A Great Deliverance - By Elizabeth George Page 0,10

off, then, let me fetch the bride and groom to bid you farewell."

His face altered swiftly. "No. Helen, I...just make my excuses."

A look passed between them, something said without being said. "You must see them, Tommy," Lady Helen murmured. There was another pause, a compromise being sought.

"I'll tell them you're waiting in the study." She left quickly, giving Lynley no chance to respond.

He uttered something inaudible under his breath, following Lady Helen with his eyes as she wove back through the crowd. "Have you brought a car?" he asked Barbara suddenly and started down the hall, away from the celebration.

Nonplussed, she followed. "A Mini. You're not exactly dressed for its splendour."

"I'll adjust, I'm sure. Chameleon-like. What colour is it?"

She was puzzled by the query, an ill-concealed attempt to make conversation as they walked to the front of the house. "Mostly rust, I'm afraid."

"My favourite." He held open a door and motioned her into a dark room.

"I'll just wait in the car, sir. I've left it - "

"Stay here, Sergeant." It was a command.

Reluctantly, she preceded him. The curtains had been drawn; the only light came from the door which they had opened. But Barbara could see it was a man's room, richly panelled in dark oak and filled with shelves of books, well-used furniture, and an atmosphere redolent of comfortable old leather and the fragrance of scotch.

Lynley gravitated absently to a wall that was covered with framed photographs and stood there quietly, his eyes on a portrait that was central to the display. It had been taken in a cemetery, and the man who was its subject bent to touch the inscription on a tombstone whose carving had long since been obliterated by time. The skilful composition of the piece directed the viewer's eyes not to the awkward leg brace that distorted the man's posture but to the piercing interest that lit his gaunt face. Studying the picture, Lynley seemed to have forgotten her presence.

The moment, Barbara decided, was probably as good as any to give him the news.

"I'm off the street," she announced bluntly. "That's why I've come, if you're wondering."

He turned slowly towards her. "Back in CID?" he asked. "Good for you, Barbara."

"But not for you."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, someone's got to tell you, since Webberly obviously hasn't. Congratulations: you're stuck with me." She waited to see his look of surprise. When it was evident that none was forthcoming, she pushed on. "Of course, it's damned awkward having me assigned to you - don't think I don't know it. I can't figure out what Webberly wants." She was stumbling on, barely hearing her own words, uncertain whether she was trying to forestall or provoke his inevitable reaction: the sharp explosion of anger, the movement to the telephone to demand an explanation, or, worse, the icy politeness that would last until he got the superintendent behind closed doors. "All that I can think is that there's no one else available or that I've got some sort of wonderful latent talent that only Webberly knows of. Or maybe it's a bit of a practical joke."

She laughed, a little too loudly.

"Or perhaps you're the best for the job," Lynley finished. "What do you know about the case?"

"I...nothing. Only that - "

"Tommy?" They swung around at the sound of the voice, the single word spoken as if on a breath. The bride stood in the doorway, a spray of flowers in one hand and others tucked into the tumble of coppery hair that fell round her shoulders and down her back. Backlit from the hallway, she looked in her ivory dress as if she were surrounded entirely by a cloud, a Titian creation come to life. "Helen tells me you're leaving...?"

Lynley appeared to have nothing to say. He felt in his pockets, brought out a gold cigarette case, opened it, and then snapped it shut with a flash of annoyance. During this operation the bride watched him, the flowers in her hand trembling momentarily.

"It's the Yard, Deb," Lynley finally answered. "I have to go."

She watched him without speaking, fingering a pendant she wore at her throat. Not until he met her eyes did she reply. "What a disappointment for everyone. It's not an emergency, I hope. Simon told me last night that you might be reassigned to the Ripper case."

"No. Just a meeting."

"Ah." She looked as if she might say something more - indeed, she began to do so - but instead she turned to Barbara with a friendly smile. "I'm Deborah