passed his eyes over the group once again until he found the director of the play, recognising him from the olive skin, black hair, and sombre eyes of the Welsh. Rhys Davies-Jones was standing by the chair that Lady Helen had just vacated. He had moved when she did, as if to prevent her from confronting the police alone. He stopped, however, when it became apparent to everyone that this particular policeman was no stranger to Lady Helen Clyde.
Across the width of the room and through the gulf created by the conflict of their cultures, Lynley looked at Davies-Jones, feeling an aversion take hold of him, one so strong that it seemed a physical illness. Helen's lover, he thought, and then more fiercely to convince himself of the fact's grim immutability: This is Helen's lover.
No man could have looked less likely for the role. The Welshman was at least ten years Helen's senior, quite possibly more. With curly hair going to grey at the temples and a thin weathered face, he was wiry and fit like his Celtic ancestors. Also like them, he was neither tall nor handsome. His features were sharp and stony. But Lynley could not deny that the look of the man spoke of both intelligence and inner strength, qualities that Helen would recognise-and value-beyond any others.
"Sergeant Havers," Lynley's voice cut through the continued protestations, eliminating them abruptly, "take Lady Helen to her room and allow her to get dressed. Where are the keys?"
Wide-eyed and white-faced, a young girl came forward. Mary Agnes Campbell, fi nder of the body. She held out a silver tray on which someone had deposited all of the hotel keys, but her hands were shaking, so the tray and its contents jangled discordantly. Lynley's eyes took it in, then moved to the assembled company.
"I locked all the rooms and collected the keys immediately after she...the body was discovered this morning." Lord Stinhurst resumed his seat by the fire, a couch which he was sharing with one of the two older women. Her hand groped for his, and their fingers intertwined. "I'm not certain what the procedure is in a case like this," Stinhurst concluded, in explanation, "but that seemed the best."
When Lynley looked less than willing to receive this bit of news with appreciation, Macaskin interjected, "Everyone was in the drawing room when we arrived this morning. His lordship had done us the service of locking them in."
"How helpful of Lord Stinhurst." It was Sergeant Havers, speaking in a voice so polite that it sounded like steel.
"Find your key, Helen," Lynley said. Her eyes had never left his face since he'd fi rst spoken to her. He could feel them on him now, her gaze warm, like a touch. "The rest of you may be expected to be inconvenienced awhile longer."
Into the storm of fresh protests that greeted this remark, Lady Helen started to respond, but Joanna Ellacourt expertly wrested the stage from her by crossing the room to Lynley. The lighting became her, and Joanna walked like a woman who knew how to use the moment. Her long, unpinned hair moved like sun-shot silk upon her shoulders.
"Inspector," she murmured, motioning gracefully towards the door, "I feel I may ask you...if it's not too much. I should be only too grateful to be given just a few moments to myself. Somewhere. Out of here. In my own room, perhaps, but if that's not possible, just in any room. Anywhere. With a single chair on which I could sit and ponder and gather my wits once again. Five minutes only. If you would be so good as to see to it for me, I should feel in your debt. After this dreadful day."
Her performance was lovely, Blanche Dubois in Scotland. But Lynley had no intention of acting the part of her gentleman from Dallas.
"I'm sorry," he replied, "I'm afraid you shall have to rely on the kindness of strangers other than myself." And then he repeated, "Find your key, Helen."
Lady Helen made a gesture Lynley recognised, a prelude to speaking. He turned away. "We'll be in the Sinclair room," he said to Havers. "Let me know when she's dressed. Constable Lonan, see that the rest of them stay here for now."
Angry voices swelled again. Lynley ignored them and left the room. St. James and Macaskin followed.
LEFT WITH THIS group of la-de-da suspects, so atypical of what one usually came across in a murder investigation, Barbara Havers was only too delighted to make her