Payment in Blood (Inspector Lynley, #2)(60)
For a moment, St. James considered lying to Havers. He also considered telling her the brutal truth: that what Lynley had told him had been said in confidence and was none of her business. But he had a sense that she had not brought them out on this trek as an exercise in attempting to affix blame for the last two days’ deaths upon Stuart Rintoul, Lord Stinhurst. She could have done that easily enough by insisting that Lynley himself be the one to look at this solitary grave, by arguing its peculiarity with him. The fact that Havers had not done so suggested one of two things to St. James. Either she was collecting her own evidence in an attempt to aggrandise herself and denigrate Lynley in front of their superiors at Scotland Yard, or she was seeking his own help to prevent Lynley from making a colossal mistake.
Havers turned her back on him, walking away. “It’s all right. I ought not to have asked that. You’re his friend, Simon. Of course he’d talk to you.” She pulled her woollen cap down roughly so that it covered her forehead and ears, looking cheerlessly down at the loch.
Watching her, St. James decided that she deserved the truth. She deserved the tribute of someone’s trust and the opportunity to prove herself worthy of it. He told her Lord Stinhurst’s story as Lynley had related it to him.
Havers listened, doing nothing more than tugging at one or two dead weeds along the fence while St. James spun out the twisted tale of love and betrayal that had ended with Geoffrey Rintoul’s death. Her eyes, narrowed against the gleam of sunlight on the snow, rested on the tombstone nearby. When St. James was done, she asked only one question.
“Do you believe it?”
“I can’t think why a man in Lord Stinhurst’s position would defame his own wife to anyone. Even,” this as Havers was about to speak, “to save his own skin.”
“Too noble for that?” Her tone was cutting.
“Not at all. Too proud.”
“Then if, as you say, it’s a matter of pride, a matter of appearances, wouldn’t he have kept up appearances one hundred percent?”
“What do you mean?”
Lady Helen spoke. “If Lord Stinhurst wanted to pretend that everything was status quo, Simon, wouldn’t he have 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 unflinching. “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.