In Pursuit of the Proper Sinner (Inspector Lynley, #10)(104)

“Look hard at Julian,” Lynley told him. “I've found another of Nicola's lovers.” He went on to summarise his previous night's conversation with Christian-Louis Ferrer.

Hanken whistled. “Are we going to be able to find a bloke anywhere who wasn't shafting this bird?”

“I expect we might be looking for the bloke who thought that he was the only one.”

“Britton.”

“He said he proposed and she refused. But we have only his word for that, don't we? It's a good way to take the spotlight off himself: saying he wanted to marry her when he wanted—and did—something else entirely.”

Now in London, Lynley unlocked the front door and shut it quietly behind him. He called his wife's name. He was half expecting Helen to be out already—somehow knowing his intention to return without having been told and seeking to avoid him in the aftermath of their earlier disagreement—but as he crossed the entry to the stairs, he heard a door crash shut, a man's voice say, “Whoops. Sorry. Don't know my own strength, do I,” and a moment later Denton and Helen came towards him from the direction of the kitchen. The former was balancing a stack of enormous portfolios across his arms. The latter was following him, a list in her hand. She was saying, “I've narrowed things down somewhat, Charlie. And they were willing to part with the sample books till three o'clock, so I'm depending on you to give me input.”

“I hate flowers and ribbons and that sort of rubbish,” Denton said. “All twee, that is, so don't even show it to me. Makes me think of my gran.”

“So noted,” Helen replied.

“Cheers.” Denton saw Lynley then. “Look what the morning's brought, Lady Helen. Good. You won't be needing me, then, will you?”

“Needing you for what?” Lynley asked.

Helen, hearing him, said, “Tommy! You're home? That was a quick trip, wasn't it?”

“Wallpaper,” Denton said in reply to Lynley's question. He gestured with the portfolios he was carrying. “Samples.”

“For the spare rooms,” Helen added. “Have you looked at the walls in there lately, Tommy? The paper looks as if it hasn't been changed since the turn of the century.”

“It hasn't.”

“Just as I suspected. Well, if we don't get it changed before she gets here, I'm afraid your aunt Augusta will change it for us. I thought we might head her off. I had a look through the books at Peter Jones yesterday, and they were good enough to let me pinch a few at closing time. Just for today though. Wasn't that kind of them?” She started up the stairs, saying over her shoulder, “Why're you back so soon? Have you sorted everything out already?”

Denton trailed her. Lynley made a third in their little procession, suitcase in his hand. He'd followed some information to London, he told his wife. And there were documents he wanted St. James to look over. “The post-mortems. Some photos and x-rays,” he said.

“Arguments among the experts?” she asked, a reasonable assumption. It wouldn't have been the first time St. James had been requested to mediate a dispute among scientists.

“Just some questions in my own mind,” Lynley told her, “as well as a need to look over some information Winston's managed to gather.”

“Ah.” She looked over her shoulder and offered him a fleeting smile. “It's quite nice to have you back.”

The spare rooms in need of refurbishment were on the second floor of the house. Lynley left his suitcase inside the door of their bedroom and then joined his wife and Denton up above. Helen was laying sample sheets of wallpaper out on the bed in the first of the rooms, removing the portfolios from Denton's outstretched arms one at a time and making her selections with infinite care. The younger man was wearing an expression of long-suffering patience throughout this activity. But he brightened considerably when Lynley walked into the room.

He said hopefully, “Here he is. So if you won't be needing me … ?” to Lynley's wife.

“I can't stay, Denton” was Lynley's reply.

The other man drooped.

“A problem?” Lynley said. “Have you a sweet young thing waiting somewhere today?” It wouldn't be unusual. Denton's pursuit of ladies was the stuff of legend.

“I've the half-price ticket booth waiting,” Denton answered. “I hoped to make it in advance of the crowd.”

“Ah, yes. I see. Not another musical, I hope?”

“Well …” Denton looked embarrassed. His love of the spectacles posing regularly as West End theatre soaked up a good part of his wages each month. He was almost as bad as a cocaine addict when it came to greasepaint, dimmed lights, and applause.

Lynley took the portfolios from Denton's arms. “Go,” he said. “God forbid that we keep you from experiencing the latest theatrical extravaganza.”

“It's art,” Denton protested.

“So you keep telling me. Go. And if you buy the accompanying CD, I'll ask you not to play it when I'm home.”

“He's a real culture snob, isn't he?” Denton asked Helen, his voice confidential.

“As ever there was.”

She continued laying wallpaper samples out on the bed once Denton had left them. She rejected three samples, replaced them with three others, and took another portfolio from her husband's arms. She said, “You don't need to stand there holding them, Tommy. You've work to do, haven't you?”