A Great Deliverance - By Elizabeth George Page 0,88

he wore. They were deep blue now, as was the man's shirt, which was streaked with paint. He had stopped whistling the moment he saw Lynley come out of the house and climb nimbly over the pasture wall.

"Ezra Farmington?" he said pleasantly.

Farmington halted. His features put Lynley in mind of the Delacroix painting of Frederic Chopin. Here were the same sculpted lips; the shadow of a cleft in the chin; the dark brows - much darker than the hair; the nose that was dominant but not detractive.

"That's right," he said, noncommittally.

"Doing some painting on the moor today?"

"Yes."

"Nigel Parrish tells me you do light studies."

The name got a reaction. The eyes became guarded. "What else does Nigel tell you?"

"That he saw William Teys run you off his property. You seem to be making free use of it now."

"With Gibson's permission." The words were terse.

"Indeed? He didn't mention it." Lynley gazed serenely in the direction of the trail. It was steep and rocky, ill-maintained, not the place for a country hike. An artist would have to be most sincere about his endeavours to bother climbing up to the high moor at all. He turned back to the other man. The afternoon breeze that rustled through the pasture ruffled Farmington's blond hair appealingly so that the sun struck its highlights. Lynley began to understand why he wore it long.

"Mr. Parrish tells me that Teys destroyed some of your work."

"Does he also tell you what the hell he was doing out here that night?" Farmington demanded. "No, blast his eyes, I'll be damned if he does."

"According to him, he was bringing Teys's dog back to the farm."

The artist's face mirrored his disbelief. "Bringing the

dog back to the farm? What a laugh!" He savagely drove the pointed legs of his easel into the soft earth. "Nigel really knows how to manipulate the facts, doesn't he? Let me guess what he told you. That Teys and I were having a bloody fine row in the middle of the road when up he popped, innocently walking the poor, blind dog home." Farmington ran one hand through his hair in agitation. His body was so tense that Lynley wondered if he would start swinging his fists. "Christ, that man will drive me to do something mad."

Lynley lifted an eyebrow in interest. The other man read the expression.

"And I suppose that is a confession of guilt, Inspector? Well, I suggest you trot back to Nigel and ask him what he was doing wandering down Gembler Road last night. Believe me, that dog could have found his way back from Timbuktu if he'd wanted to." He laughed. "That dog was a damn sight smarter than Nigel. Not that that means much."

Lynley wondered at the source of Farmington's anger. The passion was real, without doubt. Yet it was out of all proportion to the subject at hand. The man was like a taut bowstring upon which undue pressure was being exerted. An ounce more, and he would snap.

"I saw your work at Keldale Lodge. The way you painted the abbey put me in mind of Wyeth. Was that deliberate?"

Ezra relaxed a tightly balled fist. "That was done years ago. I was floundering for style. I didn't trust my instincts so I copied everyone else's. I'm surprised Stepha still has it hanging."

"She said you did it to pay for your board one autumn."

"That's right. I paid for most everything like that in those days. If you look hard enough, you'll see my crap hanging in every shop in town. I even bought toothpaste that way." It was a derisive statement, an indication of contempt, but directed at himself, not at Lynley.

"I like Wyeth," Lynley went on. "There's a simplicity to his work that I find refreshing. I like simplicity. The clarity of line and image. Details."

Farmington folded his arms. "Are you always this obvious, Inspector?"

"I try to be," Lynley responded with a smile. "Tell me about your argument with William Teys."

"And if I refuse?"

"You may, of course. But I'd wonder why. Have you something to hide, Mr. Farming-ton?"

Farmington shifted on the balls of his feet. "I've nothing to hide. I was on the moor that day and came down towards dark. Teys must have seen me from a window. Hell, I don't know.

He caught up with me here on the road. We had it out."

"He destroyed some of your work."

"It was crap anyway. It didn't matter."

"I was always under the impression that artists like to have control over their own creations rather