A Place of Hiding (Inspector Lynley, #12)(70)

“So that other woman who came forward for the shovel,” Deborah concluded, “the one with the enormous hat? She was the current girlfriend, apparently, not a relation. Although it sounds as if she was hoping to be one.”

“ ‘You saw what she’s done,’ ” St. James murmured. “What did you make of his saying that, my love?”

“What she’s done to make herself appealing, I expect,” Deborah said.

“I did notice...well, it was difficult not to, wasn’t it? And you don’t see them often here, not like in the States, where large breasts seem to be something of a...a national fixation, I suppose.”

“Not that she’s ‘done’ something else?” St. James asked. “Like eliminated her lover when he favoured another woman?”

“Why would she do that if she hoped to marry him?”

“Perhaps she needed to be rid of him.”

“Why?”

“Obsession. Jealousy. Rage that can only be quelled in one way. Or perhaps something simpler altogether: Perhaps she was remembered in his will and she needed to eliminate him before he had a chance to change it in favour of someone else.”

“But that doesn’t take into consideration the problem we’ve already faced,” Deborah noted. “How could a woman actually have forced a stone into Guy Brouard’s throat, Simon? Any woman.”

“We go back to DCI Le Gallez’s kiss,” St. James said, “as unlikely as it is. ‘She’d lost him.’ Is there another woman?”

“Not China,” Deborah asserted.

St. James heard his wife’s determination. “You’re quite certain, then.”

“She told me she’s recently broken off from Matt. She’s loved him for years, since she was seventeen. I can’t see how she’d get involved with another man so soon after that.”

This, St. James knew, took them into tender territory, one that was occupied by Deborah herself as well as by China River. Not so many years had passed since Deborah had parted from him and found another lover. That they had never discussed the alacrity of her involvement with Tommy Lynley did not mean it wasn’t the result of her sorrow and increased vulnerability. He said, “But she’d be more vulnerable now than ever, wouldn’t she? Couldn’t she possibly need to have a fling—something Brouard might have taken more seriously than she herself took it—to bolster herself up?”

“That’s not really what she’s like.”

“But supposing—”

“All right. Supposing. But she certainly didn’t kill him, Simon. You have to agree she’d need a motive.”

He did agree. But he also believed that a preconceived notion of innocence was just as dangerous as a preconceived notion of guilt. So when he related what he’d learned from Ruth Brouard, he concluded carefully with “She did check for China in the rest of the house. She was nowhere to be found.”

“So Ruth Brouard says, ” Deborah pointed out reasonably. “She could be lying.”

“She could indeed. The Rivers weren’t the only guests in the house. Adrian Brouard was also there.”

“With reason to kill his dad?”

“It’s something we can’t ignore.”

“She is his blood relative,” Deborah said. “And given her history—her parents, the Holocaust?—I’d say it’s likely she’d do anything to protect a blood relative first and foremost, wouldn’t you?”

“I would.”

They were walking down the drive in the direction of the lane and St. James guided them through the trees towards the path that Ruth Brouard had told him would lead to the bay where her brother had taken his daily swim. Their way passed by the stone cottage he’d observed earlier, and he noted that two of the building’s windows looked directly onto the path. This was where the caretakers lived, he’d been told, and the Duffys, St. James concluded, might well have something to add to what Ruth Brouard had already told him.

The path grew cooler and more damp as it dipped into the trees. Either the land’s natural fecundity or a man’s determination had created an impressive array of foliage that screened the trail from the rest of the estate. Nearest to the path, rhododendrons flourished. Among them half a dozen varieties of ferns unfurled their fronds. The ground was spongy with the fall of autumn leaves left to decompose, and overhead the winter-bare branches of chestnuts spoke of the green tunnel they’d create in summer. It was silent here, save for the sound of their footsteps. That silence didn’t last, however. St. James was extending his hand to his wife to help her across a puddle, when a scruffy little dog bounded out of the bushes, yapping at both of them.

“Lord!” Deborah started and then laughed. “Oh, he’s awfully sweet, isn’t he? Here, little doggie. We won’t hurt you.”

She held her hand out to him. As she did so, a red-jacketed boy darted out the way the dog had come and scooped the animal up into his arms.

“Sorry,” St. James said with a smile. “We appear to have startled your dog.”

The boy said nothing. He looked from Deborah to St. James as his dog continued to bark protectively.

“Miss Brouard said this is the way to the bay,” St. James said. “Have we made a wrong turn somewhere?”