battle. But who the opposing forces were and what was at stake in the victory were fine points of the confl ict that were not yet clarifi ed.
"The scripts," Lynley said again, implacably.
Stinhurst's body gave a convulsive movement akin to a shudder. "I burned them because of the subject matter Joy had chosen to explore," he said. "The play was about my wife Marguerite. And her love affair with my older brother. And the child they had thirty-six years ago. Elizabeth."
Chapter 5
GOWAN KILBRIDE was in a new kind of agony. It began the moment Constable Lonan opened the library door and called out that the London police wanted to speak with Mary Agnes. It increased in intensity when Mary Agnes jumped to her feet, displaying an undisguised eagerness for the encounter. And it reached its zenith with the knowledge that for the past fi fteen minutes she had been gone from his sight and his determined-if hardly adequate-protection. Worse still, she was now under the sure, the entirely adequate, the decidedly masculine protection of New Scotland Yard.
Which was the source of the problem.
Once the police group from London-but most particularly the tall, blond detective who appeared to be in charge-had left the library after their brief encounter with Lady Helen Clyde, Mary Agnes had turned to Gowan, her eyes ablaze. "He's haiven," she had breathed.
That remark boded ill, but, like a fool for love, Gowan had been willing to take the conversation further.
"Haiven?" he'd asked irritably.
"Tha' policeman!" And then Mary Agnes had gone on rhapsodically to catalogue Inspector Lynley's virtues. Gowan felt them tattooed into his brain. Hair like Anthony Andrews, a nose like Charles Dance, eyes like Ben Cross, and a smile like Sting. No matter that the man had not bothered to smile once. Mary Agnes was perfectly capable of filling in details when necessary.
It had been bad enough to be in fruitless competition with Jeremy Irons. But now Gowan saw that he had the entire front line of Britain 's theatrical performers to contend with, all embodied in a single man. He ground his teeth bitterly and writhed in discomfort.
He was sitting in a cretonne-covered chair whose material felt like a stiff second skin after so many hours. Next to him-moved carefully out of everyone's way only a quarter hour into their group incarceration-Mrs. Gerrard's treasured Cary Globe rested on an impossibly ornate, gilded stand. Gowan stared at it morosely. He felt like kicking it over. Better yet, he felt like heaving it through the window. He was desperate for escape.
He tried to quell the need by forcing himself to consider the library's charms, but he found there were none. The white plaster octagons on the ceiling needed paint, as did the garlands that ornamented their centres. Years of coal fires and cigarette smoke had taken their toll, and what looked like deep shadows in the nooks and crannies of the raised decoration was really soot, the kind of grime that promised a miserable two weeks or more of work in the coming months. The bookshelves, too, spoke of added misery. They held hundreds of volumes-perhaps even thousands-bound in leather and, behind the glass, all smelling equally of dust and disuse. Another job of cleaning and drying and repairing and...Where was Mary Agnes? He had to find her. He had to get out.
Near him, a woman's voice rose in a tear-filled plea. "My God, please! I can't stand this another moment!"
Within the last weeks, Gowan had developed a mild dislike of actors in general. But in the past nine hours, he had found he'd developed a hardy loathing of one group in the very particular.
"David, I've reached my breaking point. Can't you do something to get us out of here?" Joanna Ellacourt was wringing her hands as she spoke to her husband, pacing the fl oor and smoking. Which, Gowan thought, she'd been doing all day. The room smelled like a smouldering rubbish heap largely because of her. And it was interesting to note that she had only reached this newest level of nervous agitation when Lady Helen Clyde reentered the room and promised the possibility of attention being directed somewhere other than upon the great star herself.
From his wing chair, David Sydeham's hooded eyes followed his wife's slim fi gure. "What would you have me do, Jo? Batter down the door and club that constable over the head? We're at their mercy, ma belle."
"Sit, Jo darling." Robert Gabriel extended a well-tended hand to her, beckoning her