In Pursuit of the Proper Sinner (Inspector Lynley, #10)(184)

Hanken approached him. “Mr. Britton? You won't remember me. DI Peter Hanken. Buxton CID.”

Britton half turned on the stool. He'd aged greatly, Hanken thought, since their sole encounter at the Buxton police station five years in the past. Britton had been drunk at the time. His car had been broken into on the High Street while he was “taking the waters”—undoubtedly a euphemism for his imbibing something considerably stronger than the town's mineral water—and he was demanding action, satisfaction, and immediate vengeance upon the ill-dressed and worse-bred hooligans who'd violated him so egregiously.

Looking at Jeremy Britton now, Hanken could see the results of a lifetime spent in drink. Liver damage showed in the colour and texture of Britton's skin and in the cooked-egg-yolk look of his eyes. Hanken noted the Thermos on the far side of the camp stool on which Britton was sitting. He doubted it contained either coffee or tea.

“I'm looking for Julian,” Hanken said. “Is he taking part in the battle, Mr. Britton?”

“Julie?” Britton squinted through the rain. “Don't know where he's gone off to. Not part of this though.” He waved at the drama below. The battering ram was mired in the mud and the Cavaliers were taking advantage of this blip on the screen of the Roundheads’ plans. Swords drawn, a crush of them were swarming down the slope from the house to fend off the Parliamentary forces. “Julie never did like a good dust-up like this,” Britton said, slipping slightly with dust. He'd added an h. “Can't think why he agrees to let the grounds be used this way. But it's great fun, what?”

“Everyone seems to be fully involved,” Hanken agreed. “Are you a history buff, sir?”

“Nothing like it,” Britton said and shouted down at the soldiers, “Traitors be damned! You'll burn in hell for harming one hair on the head of God's anointed.”

Royalist, Hanken thought. Odd position for a member of the gentry to have taken at the time, but not unheard of if the gentleman in question had no ties to Parliament. “Where can I find him?”

“Carried off the field, sporting a head wound. No one could ’cuse the poor sod of not having his share of courage, could they?”

“I meant Julian, not King Charles.”

“Ah. Julie.” With an irresolute grip Britton fixed his telescope towards the west. A fresh band of Cavaliers had just arrived by coach. That vehicle was disgorging them on the far side of the bridge, where they were racing to arm themselves. Among them an elaborately clad nobleman appeared to be shouting directions. “Shouldn't allow that, you ask me,” Britton commented. “If they aren't here on time, they should forfeit, what?” He swung back to Hanken. “The boy was here, if tha's why you've come.”

“Does he get to London much? With his late girlfriend living there, I expect—”

“Girlfriend?” Britton blew out a contemptuous breath. “Rubbish. Girlfriend says there's give and take involved. There was none of that. Oh, he wanted it, Julie. He wanted her. But she wasn't having anything from him other than a shag if the mood was on her. If he'd only used the eyes God gave him, he would've seen that from the first.”

“You didn't like the Maiden girl.”

“She had nothing to add to the brew.” Britton looked back at the battle, shouting, “Watch your backs, you blighters!” at the Parliamentary soldiers as the Cavaliers forded the River Wye and began charging wetly up the hillside towards the house. A man of easy allegiance, Hanken thought.

He said, “Will I find Julian in the house, Mr. Britton?”

Britton watched the initial clash as the Cavaliers reached those of the Roundheads who were straggling behind in the effort to free the battering ram from the mud. Suddenly, the tide of the battle shifted. The Roundheads looked outnumbered three to one. “Run for your lives, you idjits,” Britton shouted. And he laughed with glee as the rebels began to lose the uneasy purchase they had on their footholds. Several men went down, losing their weapons. Britton applauded.

Hanken said, “I'll try him inside.”

Britton stopped the detective as he turned to depart. “I was with him. On Tues'ay night, you know.”

Hanken turned back. “With Julian? Where? What time was this?”

“In the kennels. Don't know the time. Proba'ly round eleven. A bitch was delivering. Julie was with her.”

“When I spoke to him, he made no mention of your being there, Mr. Britton.”

“He wouldn't've done. Didn't see me. When I saw what he was about, I lef’ him to it. I watched for a bit from the doorway—something special about the birthing process, no matter who's delivering, don't you think?—then I went off.”

“Is that your normal routine? To visit the kennels at eleven at night?”

“Don't have a normal routine at all. Do what I want when I want.”

“What took you to the kennels, then?”

Britton reached in his jacket pocket with an unsteady hand. He brought out several heavily creased brochures. “Wanted to talk to Julie about these.”

They were, Hanken saw, all leaflets from clinics that offered programmes for alcoholics. Smudged and dog-eared, they looked like refugees from the Oxfam book section. Either Britton had been caressing them for weeks on end or he'd found them secondhand somewhere in anticipation of a moment just like this.