A Great Deliverance - By Elizabeth George Page 0,8
to admit this fact. But everyone knew that it was Lynley who had been driving that night, Lynley who had lost control on a curve, Lynley who had walked away without a scratch while his childhood friend, St. James, had emerged a cripple. And although he could have continued his career at the Yard, St. James had instead retired to a family house in Chelsea, where for the next four years he had lived like a recluse. Score that to old Lynley, she thought sourly.
She couldn't believe that St. James had actually maintained his friendship with the man.
But he had, and something, some sort of quirky situation, had cemented their relationship nearly five years ago and had brought St. James back into the field where he belonged. Score that, she thought reluctantly, to Lynley as well.
She pulled the Mini into an available space on Lawrence Street and walked back along Lordship Place towards Cheyne Row. Not far from the river, it was an area of the city where elaborate white plaster and woodwork decorated deep umber brick buildings and black paint restored the wrought iron at windows and balconies. In keeping with the village that Chelsea once had been, the streets were narrow, metamorphosed into bright autumn tunnels by massive sycamores and elms. St. James's house stood on a corner, and as she passed by the high brick wall that fenced in the garden, Barbara heard the sounds of the party in progress. A voice was raised in a toast. Shouts of approval followed applause. An old oak door in the wall was closed, but that was just as well. Dressed as she was, she hardly wanted to burst into the festivities as if she were making an arrest.
She rounded the corner to find the front door of the tall, old house open to the late afternoon sun. The sound of laughter floated towards her, the pure tones of silver and china, the popping of champagne, and somewhere in the garden the music of violin and flute. There were flowers everywhere, right out onto the front steps where the balustrades were twined with white and pink roses that filled the air with a heady perfume. Even the balconies above held potted convolvuli that tumbled trumpet-shaped flowers in a riot of colours over the edge.
Barbara drew in a breath and mounted the steps. There was no point to knocking, for although several guests near the door gave her inquisitive glances as she hesitated outside in her ill-fitting uniform, they strolled back towards the garden without speaking to her, and it soon became apparent that if she wanted to find Lynley, she would have to barge right into the wedding reception to do so. The thought made her more than a little bit ill.
She was about to retreat cravenly back to her car to retrieve an old mackintosh that would at least cover up her clothes - too tight in the hips and straining the material at shoulder and neck - when the sounds of footsteps and laughter close by directed her attention to the stairway in the hall. A woman was descending, calling over her shoulder to someone who remained on the floor above.
"Just the two of us are going. You must come as well and we'll make a party of it, Sid."
She turned, saw Barbara, and stopped where she was, one hand on the banister. It was very nearly a pose, for she was the kind of woman who could manage to make yards of haphazardly arranged teal-coloured silk look like the very latest word in haute couture. She was not particularly tall, but very slender, with a fall of chestnut hair framing a perfect, oval face. From the dozens of times she had been to fetch Lynley from the Yard, Barbara recognised her at once.
She was Lynley's longest-running mistress and St. James's lab assistant, Lady Helen Clyde.
Lady Helen completed her descent and crossed the hall to the door. So confident, Barbara noted, so completely self-possessed.
"I've the most dreadful feeling that you've come for Tommy," she said immediately, extending her hand. "Hello. I'm Helen Clyde."
Barbara introduced herself, surprised at the firmness of the woman's grip. Her hands were thin, very cool to the touch. "He's wanted at the Yard."
"Poor man. How miserable. How damnably unfair." Lady Helen spoke more to herself than to the other woman, for she suddenly shot Barbara an apologetic smile. "But it's not your fault, is it? Come, he's just this way."