A Great Deliverance - By Elizabeth George Page 0,91

"That gives me twelve hours to talk St. James into abandoning his honeymoon for the thrill of the chase. What do you think, Havers? Have we a chance?"

"Will he have to choose between the dead dog and Deborah?"

"Afraid so."

"I think we'll need a miracle, sir."

"I'm good at that," Lynley said grimly.

It would have to be the white shirtwaist again. Barbara took it out of the wardrobe and looked at it critically. A different belt and it wouldn't look bad. Or perhaps a scarf at the throat.

Had she brought a scarf? Even one for the head could be tied someway to give a touch of colour, to change the outfit somehow, to make it look a bit different. Humming beneath her breath, she rummaged through her things. They were tossed into the chest of drawers in a heap, but she found what she was looking for easily enough. A scarf of red and white checks. A bit like a tablecloth, but it couldn't be helped.

She went to the mirror and saw her reflection with a start of pleased surprise. The country air had whipped colour into her cheeks and her eyes had sparkle to them. It was being useful that did it, she decided.

She had enjoyed her day in the village alone. It was the first time a DI had allowed her to do something all by herself. It was the first time a DI had assumed she had brains. She felt bolstered by the experience and realised how much her confidence had been destroyed by her humiliating return to uniform. What a horrible time that had been in her life: the seething anger boiling over into imcomprehensible rage, the festering sore of unhappiness, the knowledge of being evaluated by others as not good enough, not up to snuff.

Snuff: the image of Jimmy Havers's little pig eyes looked back at her from the mirror.

Her eyes were his. She turned from the glass.

Everything was going to be better now. She was on her way, and nothing could stop her.

She would sit for the inspector's exam again. She would pass this time. She knew it.

She stepped out of her tweed skirt, struggled out of the pullover, and kicked off her shoes. Of course, no one had given her any information about Russell Mowrey, but everyone had taken her quite seriously in her questioning. Everyone had seen her for what she was: a representative of New Scotland Yard. A fine representative: competent, intelligent, insightful. It was what she had needed. Now she could really be part of the case.

She completed her dressing, tied the scarf jauntily round her throat, and descended the stairs to meet Lynley.

He was in the lounge, standing before the water-colour of the abbey, lost in thought.

Behind the bar, Stepha Odell watched him. They might have been part of a painting themselves.

The woman stirred first.

"A drink before you leave, Sergeant?" she asked pleasantly.

"Thank you, no."

Lynley turned. "Ah, Havers," he said, absently rubbing his temples. "Are you ready for another assault on Keldale Hall?"

"Quite," she replied.

"Then we're off." He nodded a detached goodnight to the other woman and, hand on Barbara's elbow, guided her from the room. "I've been meditating on our best approach," he said once they were in the car. "You'll have to keep that dreadful American couple engaged in conversation long enough for me to have a word with St. James. Can you do that? I hate to abandon anyone to such a fate, but if good old Hank hears me, I have the most appalling suspicion that he'll demand to be part of the case himself."

"No problem, sir," Barbara replied. "I'll keep him enthralled."

He glanced at her suspiciously. "How?"

"I'll have him talk about himself."

In response, Lynley laughed, suddenly looking younger and far less fatigued. "That should do it, all right."

"Now lookit, Barbie," Hank said with a wink, "if it's investigating you and Tom are up to in this burg, then you oughta get yourselfs hooked up in this place for a nighter two. What say, JoJo-bean? This place j-u-m-p-s after dark, huh?"

They were taking their postprandial drinks in the oak hall. Hank, wearing blinding white trousers, an embroidered south-of-the-border shirt open to the waist, and the requisite gold chain, leered at Barbara knowingly. He stood as if hoping to become at one with the garlands and cherubs of the carved chimneypiece. One hand was resting on a stylised stone primrose, the fingers curling round a generous measure of brandy: his third or fourth. The other hand was at