taken Geoffrey home for burial in Somerset in addition to keeping his marriage alive all these years? As a matter of fact, it seems that taking his brother home would have been-in the long run-far less painful than staying married for the next thirty-six years to a woman who had made a fool of him with his own brother."
There was clear-eyed sense in that, typical of Helen. St. James had to admit it to himself, even if he didn't say it aloud. But evidently he would not have to. For Sergeant Havers appeared to read it in his face.
"Please. Help me get to the bottom of the Rintoul family," she said desperately. "Simon, I swear that Stinhurst has something to bury. And I think Inspector Lynley's been given the shovel to see to it himself. Perhaps by the Yard. I don't know."
St. James hesitated, thinking about the difficulties he would be creating for himself- poised precariously between Lynley's trust and Havers' unwavering belief in Stinhurst's guilt-if he agreed to help her. "It won't be easy. If Tommy finds out you've gone your own way on this, Barbara, there'll be hell to pay. Insubordination."
"You'll be finished in CID," Lady Helen added quietly. "You'll be back on the street."
"Don't you think I know that?" Havers' face, though pale, was resolute and unfl inching. "And who's going to be finished if there is a cover-up being generated? And if it comes to light through the efforts of some reporter- someone like Jeremy Vinney, by God-sniffing it out on his own? At least this way, if I'm involved in looking into Stinhurst, the inspector's protected. For all anyone will know, he's ordered me to do it."
"You care for Tommy, don't you?"
Havers looked away at once from Lady Helen's sudden query. "Most of the time I hate the miserable fop," she replied. "But if he's given the sack, it's not going to be over some berk like Stinhurst."
St. James smiled at the ferocity of her reply. "I'll help you," he said. "For what it's worth."
ALTHOUGH the broad walnut sideboard bore a heavy burden of chafing dishes, all exuding a variety of breakfast odours from kippers to eggs, the dining room held only one occupant when Lynley entered. Elizabeth Rintoul's back was to the door and, apparently indifferent to the sound of his footsteps, she did not turn her head to see who was joining her for the meal. Rather, she toyed a fork against the single sausage on her plate, rolling it back and forth, her eyes making a study of the shiny trail of grease it left, snail-like, in its wake. Lynley joined her, carrying a cup of black coffee and a single slice of cold toast.
She was, he presumed, dressed for the journey back to London with her parents. But like her garments of last evening, her black skirt and grey jumper were overlarge, and although she wore black tights to match them, a small ladder in the ankle promised to lengthen as the day drew on. Over the back of her chair was draped a curious full-length cape, midnight blue in colour, a sort of Sarah Woodruff garment that one might wear for striking dramatic poses on the Cobb. It certainly didn't seem to fit in with the general scheme of Elizabeth's personality.
That she wasn't eager to spend any time with Lynley became evident the moment he sat down across from her. Stoney-faced, she pushed back her chair and began to rise.
"I've been given to understand that Joy Sinclair was engaged to your brother Alec at one time," Lynley observed as if she'd made no movement.
Her eyes didn't shift from her plate. She settled back down and began cutting the sausage into wafer-thin slices, eating none of them. Her hands were extraordinarily large, even for a woman of her height, and their knuckles were knobby and unattractive. Deep scratches covered them, Lynley noted. Several days old.
"Cats." Elizabeth's voice was a shade less than surly. Lynley chose not to reply to the evasive monosyllable, so she went on by saying, "You're looking at my hands. The scratches are from my cats. They don't much like it when one breaks up their copulating. But there are some activities that I frankly prefer not go on on my bed."
It was a double-edged remark, telling in its inadvertent admission. Lynley wondered what an analyst would make of it.
"Did you want Joy to marry your brother?"
"It hardly matters now, does it? Alec's been dead for years."
"How did