A Great Deliverance - By Elizabeth George Page 0,37
Grail?"
She smiled. "The pub across from St. Catherine's."
"That name must certainly propitiate the abstinent gods."
"At least it does Father Hart. But he's been known to tip a pint or two in an evening there. Shall I show you your rooms?"
Without waiting for an answer, she led them up the crooked stairs, displaying, Lynley noted, a remarkably pretty pair of ankles and above which rose an even prettier pair of legs.
"You'll find us glad to have you in the village, Inspector," she stated as she opened the door to the first room and then with a gesture of her hand indicated the room next door with the unspoken message that it was up to them to decide who stayed where.
"That's helpful. I'm glad to hear it."
"We've none of us anything against Gabriel, you see. But he's not been a popular man round here since they carted Roberta off to the asylum."
Chapter 6
Lynley was positivelywhite with rage, but there was not the slightest indication of that emotion in his voice. Barbara watched hisperformance 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 find 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.