A Great Deliverance

2

Hillier walked to the offi ce window. Afternoon sunlight shafted across his face, detailing lines that spoke of too many late nights, highlighting puffy pink flesh that spoke of too much rich food and port. “By God, this is irregular. Has Kerridge gone quite mad?”

“Nies has certainly been claiming that for years.”

“But to have the first person on the scene… and not even a member of the force! What can the man be thinking?”

“That a priest is the only person they both can trust.” Webberly glanced at his watch again. “He should be here within the hour, in fact. That’s why I asked you to come down.”

“To hear this priest’s story? That’s certainly not your style.”

Webberly shook his head slowly. He had come to the tricky part. “Not to hear the story. Actually, to hear the plan.”

“I’m intrigued.” Hillier went to pour himself another sherry and held the bottle towards his friend, who shook his head. He returned to his seat and crossed one leg over the other, careful not to destroy the razor crease in his beautifully tailored trousers. “The plan?” he prompted.

Webberly poked at a stack of files on his desk. “I’d like Lynley on this.”

Hillier cocked an eyebrow. “Lynley and Nies for a second go-round? Haven’t we had trouble enough in that quarter, Malcolm? Besides, Lynley’s not on rota this weekend.”

“That can be dealt with.” Webberly hesitated. He watched the other man. “You’re letting me hang here, David,” he said at last.

Hillier smiled. “Forgive me. I was waiting to see how you were going to ask for her.”

“Damn you,” Webberly cursed softly. “You know me too well by half.”

“Let’s say I know you’re too fair for your own good. Let me advise you on this, Malcolm. Leave Havers where you put her.”

Webberly winced and swiped at a nonexistent fly. “It grates on my conscience.”

“Don’t be a bloody fool. Don’t be worse than that-don’t be a sentimental fool. Barbara Havers proved herself incapable of getting along with a single DI for her entire tenure in CID. She’s been back in uniform these past eight months and doing a better job there. Leave her.”

“I didn’t try her with Lynley.”

“You didn’t try her with the Prince of Wales either! It’s not your responsibility to keep moving detective sergeants around until they fi nd a little niche in which they can grow old happily. It’s your responsibility to see that the flaming job gets done. And no job got done with Havers on it. Admit it!”

“I think she’s learned from the experience.”

“Learned what? That being a truculent pigheaded little bitch is not likely to advance her up the ranks?”

Webberly let Hillier’s words scathe the air between them. “Well,” he said fi nally, “that was always the problem, wasn’t it?”

Hillier recognised the sound of defeat in his friend’s voice. That was indeed the problem: advancing through the ranks. God, what an ignorant thing to say. “Forgive me, Malcolm.” He quickly finished his sherry, an act that gave him something to do other than look at his brother-in-law’s face. “You deserve my job. We both know it, don’t we?”

“Don’t be absurd.”

But Hillier stood. “I’ll put a call out for Havers.”

Detective Sergeant Barbara Havers tugged the door of the super’s office shut, walked stiffly past his secretary, and made her way into the corridor. She was white with rage.

God! God, how dare they! She pushed her way past a clerk, not bothering to stop when the folders he was carryiing slipped from his grasp and scattered. She marched right through them. Who did they think they were dealing with? Did they think she was so stupid she couldn’t see the ploy? God damn them! God damn them!

She blinked, telling herself that there would be no tears, that she would not cry, that she would not react. The sign LADIES appeared miraculously in front of her and she ducked inside. No one was present. Here, it was cool.

Had it really been so hot in Webberly’s offi ce? Or had it been her outrage? She fumbled at her necktie, jerked it loose, and stumbled over to the basin. The cold water gushed out of the tap beneath her fumbling fi ngers, sending a spray onto her uniform skirt and across her white blouse. That did it. She looked at herself in the mirror and burst into tears.

“You cow,” she sneered. “You stupid, ugly cow!” She was not a woman easily given to tears, so they were hot and bitter, tasting strange and feeling stranger as they coursed down her cheeks, making unattractive rivulets across what was an extremely plain, extremely pug-like face.

“You’re a real sight, Barbara,” she upbraided her reflection. “You’re an absolute vision!” Sobbing, she twisted away from the basin, resting her head against the cool tile of the wall.

At thirty years old, Barbara Havers was a decidedly unattractive woman, but a woman who appeared to be doing everything possible to make herself so. Fine, shiny hair the colour of pinewood might have been suitably styled for the shape of her face. But instead, she wore it cut bluntly at an unforgivable length just below her ears as if a too-small bowl had been placed upon her head for a model. She used no makeup. Heavy, unplucked eyebrows drew attention to the smallness of her eyes rather than to their fine intelligence. A thin mouth, never heightened in any way by colour, was pressed permanently into a disapproving frown. The entire effect was that of a woman stubby, sturdy, and entirely unapproachable.

So they’ve given you the golden boy, she thought. What a treat for you, Barb! After eight miserable months they bring you back from the street “for another chance”-and all the while it’s Lynley!

“I will not,” she muttered. “I will not do it! I will not work with that sodding little fop!”

She pushed herself away from the wall and returned to the basin. She ran cold water into it carefully this time, bending to bathe her hot face and scrub away the incriminating sign of her tears.

“I’d like to give you another opportunity in CID,” Webberly had said. He’d been fi ngering a letter opener on his desk, but she’d noticed the Ripper photos on the walls and her heart had soared. To be on the Ripper! Oh

God, yes! When do I start? Is it with MacPherson?

“It’s a peculiar case involving a girl up in Yorkshire.” Oh, so it’s not the Ripper. But still, it’s a case. A girl, you say? Of course I can help. Is it Stewart, then? He’s an old hand in Yorkshire. We’d work well together. I know we would.

“In fact, I’m expecting to receive the information in about three-quarters of an hour. I’ll need you here then, if you’re interested, that is.” If I’m interested! Three-quarters of an hour gives me time to change. Have a bite to eat. Get back here. Then be on the late train to York. Will we meet up there? Shall I see about a car?

“I’ll need you to pop round to Chelsea before then, I’m afraid.”

The conversation ground to a sudden halt. “To Chelsea, sir?” What on earth had Chelsea to do with all this?

“Yes,” Webberly said easily, dropping the letter opener onto the general clutter on his desk. “You’ll be working with Inspector Lynley, and unfortunately we’ve got to pull him out of the St. James wedding in Chelsea.” He glanced at his watch. “The wedding was at eleven, so no doubt they’re well into the reception by now. We’ve been trying to raise him on the phone, but apparently it’s been left off the hook.” He looked up in time to see the shock on her face. “Something wrong, Sergeant?”

“Inspector Lynley?” She saw it all at once, the reason they needed her, the reason why no one else would really quite do.

“Yes, Lynley. Is there a problem?”

“No, no problem at all.” And then, as an afterthought, “Sir.”

Webberly’s shrewd eyes evaluated her response. “Good. I’m glad to hear it. There’s a lot you might learn from working with Lynley.” Still the eyes watched, gauging her reaction. “Try to be back here as fast as you can.” He gave his attention back to the papers on his desk. She was dismissed.

Barbara looked at herself in the mirror and fumbled in the pocket of her skirt for a comb. Lynley. She tugged the plastic through her hair mercilessly, dragging it against her scalp, abrading the skin, welcoming the pain. Lynley! It was only too obvious why they’d brought her back out of uniform. They wanted Lynley on the case. But they needed a woman as well. And every person on Victoria Street knew that there wasn’t a female in CID who was safe near Lynley. He’d slept his way through department and division, leaving a trail of the discarded behind him. He had the reputation of a racehorse put out to stud and, from all the tales told, the endurance as well. She angrily shoved the comb back into her pocket.

So, how does it feel, she demanded of her reflection, to be the one lucky woman whose virtue is quite secure in the presence of the almighty Lynley? No wandering hands while our Barb’s in the car! No confi dential dinners to “go over our notes.” No invitations to Corn-wall to “think the case out.” No fear here, Barb. God knows that you’re safe with Lynley. In her five years working in the same division with the man, she was certain he’d managed to avoid so much as saying her name, let alone having a single second’s foul contact with her. As if a grammar school background and a working-class accent were social diseases that might infect him if he were not scrupulously careful to keep himself clear of them.

She left the room and stalked down the corridor towards the lift. Was there anyone in all of New Scotland Yard whom she hated more than she hated Lynley? He was a miraculous combination of every single thing that she thoroughly despised: educated at Eton, a fi rst in history at Oxford, a public school voice, and a bloody family tree that had its roots somewhere just this side of the Battle of Hastings. Upper class. Bright. And so damnably charming that she couldn’t understand why every criminal in the city simply didn’t surrender to accommodate him.

His whole reason for working at the Yard was a joke, a flaming little myth that she didn’t believe for a moment. He wanted to be useful, to make a contribution. He preferred a career in London to life on the estate. What a ruddy good laugh!

The lift doors opened and she punched furiously for the garage. And hadn’t his career been convenient and sweet, purchased lock, stock, and barrel with the family funds? He bought his way right into his current position and he’d be a Commissioner before he was through. God knew inheriting that precious title hadn’t hurt his chances for success one bit. He’d gone from sergeant to inspector in record time straight away. Everyone knew why.

She headed for her car, a rusty Mini in the far corner of the garage. How nice to be rich, to be titled like Lynley, to work only for a lark, and then to swing home to the Belgravia townhouse, or better yet fly to the Cornish estate. With butlers and maids and cooks and valets.

And think of it, Barb: picture yourself in the presence of such greatness. What shall you do? Shall you swoon or vomit fi rst?

She flung her handbag into the rear seat of the Mini, slammed the door, and started the car with a sputter and roar. The wheels squealed on the pavement as she ascended the ramp, nodded brusquely towards the offi cer on guard in the kiosk, and headed for the street.

The light weekend traffic made getting from Victoria Street to the Embankment a manoeuvre of a few minutes only, and, once there, the mild breeze of the October afternoon cooled her temper, calmed her nerves, and coaxed her into forgetting her indignation. It was a pleasant drive, really, to the St. James house.

Barbara liked Simon Allcourt-St. James, had liked him from the first time she had met him ten years ago when she was a nervous twenty-year-old probationary police constable all too aware of being a woman in a closely guarded man’s world where women police were still called Wopsies after a few drinks. And she’d been called worse than that-she knew it. Damn them all to hell. To them, any woman who aspired to CID was a bona fi de freak and made to feel that way. But to St. James, two years her senior, she had been an acceptable colleague, even a friend.

St. James was now an independent forensic scientist, but he had begun his career at the Yard. By his twenty-fourth birthday he was the very best of the scene-of-crime men, quick, observant, intuitive. He could have gone in any direction: investigations, pathology, administration, anywhere. But it had all ended one night eight years ago on a drive with Lynley, a wild junket through the back roads of Surrey. They had both been drunk-St. James was always prompt to admit this fact. But everyone knew that it was Lynley who had been driving that night, Lynley who had lost control on a curve, Lynley who had walked away without a scratch while his childhood friend, St. James, had emerged a cripple. And although he could have continued his career at the Yard, St. James had instead retired to a family house in Chelsea, where for the next four years he had lived like a recluse. Score that to old Lynley, she thought sourly.

She couldn’t believe that St. James had actually maintained his friendship with the man. But he had, and something, some sort of quirky situation, had cemented their relationship nearly fi ve years ago and had brought St. James back into the field where he belonged. Score that, she thought reluctantly, to Lynley as well.

She pulled the Mini into an available space on Lawrence Street and walked back along Lordship Place towards Cheyne Row. Not far from the river, it was an area of the city where elaborate white plaster and woodwork decorated deep umber brick buildings and black paint restored the wrought iron at windows and balconies. In keeping with the village that Chelsea once had been, the streets were narrow, metamorphosed into bright autumn tunnels by massive sycamores and elms. St. James’s house stood on a corner, and as she passed by the high brick wall that fenced in the garden, Barbara heard the sounds of the party in progress. A voice was raised in a toast. Shouts of approval followed applause. An old oak door in the wall was closed, but that was just as well. Dressed as she was, she hardly wanted to burst into the festivities as if she were making an arrest.

She rounded the corner to find the front door of the tall, old house open to the late afternoon sun. The sound of laughter fl oated towards her, the pure tones of silver and china, the popping of champagne, and somewhere in the garden the music of violin and fl ute. There were flowers everywhere, right out onto the front steps where the balustrades were twined with white and pink roses that fi lled the air with a heady perfume. Even the balconies above held potted convolvuli that tumbled trumpet-shaped flowers in a riot of colours over the edge.

Barbara drew in a breath and mounted the steps. There was no point to knocking, for although several guests near the door gave her inquisitive glances as she hesitated outside in her ill-fitting uniform, they strolled back towards the garden without speaking to her, and it soon became apparent that if she wanted to find Lynley, she would have to barge right into the wedding reception to do so. The thought made her more than a little bit ill.

She was about to retreat cravenly back to her car to retrieve an old mackintosh that would at least cover up her clothes-too tight in the hips and straining the material at shoulder and neck-when the sounds of footsteps and laughter close by directed her attention to the stairway in the hall. A woman was descending, calling over her shoulder to someone who remained on the fl oor above.

“Just the two of us are going. You must come as well and we’ll make a party of it, Sid.” She turned, saw Barbara, and stopped where she was, one hand on the banister. It was very nearly a pose, for she was the kind of woman who could manage to make yards of haphazardly arranged teal-coloured silk look like the very latest word in haute couture. She was not particularly tall, but very slender, with a fall of chestnut hair framing a perfect, oval face. From the dozens of times she had been to fetch Lynley from the Yard, Barbara recognised her at once. She was Lynley’s longest-running mistress and St. James’s lab assistant, Lady Helen Clyde. Lady Helen completed her descent and crossed the hall to the door. So confident, Barbara noted, so completely self-possessed.

“I’ve the most dreadful feeling that you’ve come for Tommy,” she said immediately, extending her hand. “Hello. I’m Helen Clyde.”

Barbara introduced herself, surprised at the firmness of the woman’s grip. Her hands were thin, very cool to the touch. “He’s wanted at the Yard.”

“Poor man. How miserable. How damnably unfair.” Lady Helen spoke more to herself than to the other woman, for she suddenly shot Barbara an apologetic smile. “But it’s not your fault, is it? Come, he’s just this way.”

Without waiting for a reply, she moved down the hallway to the garden door, giving Barbara no choice but to follow. However, at her first glimpse of the cluster of linen-covered tables at which fashionably clad guests chatted and laughed, Barbara stepped quickly back into the dimly lit hall. Her fi ngers wandered up to her neck.

Lady Helen paused, her dark eyes refl ective. “Shall I search Tommy out for you?” she offered with another quick smile. “It’s a crush out there, isn’t it?”

“Thank you,” Barbara replied stiffl y and watched her walk across the lawn to a group standing in merry conversation round a tall man who managed to look as if somehow he’d been born wearing morning clothes.

Lady Helen touched his arm and said a few words. The man looked towards the house, revealing a face that bore the unmistakable stamp of aristocracy. It was a Greek sculpture sort of face, unaccountably timeless. He brushed his blond hair back from his forehead, placed his champagne glass on a table nearby, and, after exchanging a quip with one of his friends, came towards the house with Lady Helen at his side.

From the safety of the shadows, Barbara watched Lynley’s approach. His movements were graceful, fluid, like a cat’s. He was the handsomest man she had ever seen. She loathed him.

“Sergeant Havers.” He nodded when they joined her. “I’m not on call this weekend.” Barbara read the implication clearly: You’re interrupting me, Havers.

“Webberly sent me, sir. Ring him if you like.” She didn’t look at him directly as she replied but rather focussed her eyes somewhere just over his left shoulder.

“But surely he knows that today’s the wedding, Tommy,” Lady Helen protested mildly.

Lynley let out his breath in a puff of anger. “Damn and blast, of course he knows.” He glanced out at the lawn, then sharply back to Barbara. “Is this Ripper business? I’d been told that John Stewart would join MacPherson.”

“It’s business in the North as far as I know. Some girl’s involved.” Barbara thought he’d appreciate that piece of information. Some spice to the case, just the way he liked it: a tart for dessert. She waited for him to demand the particulars that, no doubt, were fi rst and foremost on his mind: age, marital status, and measurements of the damsel whose distress he was only too willing to alleviate.

His eyes narrowed. “In the North?”

Lady Helen laughed regretfully. “Well, there go our plans to go dancing tonight, Tommy darling, and I was just persuading Sidney to come as well.”

“I suppose it can’t be helped,” Lynley replied. But he moved abruptly from the shadows into the light, and both the tightness of the movement and the play of a repressed reaction on his face told Barbara how irritated he really was.

Lady Helen evidently saw this as well, for she spoke again cheerfully. “Of course, Sid and I could easily go dancing alone. With androgyny the rage, no doubt one of us might be taken for a man no matter how we dress. Or there’s Jeffrey Cusick. We could telephone him.” It was somehow a personal joke between them and it had its desired effect, for Lynley relaxed into a smile. He followed it with a dry chuckle.

“Cusick? My God, these are desperate times.”

“Oh, you may laugh,” Lady Helen replied and did so herself, “but he took us to Royal Ascot when you were far too busily engaged in some bloodthirsty murder watch at St. Pancras Station. Cambridge men, you see, have all sorts of fi ne qualities.”

Lynley laughed outright. “Among which is the tendency to look like a penguin when formally dressed.”

“You dreadful creature!” Lady Helen gave her attention to Barbara. “May I at least offer you some lovely crab salad before you drag Tommy back to the Yard? Years ago, I was served the most terrifying egg sandwich there. If the food’s not improved, this may be your last chance to eat well today.”

Barbara glanced at her watch. She sensed an undercurrent of urgency in Lynley and knew quite well that he wanted her to accept the invitation so that he’d have a few more minutes with his friends before being called back to duty. She wasn’t about to accommodate him. “There’s a meeting in twenty minutes, I’m afraid.”

Lady Helen sighed. “Well, that’s hardly enough time to do it the justice it deserves. Shall I wait for you, Tommy, or shall I phone Jeffrey?”

“Don’t do that,” Lynley responded. “Your father would never forgive you for putting your future into the hands of Cambridge.”

She smiled. “Very well. If you’re off, then, let me fetch the bride and groom to bid you farewell.”

His face altered swiftly. “No. Helen, I…just make my excuses.”

A look passed between them, something said without being said. “You must see them, Tommy,” Lady Helen murmured. There was another pause, a compromise being sought.

“I’ll tell them you’re waiting in the study.” She left quickly, giving Lynley no chance to respond.

He uttered something inaudible under his breath, following Lady Helen with his eyes as she wove back through the crowd. “Have you brought a car?” he asked Barbara suddenly and started down the hall, away from the celebration.

Nonplussed, she followed. “A Mini. You’re not exactly dressed for its splendour.”

“I’ll adjust, I’m sure. Chameleon-like. What colour is it?”

She was puzzled by the query, an ill-concealed attempt to make conversation as they walked to the front of the house. “Mostly rust, I’m afraid.”

“My favourite.” He held open a door and motioned her into a dark room.

“I’ll just wait in the car, sir. I’ve left it-”

“Stay here, Sergeant.” It was a command.

Reluctantly, she preceded him. The curtains had been drawn; the only light came from the door which they had opened. But Barbara could see it was a man’s room, richly panelled in dark oak and filled with shelves of books, well-used furniture, and an atmosphere redolent of comfortable old leather and the fragrance of scotch.

Lynley gravitated absently to a wall that was covered with framed photographs and stood there quietly, his eyes on a portrait that was central to the display. It had been taken in a cemetery, and the man who was its subject bent to touch the inscription on a tombstone whose carving had long since been obliterated by time. The skilful composition of the piece directed the viewer’s eyes not to the awkward leg brace that distorted the man’s posture but to the piercing interest that lit his gaunt face. Studying the picture, Lynley seemed to have forgotten her presence.

The moment, Barbara decided, was probably as good as any to give him the news.

“I’m off the street,” she announced bluntly. “That’s why I’ve come, if you’re wondering.”

He turned slowly towards her. “Back in CID?” he asked. “Good for you, Barbara.”

“But not for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, someone’s got to tell you, since Webberly obviously hasn’t. Congratulations: you’re stuck with me.” She waited to see his look of surprise. When it was evident that none was forthcoming, she pushed on. “Of course, it’s damned awkward having me assigned to you-don’t think I don’t know it. I can’t fi gure out what Webberly wants.” She was stumbling on, barely hearing her own words, uncertain whether she was trying to forestall or provoke his inevitable reaction: the sharp explosion of anger, the movement to the telephone to demand an explanation, or, worse, the icy politeness that would last until he got the superintendent behind closed doors. “All that I can think is that there’s no one else available or that I’ve got some sort of wonderful latent talent that only Webberly knows of. Or maybe it’s a bit of a practical joke.” She laughed, a little too loudly.

“Or perhaps you’re the best for the job,” Lynley finished. “What do you know about the case?”

“I…nothing. Only that-”

“Tommy?” They swung around at the sound of the voice, the single word spoken as if on a breath. The bride stood in the doorway, a spray of flowers in one hand and others tucked into the tumble of coppery hair that fell round her shoulders and down her back. Backlit from the hallway, she looked in her ivory dress as if she were surrounded entirely by a cloud, a Titian creation come to life. “Helen tells me you’re leaving…?”

Lynley appeared to have nothing to say. He felt in his pockets, brought out a gold cigarette case, opened it, and then snapped it shut with a flash of annoyance. During this operation the bride watched him, the flowers in her hand trembling momentarily.

“It’s the Yard, Deb,” Lynley finally answered. “I have to go.”

She watched him without speaking, fi ngering a pendant she wore at her throat. Not until he met her eyes did she reply. “What a disappointment for everyone. It’s not an emergency, I hope. Simon told me last night that you might be reassigned to the Ripper case.”

“No. Just a meeting.”

“Ah.” She looked as if she might say something more-indeed, she began to do so-but instead she turned to Barbara with a friendly smile. “I’m Deborah St. James.”

Lynley rubbed his forehead. “Lord, I am sorry.” Mechanically, he completed the introduction. “Where’s Simon?”

“He was right behind me, but I think Dad caught him. He’s absolutely terrified to let us off on our own, certain I’ll never take care of Simon well enough.” Her laughter bubbled up. “Perhaps I should have considered the problems of marrying a man my father is so inordinately fond of. “‘The electrodes,’ he keeps lecturing me. ‘You mustn’t forget to see to his leg every morning.’ I think he’s told me that ten times today.”

“I imagine it was all you could do to keep him from going on the honeymoon as well.”

“Well, of course, they’ve not been apart for more than a day since…” She stopped suddenly, awkwardly. Their eyes met. She bit the inside of her lip and an ugly fl ush stained her cheeks.

There was an immediate, anxious silence between them, the kind in which the most telling sort of communication exists in body language and tension in the air. It was fi nally-mercifully, Barbara decided-broken by the sound of slow, painfully uneven footsteps in the hall, awkward harbinger of Deborah’s husband.

“I see that you’ve come to capture Tommy.” St. James paused in the doorway but continued to speak quietly, as was his habit, to direct attention away from his disability and put others at ease in his presence. “That’s a strange twist on tradition, Barbara. Time was when the brides were kidnapped, not the best man.”

He was, Barbara decided, very much Hephaestus to Lynley’s Apollo. Aside from his eyes, the satin blue of a highland sky, and his hands, the sensitive tools of an artist, Simon Allcourt-St. James was singularly unattractive. His hair was dark, unruly with curls, and haphazardly cut in a way that did nothing to make it manageable. His face was a combination of aquilinity and angles, harsh in repose, forbidding in anger, yet vibrant with good nature when softened by his smile. He was sapling thin, but not sapling sturdy, a man who had known too much pain and sorrow at far too young an age.

Barbara smiled as he joined them, her fi rst genuine smile of the entire afternoon. “But even best men are generally not kidnapped to New Scotland Yard. How are you, Simon?”

“Fine. Or so my father-in-law continues to tell me. Lucky as well. It seems he saw it all from the beginning. He knew it directly the day of her birth. You’ve been introduced to Deborah?”

“Only just now.”

“And we can keep you no longer?”

“Webberly’s called a meeting,” Lynley put in. “You know how that is.”

“How I do. Then we won’t ask you to stay. We’re off ourselves in a very little while. Helen has the address if anything should come up.”

“Don’t give a thought to that.” Lynley paused as if he were not quite sure what to do next. “My warmest congratulations, St. James,” he settled on saying.

“Thank you,” the other man replied. He nodded to Barbara, touched his bride’s shoulder lightly, and left the room.

How odd, Barbara thought. They didn’t even shake hands.

“Will you go to the Yard dressed like that?” Deborah asked Lynley.

He looked at his clothes ruefully. “Anything to keep up my reputation as a rake.” They laughed together. It was a warm communication that died as suddenly as it had risen. From it grew yet another little silence.

“Well,” Lynley began.

“I’d a speech all planned,” Deborah said quickly, looking down at her fl owers. They trembled once again in her hand and a shower of baby’s breath fell to the floor. She raised her head. “Something…it was just the kind of thing Helen might say. Talk about my childhood, Dad, this house. You know the sort of thing. Witty and clever. But I’m absolutely pathetic at that sort of thing. Quite out of my depth. A hopeless incompetent.” She looked down again to see that a very small dachshund had come into the study and carried in its jaws a woman’s sequined handbag. The dog placed the bag at Deborah’s satin-shod feet, supremely confident that the offering had merit. A tail wagged in the friendliest fashion. “Oh, no! Peach!” Laughing, Deborah bent to retrieve the purloined article, but when she straightened, her green eyes glittered with tears. “Thank you, Tommy. For everything. Really. For it all.”

“The best, Deb,” he said lightly in reply. He went to her, hugged her quickly to him, and brushed a kiss against her hair.

And it came to Barbara, as she stood there watching, that for some reason St. James had left the two of them together precisely so that Lynley could do just that.