A Great Deliverance - By Elizabeth George Page 0,71

opened the car door for her and tucked her within the tooled leather comfort of the Bentley. The born gentleman, she thought derisively. On automatic pilot. Get him into his Lord of the Manor outfit and forget Scotland Yard.

As if he read her mind, he turned to her before starting the car. "Havers, I'd like to give the case a rest for the evening."

What on earth would they have to talk about if the murder of Teys was going to be taboo?

"All right," she replied, brusquely.

He nodded and turned the ignition key. The big car purred to life. "I love this part of England," he said as they set off down Keldale Abbey Road. "You haven't been told that I'm an unabashed Yorkist, have you?"

"A Yorkist?"

"The War of Roses. We're deep in their country now. Sheriff Hutton's not far from here and Middleham's practically within shouting distance."

"Oh." Wonderful. A discourse on history. Her entire knowledge of the War of Roses began and ended with the conflict's name.

"Naturally, I know one's really obliged to think badly of the Yorks. They did, after all, do away with Henry VI." He tapped his fingers reflectively against the wheel. "Except I can never help thinking that there was a justice in that. Pomfret and all. Richard II being murdered by his very own cousin. Killing Henry seems to have closed the circle of the crime."

She pleated the white dress between her fingers and sighed, defeated. "Look, sir, I'm no good at this sort of thing. I...well, I'd do much better at the Dove and Whistle. If you'd please just - "

"Barbara." He pulled abruptly to the verge. He was looking at her, she knew, but she stared ahead into the darkness and counted the moths that danced in the car's headlamps. "Would you just for an evening be what you are? Whatever you are."

"What's that supposed to mean?" God, how shrewish she sounded.

"It means that you may drop the act. Or at least that I wish you would."

"What act?"

"Just be what you are."

"How dare you - "

"Why do you pretend not to smoke?" he interrupted.

"Why do you pretend to be such a public school fop?" She hadn't intended the words to be so shrill. At first, as if evaluating her comment, he didn't respond.

There was silence. Then he threw back his head and laughed. "Touche. Shall we call a truce for the rest of the evening and go on despising each other with the dawn?"

She glared at him a moment, then, in spite of herself, smiled. She knew she was being manipulated, but it didn't seem to matter. "All right," she said reluctantly. But she noticed that neither of them had answered the other's question.

They were welcomed into Keldale Hall by a woman who put to rest every sartorial fear of Barbara's that Lynley had not been able to assuage. She was dressed in a moth-eaten skirt of indeterminate colour, a gypsy blouse decorated with stars, and a beaded shawl that she had slung round her shoulders like an Indian blanket. Her grey hair was gathered tightly into two elastic bands, one on each side of her neck, and to complete the ensemble she had perched an elaborate tortoiseshell Spanish comb on the top of her head.

"Scotland Yard?" she asked and looked Lynley over with a critical eye. "God, they didn't package 'em that way when

I was young," She laughed uproariously. "Come in! We're a small party tonight, but you've saved me from murder."

"How's that?" Lynley asked, ushering Barbara ahead of him.

"I've an American couple that I'd love to kill. But we'll leave that. You'll understand soon enough. We're gathered in here." She led them across the massive stone hall, scented with the assorted meats that were roasting in the kitchen nearby. "I haven't breathed a word that you're Scotland Yard," she confided loudly, shouldering her beadwork back into place. "When you meet the Watsons, you'll know why." On through the dining room, where candlelight was casting shadows on the walls. A linen-covered table was set with china and silver. "The other couple are newlyweds. Londoners. I like 'em. Don't paw each other in public the way so many newlyweds do. Very quiet. Very sweet. I expect they don't like to draw attention to themselves because the man's crippled. Wife is a lovely little creature, though."

Barbara heard Lynley's swift intake of breath. Behind her, his steps slowed and then stopped altogether. "Who are they?" he asked hoarsely.

Mrs. Burton-Thomas turned around at the entrance to