Payment in Blood (Inspector Lynley, #2)(61)

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 she come to meet him?”

“Joy and I were at school together. She came home with me for half-terms occasionally. Alec was there.”

“And they got on?”

At this, Elizabeth raised her head. Lynley marvelled that a woman’s face could be so completely devoid of expression. It looked like an inexpertly painted mask. “Joy got on with all men, Inspector. It was her special gift. My brother was just one of a long line of her suitors.”

“Yet I’ve the impression she took him far more seriously than the others.”

“Of course. Why not? Alec professed his love often enough to sound like a perfect sap at the same time as he massaged her ego. And how many of the others could offer her the promise of being Countess of Stinhurst once Daddy popped off?” Elizabeth began arranging the pieces of her sausage into a pattern on her plate.

“Did her relationship with your brother put a strain on your friendship?”

A breath of laughter shot through her nose like a gust of angry wind. “Our friendship was defined by Alec, Inspector. Once he died, I served no further purpose in Joy Sinclair’s life. I saw her only once after Alec’s memorial service, in fact. Then she disappeared without a second thought.”

“Until this weekend.”

“Yes. Until this weekend. That’s the kind of friends we were.”

“Is it your habit to travel with your parents on a theatrical outing such as this?”

“Not at all. But I’m fond of my aunt. It was a chance to see her. So I came.” An unpleasant smile played round Elizabeth’s mouth, quivered at her nostrils, and disappeared. “Of course, there was also Mummy’s plan for my lusty liaison with Jeremy Vinney. And I couldn’t disappoint her when she was depending so much upon this being the weekend that my rose was finally plucked, if that’s not too much of a metaphor for you.”

Lynley ignored the implication. “Vinney’s known your family long,” he concluded.

“Long? He’s known Daddy forever, on both sides of the footlights. Years ago in the regionals, he fancied himself the next Olivier, but Daddy set him straight. So Vinney moved on to drama criticism, where he’s been ever since, happily getting his jollies by trashing as many productions in a year as he can. But this new play…well, it was something close to my father’s heart. The Agincourt re-opening and all. So I suppose my parents wanted me to be here to ensure good reviews. You know what I mean, just in case Vinney decided to respond to a…shall we say, less than delectable bribe?” She swept a hand rudely down the length of her body. “Myself in exchange for a favourable commentary in The Times. It would meet the needs of both my parents, don’t you see? My mother’s desire to have me properly serviced at last. My father’s desire to take London in triumph.”

She had deliberately returned to her prior theme in spite of Lynley’s offer to turn the tide of conversation. Cooperatively, he took up her thought.

“Is that why you went to Jeremy Vinney’s room the night Joy died?”

Elizabeth’s head shot up at that. “Of course not! Smarmy little man with fingers like hairy sausages.” She stabbed her fork at her plate. “As far as I was concerned, Joy could have the little beast. I think he’s pathetic, rubbing up to theatre people in the hope that hanging about might give him the talent he lacked to make it on the stage years ago. Pathetic!” The sudden burst of passion seemed to disconcert her. As if to negate it, she shifted her eyes and said, “Well, perhaps that’s why Mummy considered him such a suitable candidate for me. Two little blobs of pathos, drifting into the sunset together. God, what a romantic thought.”

“But you went to his room—”

“I was looking for Joy. Because of Aunt Francie and her bloody pearls. Although now I think about it, Mummy and Aunt Francie probably had the entire scene planned out in advance. Joy would rush off to her room, salivating over her new acquisition, leaving me alone with Vinney. No doubt Mummy had already been in his room with flower petals and holy water, and all that was left was the act itself. What a pity. All that effort she went to, only to have it wasted on Joy.”