Believing the Lie

LAKE WINDERMERE CUMBRIA

Lynley arrived at Ireleth Hall in the afternoon. Given the choice among flying, driving, or taking the train, he’d opted for driving, despite the length of the trip. He left London long before dawn, stopped twice along the way, and spent the time in the Healey Elliott deep in thought.

He hadn’t been with Isabelle on the previous night. She’d asked and he’d wanted, but he reckoned it would be better for them both if he stayed away. Despite her words to the contrary, he knew she intended to get to the bottom of where he was going and why, and he equally intended not to tell her. The conflict between them that this would have doubtless caused was something he wanted to avoid. Isabelle had cut back radically on her drinking in the months they’d been together, and he didn’t want anything — like an argument with him — to set her on the path to the bottle again. She needed to stay sober and he liked her sober, and if avoiding a conflict encouraged her to maintain sobriety, then he was happy to avoid anything resembling a conflict with her.

Darling, I had no idea you’d become such a coward with women, Helen would have said about this. But it wasn’t cowardice as far as he was concerned. It was the course of wisdom and he was determined to follow it. Still, he thought about this and about Isabelle and himself most of the way to Cumbria. Compatibility was on his mind.

When he reached Ireleth Hall, the great iron gates stood open as if in anticipation of his arrival. He drove beneath the shelter of ancient oaks, winding in the direction of Lake Windermere, and finding himself ultimately pulling up to an impressive many-gabled affair of stone dappled with grey lichen, its central feature a boxy pele tower of enormous proportions that announced the age of at least part of the building. Thirteenth century, Lynley thought. It predated his own home in Cornwall by more than four hundred years.

From the pele tower various extensions had been put onto the building over the centuries. Wisely, however, they were all of a piece so the result was a harmonious blend of architectural periods, with rolling lawns spreading out on either side of it, these copiously dotted with some of the most impressive oaks Lynley had ever seen. Among the oaks stood equally impressive plane trees, and beneath them fallow deer grazed placidly.

He got out of the car and breathed deeply of air fresh from a recent rainfall. From where he stood, the lake wasn’t visible, but he reckoned that from inside the west-facing house, the views of the water and the opposite shore would be impressive.

“Here you are then.”

Lynley turned at the sound of Bernard Fairclough’s voice. The man was heading his way from a walled garden to the north of the house. He joined Lynley by the Healey Elliott. He admired the old car, ran his hand along its sleek wing, and asked the usual polite questions about the vehicle, its age, its performance, and about Lynley’s drive from London. The niceties dispensed with, he ushered him into the house through a door that led directly into a great hall panelled in oak and hung with burnished breastplates of armour. A fire burned in a fireplace here, with two sofas facing each other in front of it. Other than the crackling from flames consuming wood and the ticking from a longcase clock, the place seemed entirely silent.

Fairclough spoke in the low tones of a man at a church service or one concerned about being overheard, although as far as Lynley could tell they were alone. “I’ve had to tell Valerie why you’re here,” he said. “We don’t keep secrets in general — more than forty years together and it’s impossible anyway — so she’s in the picture. She’ll cooperate. She’s not entirely happy with me for pushing this matter, but she understands… as well as a mother can understand when there are concerns about her children.” Fairclough pushed his thick-framed spectacles up the bridge of his nose as he considered his words. “She’s the only one, though. So for everyone else, you’re a fellow member of Twins who’s come for a visit. Some of them know about your wife as well. It’s made… Well, it’s made everything more believable. You’ve no trouble with that, I hope?”

He sounded nervous. Lynley had to wonder what he was nervous about: that Lynley was here, that he was a cop, or that he might uncover something unsavoury as he stumbled round the property. He supposed any of these were possible, but the nerves did make him curious about Fairclough. “Helen’s death was in the newspapers,” he replied. “I can hardly protest if it’s common knowledge.”

“Good. Good.” Fairclough rubbed his hands together in a let’s-get-down-to-work gesture. He shot Lynley a smile. “I’ll show you your room and give you a tour. I thought a quiet dinner this evening, just the four of us, and then tomorrow perhaps you can… Whatever it is you do, you know.”

“The four of us?”

“Our daughter Mignon will be joining us. She lives here on the property. Not in the house as she’s of an age when a woman prefers to have her own home. She’s not far, though, and as she’s unmarried and you’re a widower, it did seem possible…” Fairclough, Lynley noted, had the grace to look uncomfortable at this. “Something of another excuse for you to be here. I haven’t said anything to Mignon directly, but if you keep it in mind that she’s unmarried… I’ve a feeling she might be more forthright with you if you… perhaps showed her a bit of interest.”

“You suspect she has something to hide?” Lynley asked.

“She’s a cipher,” Fairclough replied. “I’ve never been able to have a break through to her. I hope you’ll manage it. Come. It’s just this way.”

The stairs formed part of the pele tower’s base and they rose among a collection of landscape watercolours into a corridor paneled in oak much like the great hall but without the great hall’s windows to lighten the gloom. Doors opened off this corridor, and Fairclough led Lynley to one at the far north end, where a lead-paned window offered a dim shaft of light in which dust motes floated upward as if released from captivity in the Persian carpets.

The room they entered was a large one, its best feature a set of bay windows with a deep embrasure where a seat had been fashioned. Fairclough walked Lynley over to this spot. “Windermere,” he said unnecessarily.

As Lynley had assumed, this west side of the house overlooked the lake. Three terraces made a way down to it: two of lawn and a third of gravel upon which weathered tables, chairs, and chaise longues stood. Beyond this last one, the lake spread out, disappearing round a finger of land that pointed northeast and was called, Fairclough said, Rawlinson Nab. Closer to hand, the tiny island of Grass Holme seemed to float in the water surmounted by a copse of ash trees, and Grubbins Point appeared like a knuckle protruding outward into the water.

Lynley said to Fairclough, “You must quite enjoy living here. Most of the year, at least, as I expect you’re fairly overrun in the summer.” Tourists, he meant. Cumbria in general and the Lakes in particular would be thronged from June to the end of September. Rain or shine — and God knew most of the time it was rain — they’d be walking, climbing, and camping everywhere there was space to do so.

“Frankly, I wish I had more time to do just that, to live here,” Fairclough said. “Between the factory in Barrow, the foundation, my solicitors in London, and the Ministry of Defence, I’m actually fortunate to get here once a month.”

“Ministry of Defence?”

Fairclough grimaced. “My life is governed by a complete lack of romance. I’ve a composting toilet they’re interested in. We’ve been in discussion for months.”

“And the solicitors? Is there a problem I should know about? Something related to the family? To Ian Cresswell?”

“No, no,” Fairclough said. “Patent lawyers, these are, as well as solicitors for the foundation. All of it keeps me on the run. I rely on Valerie to deal with this place. It’s her family home so she’s happy to do so.”

“Sounds as if you don’t see much of each other.”

Fairclough smiled. “Secret of a long and happy marriage. Bit unusual, but it’s worked all these years. Ah. There’s Valerie now.”

Lynley moved his gaze from Fairclough to the three terraces, assuming the man’s wife had come into view from elsewhere on the property. But he indicated the lake and upon it a rowingboat. A figure had just put oars into water and was bending to the task of rowing towards the shore. It was impossible at this distance to tell if the oarsman was male or female, but Fairclough said, “She’ll be heading towards the boathouse. Let me take you to her. You’ll be able to see where Ian… Well, you know.”

Outside, Lynley took note of the fact that the boathouse wasn’t visible from the main house. To gain it, Fairclough led him to the south wing of Ireleth Hall, where through shrubbery formed by the autumn red foliage of a mass of spiraea over six feet tall, an arbour gave way to a path. This wound through a garden thick with the twin of holly, mahonia, which appeared to have grown in the spot for one hundred years. The path curved downwards through a little plantation of poplars and ultimately opened onto a fanlike landing. The boathouse was here: a fanciful structure faced in the stacked slate of the district with a steeply pitched roof and a land-side single door. There were no windows.

The door stood open and Fairclough entered first. Inside, they stood on a narrow stone dock that ran round three sides of the building, the lake water lapping against it. A motorboat and a scull were tied to this dock, as well as an ancient canoe. According to Fairclough, the scull had belonged to Ian Cresswell. Valerie Fairclough had not gained the boathouse yet, but they could see her from its water-side door, and it was obvious she would be with them within minutes.

“Ian capsized the scull when he fell,” Fairclough said. “Just over there. You can see where the stones are missing. There were two of them — side by side — and he apparently grasped one and lost his balance when it came loose. He fell and the other stone went as well.”

“Where are they now?” Lynley went to the spot and squatted for a better look. The light was bad inside the boathouse. He would need to come back with a torch.

“What?”

“The stones that came loose. Where are they? I’ll want a look at them.”

“They’re still in the water as far as I know.”

Lynley looked up. “No one brought them up for examination?” That was unusual. An unexpected death raised all sorts of questions and one of them was the one that asked how a stone on a dock — no matter the dock’s age — had loosened. Wear and tear might have done it, of course. So might a chisel, however.

“The coroner ruled it an accident, as I’ve told you. It looked straightforward to the policeman who came to the scene. He phoned an inspector who came, had a look, and reached the same conclusion.”

“Were you here when this happened?”

“In London.”

“Was your wife alone when she found the body?”

“She was.” And with a glance towards the lake, “Here she is now.”

Lynley rose. The rowingboat was approaching quickly, the oarsman applying muscular strokes. When she was close enough for the boat to glide the rest of the way into the boathouse on its own power, Valerie Fairclough removed the oars from the oarlocks, rested them in the bottom of the boat, and floated inside.

She was wearing rainclothes: yellow slicker and waxed trousers, gloves, and boots. She had nothing on her head, however, and her grey hair was managing to look perfectly kempt despite the fact she’d been out on the water.

“Any luck?” Fairclough asked.

She looked over her shoulder but did not appear startled. She said, “There you are, then. Rotten luck entirely, I’m afraid. I was out for three hours and all I managed were two miserable little things who looked at me so pathetically, I was forced to toss them back into the water. You must be Thomas Lynley” — this to Lynley. “Welcome to Cumbria.”

“It’s Tommy.” He extended his hand to her. She threw him the dock line instead of grasping it.

“Cleat hitch,” she said. “Or do I speak Greek?”

“Not to me.”

“Good man.” She handed her fishing gear to her husband: a tackle box, a rod, and a pail of squirming bait that Lynley recognised as maggots. Clearly, she wasn’t a squeamish woman.

She clambered out of the rowingboat as Lynley tied it up. She was extremely agile, impressive for her age since Lynley knew she was sixty-seven years old. When she was on the dock, she shook his hand. “Welcome again,” she said. “Has Bernie given you the tour?” She tugged off her rain slicker and removed the trousers. She hung these from pegs on the boathouse wall as her husband stowed her fishing kit beneath a wooden workbench. When he turned to her, she offered her cheek for a kiss. She said, “Darling,” as ostensible greeting and added, “How long’ve you been back?” to which he said, “Noon,” to which she said, “You should have sent up a flare.” She added, “Mignon?” and he said, “Not yet. She’s well?” to which she replied, “Slow process, but better.” It was, Lynley knew, that shorthand of all couples who’ve been together so many years.

Valerie said to him with a nod at the scull, “You were having a look at where our Ian drowned, weren’t you. Bernie and I aren’t of the same mind on this subject, but I expect he’s told you that.”

“He’s mentioned that you found the body. It must have been a shock.”

“I hadn’t even known he’d gone out rowing. I hadn’t known he was on the property at all as he hadn’t parked his car near the house. He’d been in the water nearly twenty-four hours when I got to him, so you can imagine what he looked like at that point. Still, I’m glad I found him and not Mignon. Or Kaveh. I can only imagine what would have happened then.”

“Kaveh?” Lynley asked.

“Ian’s partner. He’s doing some work for me here on the property. I’m putting in a children’s area and he’s done the design. He’s overseeing the work as well.”

“He’s here every day?”

“Perhaps three times a week? He doesn’t check in with me, and I don’t keep track.” She regarded Lynley as if evaluating what was going on in his mind. She said, “As the Americans say on their television programmes, do you like him for the murder?”

Lynley smiled briefly. “It may well turn out that the coroner was right.”

“I have every confidence that it will.” She looked from Lynley to her husband. Fairclough, Lynley saw, was gazing intently through the water-side opening in the boathouse, out onto the lake. She said, “It was a terrible thing to have happened. We were very fond of Ian, Bernie and I. We should have kept a closer eye on the dock. It’s quite old — more than a hundred years — and it’s never been out of use. Stones become loose. See here. There’s another.”

She used her toe against a stone next to the spot from which the other two had fallen. It was, as she said, unsteady as well. But of course, Lynley thought, that might have been owing to the fact that someone had deliberately loosened it.

“When accidents happen, we want to blame someone,” Valerie said. “And this was a wretched thing to have happened because it leaves those poor children with one mad parent and no tempering influence whatsoever. If there’s fault here, however, it’s mine, I’m afraid.”

“Valerie,” her husband said.

“I’m in charge of Ireleth Hall and the property, Bernie. I fell down on the job. Your nephew died as a result.”

“I don’t blame you,” her husband replied.

“Perhaps you should consider doing so.”

They exchanged a look from which Bernard broke away first. That look said more than their words had done. There were, Lynley reckoned, deep waters here. They went far beyond those found in the lake.