Payment In Blood (20 page)

At the memory’s sudden force, he felt stricken with sorrow, desolate, utterly alone. And what he had come to say would only serve to make the situation worse between them. But he knew he had to speak to her, whatever the cost.

“Helen, I can’t bear to see you do this to yourself. You’re trying to replay St. James to a different ending. I don’t want you to do it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. None of this has anything to do with Simon.” Lady Helen remained where she was, across the room from him, as if to step in his direction were to surrender in some way. And she would never do that.

Lynley thought he saw a small bruise low on her neck where the collar of her teal blouse dipped towards the swell of her breasts. But when she moved her head, the bruise disappeared, a trick of light, a product of unhappy imagination.

“It does,” he said. “Or haven’t you noticed yet how very much like St. James he is? Even his alcoholism is St. James all over again with a simple difference in disability. Except that this time, you won’t walk out on him, will you? You won’t go gratefully when he tries to send you away.”

Lady Helen’s head turned from him. Her lips parted, then closed. He saw that she would allow him these moments of castigation, but she would offer no defence. His punishment would be never to know, never to understand completely what had drawn her to the Welshman, to be forced into guesswork that she would never affirm. He accepted this knowledge with rising anguish. Still, he wanted to touch her, feeling desperate for contact, for a moment of her warmth.

“I know you, Helen. And I understand how guilt feeds on itself. Who on earth could possibly understand that better than I? I crippled St. James. But you’ve always believed that your sin was worse, haven’t you? Because inside, where you would never have to admit it, you were relieved all those years ago when he broke your engagement. Because then you would never have to face life with a man who could no longer do all those things that, at the time, seemed so absurdly important. Skiing, bathing at resorts, dancing, hiking, having a wonderful time.”

“Damn you.” Her voice was no more than a whisper. When she met his eyes, her face was white. It was a warning. He ignored it, compelled to go on.

“For ten years you’ve had yourself on the rack over leaving St. James. And now you see an opportunity to put it all right, to make up for everything: for letting him go off to Switzerland to convalesce alone, for letting yourself be driven off when he needed you; for shirking a marriage that appeared to have responsibilities far outweighing its pleasures. Davies-Jones is going to be your redemption, isn’t he? You plan to make him whole again, just as you could have done—and didn’t do—for St. James. And then you’ll be able to forgive yourself at last. That’s it, isn’t it? That’s how it’s to be played.”

“I think you’ve said enough,” she said stiffly.

“I haven’t.” Lynley sought the words to break through to her; it was imperative that she understand. “Because he isn’t like St. James at all beneath the surface. Please. Listen to me, Helen. Davies-Jones isn’t a man you’ve known intimately, inside and out, since your eighteenth birthday. He’s a relative stranger to you, someone you can’t really know.”

“A murderer, in other words?”

“Yes. If you will.”

She flinched from the easiness of his admission, but her slender body drew strength from the passion of her reply. Muscles became tense across her face and neck, even—to his imagination—beneath the soft sleeves of her blouse.

“With me too blinded by love or remorse or guilt or whatever it is that prevents me from seeing what’s so patently obvious to you?” She flung her hand sharply towards the doorway, to the house beyond it, to the room she had occupied and what had happened within it. “Exactly when did he set this murder in motion? He left the house after the read-through. He didn’t get back till one.”

“On his own report, yes.”

“You’re saying he lied to me, Tommy. But I
know
he didn’t. I know he walks when he needs to drink. He told me that in London. I even walked with him out by the loch after he broke up the row between Joy Sinclair and Gabriel yesterday afternoon.”

“And don’t you see how clever that was, how all of that was to set you up to believe him when he said he’d been out walking again last night? He needed your compassion, Helen, if you were to allow him to stay in your room. And what better way to get it than to say he’d been out walking off his need to drink. He could hardly have gained your sympathy so effectively by hanging about after the read-through, could he?”

“Do you actually want me to believe that Rhys murdered his cousin while I was asleep, that he then came back into my room, and made love to me for a second time? It’s completely absurd.”

“Why?”

“Because I
know
him.”

“You’ve been to bed with him, Helen. I think you’ll agree that knowing a man is more complicated than falling into bed with him for a few steamy hours, no matter how pleasant they may have been.”

Her dark eyes alone bore the wound made by his words. When she spoke again, it was with heavy irony. “You choose your words well. Congratulations. They do hurt.”

Lynley felt his heart twist. “I don’t want you to be hurt! God in heaven, can’t you see that? Can’t you see that I’m trying to keep you from harm? I’m sorry about what’s happened. I’m sorry for the foul way I treated you earlier. But none of that goes any distance to change the facts of last night. Davies-Jones used you to gain access to her, Helen. He used you again after he saw to Gowan this evening. He plans to go on using you unless I can stop him. And I intend to stop him. Whether you help me or not.”

She lifted her hand to her throat, clutched at the collar of her blouse. “Help you? My God, I think I’d rather die.”

Her words and the bitterness of her tone struck Lynley like a blow. He might have answered but was spared the necessity by the police constable who had managed to find a single-bar electric fire to keep her warm through what remained of the night.

9

B
ARBARA
H
AVERS
paused on the wide drive before going back into the house. Snow had fallen again during the night, but it was a light fall, insufficient to close roads but enough to make walking on the estate grounds wet, cold, and unpleasant. Nonetheless, after a foully sleepless night, she had risen shortly after dawn and had set out through the snow, determined to rid herself of the turmoil of mixed loyalties that were plaguing her.

Logic told Barbara that her primary responsibility was to New Scotland Yard. Adherence right now to procedures, to judges’ rules, to Force regulations would add to the likelihood of her receiving a promotion the next time an inspector’s position came open. After all, she had taken the examination only last month—she could swear for certain that she’d passed it this time—and the last four courses at the training centre had earned her the highest possible marks. So the time was right for advancement, or as nearly right as it was ever going to be, if she only played this entire affair wisely.

Thomas Lynley was what made everything so difficult. Barbara had spent practically every working hour over the last fifteen months in Lynley’s presence, so she was not at all oblivious of the qualities that had made him a superb member of the Force, a man who had risen from constable to sergeant to detective inspector in his first five years. He was quick-witted and intuitive, gifted with both compassion and humour, a man liked by his colleagues and well trusted by Superintendent Webberly. Barbara knew how lucky she was to be working with Lynley, knew how deserving he was of her absolute faith. He put up with her moods, stoically listened to her ravings even when her most virulent attacks were directed against him, still encouraged her to think freely, to offer her own opinions, to disagree openly. He was unlike any other officer she had ever known, and she owed him personal debts that went far beyond her having been returned to CID from her demotion to uniformed patrol fifteen months back.

So now she had to decide where her true loyalties lay, to Lynley or to advancement in her career. For in her forced hike through the woods this morning, she had inadvertently come upon a piece of information that bore the unmistakable stamp of being part of the puzzle. And she had to decide what to do with it. More, no matter what she decided, she had to understand exactly what it meant.

The air was stinging in its icy purity. Barbara felt its sharp stab in her nose and throat, in her ears and against her eyes. Yet she breathed it in deeply five or six times, squinting against the brilliant purity of sunlit snow, before she trudged across the drive, stamped her feet roughly against the stone steps, and walked into the great hall of Westerbrae.

It was nearly eight. There was movement in the house, footsteps in the upper corridor and the sound of keys turning in locks upstairs. A smell of bacon and the rich perfume of coffee gave normality to the morning—as if the events of the past thirty-two hours had only been part of an extended nightmare—and the low murmur of pleasant voices came from the drawing room. Barbara walked in to find Lady Helen and St. James sitting in a soft pool of sunlight at the east end of the room, sharing coffee and conversation. They were alone. As Barbara watched them together, St. James shook his head, reached out and rested his hand for a moment upon Lady Helen’s shoulder. It was a gesture of infinite gentleness, of understanding, the wordless binding of a friendship that made the two of them together stronger and more viable than either one could ever be alone.

Seeing them, Barbara was struck by the thought of how easy it was to make a decision when she considered it in the light of friendship. Indeed, between Lynley and her career there was no choice at all. She had no real career without him. She crossed the room to join them.

Both looked as if they, too, had experienced a restless night. The lines on St. James’ face were more sharply defined than usual, and Lady Helen’s fine skin had a fragile look about it, like a gardenia that would bruise at the slightest touch. When St. James automatically began to rise in greeting, Barbara waved the social nicety to one side.

“Can you come outside with me?” she asked them. “I’ve found something in the woods that I think you ought to see.” St. James’ face registered the impossibility of his being able to navigate the snow drifts, and Barbara hastily sought to reassure him. “There’s a brick walk for part of the way. And I’ve flattened enough of a path in the forest itself, I think. It’s only about sixty yards into the trees.”

“What is it?” Lady Helen asked.

“A grave,” Barbara replied.

T
HE FOREST
had been planted to the south of a pathway that circled the great house. It was not the sort of woodland that would have sprung up naturally in this moor-filled area of Scotland. There were English and sessile oaks, beeches, walnuts, and sycamores mixed in with pines. A narrow path led through them, marked out by small circles of yellow paint that had been dotted onto the trunks of the trees.

The forest was a place of that unearthly kind of silence that comes from the heavy insulation of snow upon tree branches and ground. No wind moved, and although the raw burst of an automobile engine pierced the stillness momentarily, it died off quickly, leaving in its wake only the restless lapping of water in the loch some twenty yards down the slope to their left. The going was not easy, for even though Sergeant Havers had indeed flattened a primitive path through the woods, the snow was deep and the ground irregular, no place for a man who had difficulty enough on a surface that was flat and dry.

It took fifteen minutes to make a four-minute walk, and, in spite of Lady Helen’s supportive arm, St. James was damp-faced from exertion when Havers finally led them off the main path onto a smaller branch that rose gently through a copse towards a knoll. During the summer, heavy foliage would probably have hidden both the knoll and the little track from the view of anyone on the main path from the house. But in the winter, hydrangeas that otherwise would have been vibrant with clusters of pink and blue flowers, and walnuts that would have created a verdant screen of protection, were bare, giving anyone free access to the plot of ground at the knoll’s top. It was an area about twenty-five feet square, bounded by an iron fence. White powder dusted this, hiding the fact that long ago the fence had surrendered to rust.

Lady Helen was the first to speak. “What on earth is a graveyard doing here? Is there a church nearby?”

Havers indicated the direction the main path took towards the south. “There’s a locked chapel and a family vault not too much further along. And an old pier on the loch just below it. It looks like they’ve boated their way to burials.”

“Like the Vikings,” St. James said absently. “What have we here, Barbara?” He pushed open the gate, wincing at the shriek of its unoiled metal. There was one set of footsteps in the snow already.

“I had a look,” Havers explained. “I’d already gone along to the family chapel and had a look there. So when I saw this on my way back, I was curious. See for yourself. Tell me what you think.”

While Havers waited at the gate, St. James and Lady Helen crunched through the snow to the single gravestone that rose from it like a solitary grey augury, scratched by a bare elm branch that drooped heavily onto its top. It was not a terribly old stone, certainly not as old as those found in tumbling graveyards throughout the country. Yet it was very much abandoned, for the black residue of lichen ate at the meagre carving and St. James guessed that in midsummer, the yard itself would be wildly overgrown with cow parsley and weeds. Nonetheless, the words upon the stone were legible, only partially effaced by weather and neglect.

Geoffrey Rintoul, Viscount Corleagh
1914-1963

Quietly, they studied the lonely grave. A dense chunk of snow fell from a branch above it and disintegrated on the stone.

“Is that Lord Stinhurst’s older brother?” Lady Helen asked.

“It looks that way,” Havers replied. “Curious, wouldn’t you say?”

“Why?” St. James’ eyes swept across the plot, looking for other graves. There were none.

“Because the family home’s in Somerset, isn’t it?” Havers replied.

“It is.” St. James knew that Havers was watching him, knew that she was attempting to gauge how much Lynley had told him of his private conversation with Lord Stinhurst. He tried to sound completely detached.

“So what’s Geoffrey doing buried here? Why isn’t he in Somerset?”

“I believe he died here,” St. James replied.

“You know as well as I that nobs like these bury their own in family plots, Simon. Why wasn’t this particular body taken home? Or,” she queried before he could answer, “if you’re going to say that it wasn’t possible for them to take the body home, then why wasn’t he buried in the Gerrard family plot just a few hundred yards further down the path?”

St. James chose his words with care. “Perhaps this was a favourite spot of his, Barbara. It’s peaceful, no doubt quite beautiful in the summer with the loch just below it. I can’t think that it means all that much.”

“Not even when you consider that this man, Geoffrey Rintoul, was Stinhurst’s older brother, and the
rightful
Lord Stinhurst in the first place?”

St. James’ eyebrows raised quizzically. “You’re not suggesting that Lord Stinhurst murdered his brother in order to gain the title? Because if that’s the case, wouldn’t it make a lot more sense, if he wished to cover up a murder, to take his brother home and bury him with attendant pomp and circumstance in Somerset?”

Lady Helen had been listening to their exchange quietly, but she spoke at the mention of burials. “There’s something not quite right here, Simon. Francesca Gerrard’s husband—Phillip Gerrard—isn’t buried in the family plot either. He’s on a small island in the loch, just a bit off shore. I saw the island from my window right after my arrival, and when I commented upon it to Mary Agnes—it has a curious tomb on it that looks like a folly—she told me all about it. According to Mary Agnes, that’s where Francesca’s husband, Phillip, insisted upon being buried.
Insisted
, Simon. It was in the terms of his will. I should guess it’s a bit of local colour because Gowan told me the exact same thing when he brought up my luggage not fifteen minutes later.”

“There you have it,” Havers put in. “Something awfully strange is going on with these two families. And you certainly can’t argue that
this
is a Rintoul family graveyard here. Not without any other graves. Besides, the Rintouls aren’t even Scots! Why would they bury one of their family here unless—”

“They had to,” Lady Helen murmured.

“Or wanted to,” Havers finished triumphantly. She crossed the little yard and stood in front of St. James. “Inspector Lynley’s told you about his interrogation of Lord Stinhurst, hasn’t he? He’s told you everything Stinhurst said. What’s going on?”

For a moment, St. James considered lying to Havers. He also considered telling her the brutal truth: that what Lynley had told him had been said in confidence and was none of her business. But he had a sense that she had not brought them out on this trek as an exercise in attempting to affix blame for the last two days’ deaths upon Stuart Rintoul, Lord Stinhurst. She could have done that easily enough by insisting that Lynley himself be the one to look at this solitary grave, by arguing its peculiarity with him. The fact that Havers had not done so suggested one of two things to St. James. Either she was collecting her own evidence in an attempt to aggrandise herself and denigrate Lynley in front of their superiors at Scotland Yard, or she was seeking his own help to prevent Lynley from making a colossal mistake.

Havers turned her back on him, walking away. “It’s all right. I ought not to have asked that. You’re his friend, Simon. Of course he’d talk to you.” She pulled her woollen cap down roughly so that it covered her forehead and ears, looking cheerlessly down at the loch.

Watching her, St. James decided that she deserved the truth. She deserved the tribute of someone’s trust and the opportunity to prove herself worthy of it. He told her Lord Stinhurst’s story as Lynley had related it to him.

Havers listened, doing nothing more than tugging at one or two dead weeds along the fence while St. James spun out the twisted tale of love and betrayal that had ended with Geoffrey Rintoul’s death. Her eyes, narrowed against the gleam of sunlight on the snow, rested on the tombstone nearby. When St. James was done, she asked only one question.

“Do you believe it?”

“I can’t think why a man in Lord Stinhurst’s position would defame his own wife to anyone. Even,” this as Havers was about to speak, “to save his own skin.”

“Too noble for that?” Her tone was cutting.

“Not at all. Too proud.”

“Then if, as you say, it’s a matter of pride, a matter of appearances, wouldn’t he have kept up appearances one hundred percent?”

“What do you mean?”

Lady Helen spoke. “If Lord Stinhurst wanted to pretend that
everything
was status quo, Simon, wouldn’t he have taken Geoffrey home for burial in Somerset in addition to keeping his marriage alive all these years? As a matter of fact, it seems that taking his brother home would have been—in the long run—far less painful than staying married for the next thirty-six years to a woman who had made a fool of him with his own brother.”