longing
to force me to make."
Stepha didn't pretend to understand. Instead, she gestured vaguely to a
door on their right. "I…May I offer you a drink, Inspector? You as well,
Sergeant? We've got a real ale that, as Nigel Parrish is fond of
saying, ‘sets you to rights.' Come this way."
She led them into a typical English country inn lounge, whose air was
heavy with the scent of a recent fire. The room had been cleverly
designed with enough home-like qualities to keep residents comfortable
while maintaining a formal enough atmosphere to keep villagers out.
There were a variety of plump, chintz-covered couches and chairs
decorated with petit point pillows; tables spread out in no particular
arrangement were maple, well used and ringed on their tops where too
many glasses had been placed on the wood without protection; the carpet
was a floral design, patchy with darker colours in some sections where
furniture had recently been moved; suitably tedious prints hung on the
walls: riding to hounds, a day at Newmarket, a view of the village. But
behind the bar at the far side of the room and over the fireplace were
two watercolours that displayed a distinctive talent and remarkable
taste. Both were views of a ruined abbey.
Lynley wandered to one of these as Stepha worked behind the bar. "This is lovely," he remarked. "A local artist?"
"A young man named Ezra Farmington does them," she replied. "They're of
our abbey. Those two are how he paid for his board here one autumn. He
lives in the village permanently now."
Barbara watched the redheaded woman deftly work the taps and scoop the
foam from the churning brew that was developing a life of its own in the
glass. Stepha laughed in a breathless, charming way when the foam
slipped over the side and onto her hand, and she unconsciously raised
her fingers to her lips to lick the residue. Barbara idly wondered how
long it would take Lynley to get her into bed.
"Sergeant?" Stepha asked. "An ale for you as well?"
"Tonic water, if you have it," Barbara replied. She looked out the
window. On the common, the old priest who had been to see them in London
was having an anxious conversation with another man. From the gesturing
and pointing at the silver Bentley, the news of their arrival was
apparently the topic of the village. A woman crossed from the bridge to
join them. She was wispy-looking, an effect produced by a dress too
gauzy for the season and by baby-fine hair which the smallest air
current ruffled. She rubbed her arms for warmth, and, rather than
joining in the conversation of the two men, she merely listened as if
waiting for one or the other of them to walk off. In a moment the priest
said a few final words and meandered back towards the church. The other
two remained standing together. Their conversation went in fi ts and
starts, with the man saying something with a quick look at the woman and
then away and the woman replying briefly. There were long silences in
which the woman looked at the bank of the river next to the common and
the man focused his attention on the lodge—or perhaps the car in front
of it. Someone was significantly interested in the arrival of the
police, Barbara decided.
"A tonic water and an ale," Stepha was saying as she placed both glasses
on the bar. "It's a home brew, my father's recipe. We call it Odell's.
You must tell me what you think of it, Inspector."
It was a rich, brown liquid shot through with gold. "Has a bit of a
kick, doesn't it?" Lynley said when he tasted it. "Are you sure you
won't have one, Havers?"
"Just the tonic water, thank you, sir."
He joined her at the couch in front of which he had earlier spilled out
the contents of the report on the Teys murder and had icily flipped
through every paper looking for the explanation of Roberta Teys's
placement in Barnstingham Mental Asylum. There had been none. That had
set him off on the telephone to Richmond. Now he began to go through the
paperwork again, stacking things in categorical fashion. From the bar,
Stepha Odell watched them with friendly interest, sipping an ale that
she'd poured for herself.
"We've got the original warrants, the forensics report, the signed
depositions, the photographs." Lynley fingered the materials as he named
them. He looked up at Barbara. "No keys to the farmhouse. Damn the
man."
"Richard has a set of those if you need them," Stepha said quickly, as
if hoping to make up for her remark about Roberta that had set Lynley
off on a collision course with the Richmond police in the fi rst place.
"Richard Gibson. He was…is William Teys's nephew. He lives in the
council cottages on St. Chad's Lane. It's just off the high street."
Lynley looked up. "How does he come to have keys to the farmhouse?"
"Having arrested Roberta…well, I suppose they just gave them to Richard.
He's to inherit it anyway once the estate's all settled," she added.
"In William's will. I suppose he's seeing to the place in the meantime.
Someone must."
"He's to inherit? How was Roberta treated in the will?"
Stepha gave the bar a thoughtful sweep with a cloth. "It was fixed
between Richard and William that the farm would go to Richard. It was a
sensible arrangement. He works there with William…. Worked there," she
corrected herself, "ever since he returned to Keldale two years ago.
Once they got over their row about Roberta, it all worked out to
everyone's advantage. William had someone to help him, Richard had a job
and a future, and Roberta had a place to live for life."
"Sergeant." Lynley nodded at her notebook, which was lying unused next to her tonic water. "If you would please…"
Stepha flushed as she saw Barbara reach for her pen. "Is this an
interview then?" she asked, flashing an anxious smile. "I don't know how
much I can help you, Inspector."
"Tell us about the row and Roberta."
She came round the bar and joined them, pulling a comfortable, cushioned
chair to the other side of the table. She sat down, tucking her legs to
one side, and glanced at the stack of photographs in front of her. She
looked away quickly.
"I'll tell you what I can, but it isn't much. Olivia's the one who can tell you more."
"Olivia Odell…your…"
