a path in the forest itself, I think. It's only about sixty yards into the trees."
"What is it?" Lady Helen asked.
"A grave," Barbara replied.
THE FOREST had been planted to the south of a pathway that circled the great house. It was not the sort of woodland that would have sprung up naturally in this moor-filled area of Scotland.There were English and sessile oaks, beeches, walnuts, and sycamores mixed in with pines. A narrow path led through them, marked out by small circles of yellow paint that had been dotted onto the trunks of the trees.
The forest was a place of that unearthly kind of silence that comes from the heavy insulation of snow upon tree branches and ground. No wind moved, and although the raw burst of an automobile engine pierced the stillness momentarily, it died off quickly, leaving in its wake only the restless lapping of water in the loch some twenty yards down the slope to their left. The going was not easy, for even though Sergeant Havers had indeed fl attened a primitive path through the woods, the snow was deep and the ground irregular, no place for a man who had difficulty enough on a surface that was fl at and dry.
It took fi fteen minutes to make a four-minute walk, and, in spite of Lady Helen's supportive arm, St. James was damp-faced from exertion when Havers finally led them off the main path onto a smaller branch that rose gently through a copse towards a knoll. During the summer, heavy foliage would probably have hidden both the knoll and the little track from the view of anyone on the main path from the house. But in the winter, hydrangeas that otherwise would have been vibrant with clusters of pink and blue fl owers, and walnuts that would have created a verdant screen of protection, were bare, giving anyone free access to the plot of ground at the knoll's top. It was an area about twenty-fi ve feet square, bounded by an iron fence. White powder dusted this, hiding the fact that long ago the fence had surrendered to rust.
Lady Helen was the first to speak. "What on earth is a graveyard doing here? Is there a church nearby?"
Havers indicated the direction the main path took towards the south. "There's a locked chapel and a family vault not too much further along. And an old pier on the loch just below it. It looks like they've boated their way to burials."
"Like the Vikings," St. James said absently. "What have we here, Barbara?" He pushed open the gate, wincing at the shriek of its unoiled metal. There was one set of footsteps in the snow already.
"I had a look," Havers explained. "I'd already gone along to the family chapel and had a look there. So when I saw this on my way back, I was curious. See for yourself. Tell me what you think."
While Havers waited at the gate, St. James and Lady Helen crunched through the snow to the single gravestone that rose from it like a solitary grey augury, scratched by a bare elm branch that drooped heavily onto its top. It was not a terribly old stone, certainly not as old as those found in tumbling graveyards throughout the country. Yet it was very much abandoned, for the black residue of lichen ate at the meagre carving and St. James guessed that in midsummer, the yard itself would be wildly overgrown with cow parsley and weeds. Nonetheless, the words upon the stone were legible, only partially effaced by weather and neglect.
Geoffrey Rintoul, Viscount Corleagh 1914-1963
Quietly, they studied the lonely grave. A dense chunk of snow fell from a branch above it and disintegrated on the stone.
"Is that Lord Stinhurst's older brother?" Lady Helen asked.
"It looks that way," Havers replied. "Curious, wouldn't you say?"
"Why?" St. James' eyes swept across the plot, looking for other graves. There were none.
"Because the family home's in Somerset, isn't it?" Havers replied.
"It is." St. James knew that Havers was watching him, knew that she was attempting to gauge how much Lynley had told him of his private conversation with Lord Stinhurst. He tried to sound completely detached.
"So what's Geoffrey doing buried here? Why isn't he in Somerset?"
"I believe he died here," St. James replied.
"You know as well as I that nobs like these bury their own in family plots, Simon. Why wasn't this particular body taken home? Or," she queried before he could answer, "if you're going to say that