public would love and a willingness to take enormous risks with his money, he had a singular ability to recognise new talent, to cull prize-winning scripts from the chaff of mundanity that passed across his desk every day. His latest challenge, as anyone who read The Times could report, had been the acquisition and renovation of London 's derelict Agincourt Theatre, a project into which Lord Stinhurst had invested well over a million pounds. The new Agincourt was scheduled to open in purported triumph in just two months. With that hovering so near in the future, it seemed inconceivable to Lynley that Stinhurst would leave London for even a short holiday. He was a single-minded perfectionist, a man in his seventies who had not taken any time off in years. It was part of his legend. So what was he doing in Scotland?
Webberly went on, as if answering Lynley's unasked question. "Apparently Stinhurst took a group up there to do some work on a script that was supposed to take the city by storm when the Agincourt opens. And they've a newspaperman with them-some chap from The Times. Drama critic, I think. Apparently he's been reporting on the Agincourt story from day one. But from what I was told this morning, right now he's frothing at the mouth to get to a telephone before we can get up there and muzzle him."
"Why?" Lynley asked and in a moment knew that Webberly had been saving the juiciest item for last.
"Because Joanna Ellacourt and Robert Gabriel are to be the stars of Lord Stinhurst's new production. And they're in Scotland as well."
Lynley could not suppress a low whistle of surprise. Joanna Ellacourt and Robert Gabriel. These were nobility of the theatre indeed, the two most sought-after actors in the country at the moment. In their years of partnership, Ellacourt and Gabriel had electrifi ed the stage in everything from Shakespeare to Stop-pard to O'Neill. Although they worked apart as often as they appeared together, it was when they took the stage as a couple that the magic occurred. And then the newspaper notices were always the same. Chemistry, wit, hot-wired sexual tension that an audience can feel. Most recently, Lynley recalled, in Othello, a Hay-market production that had run to sell-out crowds for months before fi nally closing just three weeks ago.
"Who's been killed?" Lynley asked.
"The author of the new play. Some up-andcomer, evidently. A woman. Name of..." There was a rustle of paper. "Joy Sinclair." Webberly harrumphed, always prelude to an unpleasant piece of news. It came with his next statement. "They've moved the body, I'm afraid."
"Damn and blast!" Lynley muttered. It would contaminate the murder scene, making his job more diffi cult.
"I know. I know. But it can't be helped now, can it? At any rate, Sergeant Havers will meet you at Heathrow. I've put you both on the one o'clock to Edinburgh."
"Havers won't work for this, sir. I'll need St. James if they've moved the body."
"St. James isn't Yard any longer, Inspector. I can't push that through on such short notice. If you want to take a forensic specialist, use one of our own men, not St. James."
Lynley was quite ready to parry the fi nality of that decision, intuitively comprehending why he had been called in on the case rather than any other DI who would be on duty this weekend. Stuart Rintoul, the Earl of Stinhurst, was obviously under suspicion for this murder, but they wanted the kind of kid-glove handling that would be guaranteed by the presence of the eighth Earl of Asherton, Lynley himself. Peer speaking to peer in just-oneof-us-boys fashion, probing delicately for the truth. That was all well and good, but as far as Lynley was concerned, if Webberly was going to play fast and loose with the duty roster in order to orchestrate a meeting between Lords Stinhurst and Asherton, he was not about to make his own job more difficult by having Detective Sergeant Barbara Havers along, chomping at the bit to be the first from her grammar school to slap handcuffs on an earl.
To Sergeant Havers, life's central problems-from the crisis in the economy to the rise in sexual diseases-all sprang from the class system, fully blown and developed, a bit like Athena from the head of Zeus. The entire subject of class, in fact, was the sorest of tender spots between them and it had proved to be the foundation, the structure, and the fi nial of every verbal