A Great Deliverance - By Elizabeth George Page 0,68
told Lynley that he knew very well that the other man was standing at the door. It was nonetheless a nice performance.
"Mr. Parrish?"
A start of surprise. A swift turn. A welcoming smile breaking over the features. But he couldn't hide the fact that his hands were shaking. As Lynley saw this, so apparently did Parrish, for he stuffed them into the pockets of his tweed trousers.
"Inspector! A social call, I hope? Sorry you had to come upon that little scene with Ezra."
"Ah. So that was Ezra."
"Yes. Honey-haired, honey-tongued little Ezra. Dear boy thought "artistic licence' gave him access to my back garden to study the light on the river. Can you imagine such cheek? Here I was fine-tuning my psyche with Bach when I glanced out the window and saw him setting up shop. Blast his pretty little heart."
"It's a bit late in the afternoon to be setting up for a painting," Lynley remarked. He wandered to the window. Neither the river nor the garden could be seen from the room. He reflected on the nature of Parrish's lie.
"Well, who knows what goes on in the minds of these great magicians of the paintbrush,"
Parrish said lightly. "Didn't Whistler paint the Thames in the middle of the night?"
"I'm not sure Ezra Farmington's in Whistler's league." Lynley watched Parrish take out a packet of cigarettes and struggle to light one with fingers that wouldn't cooperate. He crossed the room and offered the flame of his lighter.
Parrish's eyes met his and then hid themselves behind a thin veil of smoke. "Thanks," he said. "Beastly little scene. Well, I haven't welcomed you to Rose Cottage. A drink? No? I hope you don't mind if I indulge." He disappeared into an adjoining room. Glass rattled. There was a long pause followed by the sounds of bottles and glassware again. Parrish emerged, a respectable inch of whisky in a tumbler. His second or third, Lynley speculated.
"Why do you drink at the Dove and Whistle?"
The question caught Parrish off guard. "Do sit down, Inspector. I need to, and the thought of you towering over me like Nemesis himself makes me positively limp with fear."
It was an excellent stall tactic, Lynley thought. But two could play at that game. He walked over to the stereo and took his time over an inventory of Parrish's tapes: a considerable collection of Bach, Chopin, Verdi, Vivaldi, and Mozart, with an adequate representation of modernists as well. Parrish indulged a wide range of musical tastes, he concluded. He crossed the room to one of the heavy, stuffed chairs and meditated on the black oak beams that spanned the ceiling.
"Why do you live in this village in the middle of nowhere? A man with your musical taste and talent would obviously be happier in a more cosmopolitan environment, wouldn't he?"
Parrish laughed shortly. He smoothed a hand over his perfectly combed hair. "I think I like the other question better. Have I choice on which one to answer?"
"The Holy Grail is only round the corner. But you walk to the other end of the village on - what was it? - your tired old legs to drink in the other pub on St. Chad's Lane. What's the attraction?"
"Absolutely nothing. Well, I could say it's Hannah, but I doubt if you'd believe me. The truth is I prefer the Dove's atmosphere. There's something unholy about getting roaring drunk just opposite a church, isn't there?"
"Avoiding someone at the Holy Grail?" Lynley asked.
"Avoiding...?" Parrish's eyes slipped from Lynley to the window. A full-headed rose was kissing the glass with enormous lips. The petals had begun to curl back. Stigma, style, anther, and filament had blackened. It should have been picked. It would die soon. "Good heavens, no. Whom would I avoid? Father Hart, perhaps? Or the dear, deceased William? He and the priest used to tipple a few once or twice a week there."
"You didn't care much for Teys, did you?"
"No, not much. Holier-than-thous have never been in my line. I don't know how Olivia abided the man."
"Perhaps she wanted a father for Bridie."
"Perhaps. God knows the child could use some parental influence. Even dour old William was probably better than nothing. Liv is hopeless with her. I'd take it on myself, but to be frank, I don't much care for children. And I don't like ducks at all."
"But you're close to Olivia anyway?"
Parrish's eyes showed nothing. "I went to school with her husband. Paul. What a man he was! Rip-roaring, good-time Paul."