For the Sake of Elena

24

Lynley and Havers arrived at St. Stephen’s College at half past eleven. They’d spent the early part of the morning assembling their reports, meeting with Superintendent Sheehan, and discussing what sort of charges might be filed against Anthony Weaver. Lynley knew that his hope for attempted murder was a futile one at best. Weaver was, after all, the originally injured party when one considered the case from a purely legal standpoint. No matter what intimacies, oaths, and lovers’ betrayals had led up to the killing of Elena Weaver, no real crime had been committed in the eyes of the law until Sarah Gordon had taken the girl’s life.

Driven by his grief, the defence would argue. Weaver himself-who would wisely not stand in his own defence and thus run the risk of cross-examination-would emerge as loving father, devoted husband, brilliant scholar, Cambridge man. If the truth about his affair with Sarah Gordon managed to work its way into the courtroom, how easily it could be dismissed as a sensitive, artistic man’s giving way to a lethal temptation in a moment of weakness or during a time of marital estrangement. How easily he could be depicted as having done his best-done everything in his power, in fact-to put the affair behind him and get on with his life once he became aware of the extent to which he was hurting his faithful and long-suffering wife.

But she could not forget, the defence would argue. She was obsessed with the need to avenge herself for his rejection of her. So she killed his daughter. She stalked her as she and her stepmother ran in the morning, she noted the clothes which her stepmother wore, she created the means to have the girl run alone, she lay in wait, she beat in her face, and she killed her. Having done so, she went to Dr. Weaver’s college rooms by night and left him a message that revealed her culpability. Faced with that, what was he to do? What would any man-driven to despair by the sight of his child’s corpse-do?

Thus, the focus would subtly turn from Anthony Weaver to the crime that had been committed against him. And what jury would ever be able to consider the crime Weaver had committed against Sarah Gordon in the fi rst place? It was only a painting, after all. How could they hope to understand that while Weaver struck out at a piece of canvas, he carved cleanly through a unique human soul?

…when one stops believing that the act itself is superior to anyone’s analysis or rejection of it, then one becomes immobilised. That’s what happened to me.

But how could a jury hope to understand that if its members had never felt the call to create. Far easier to limn her a woman scorned than to try to understand the extent of her loss.

Sarah Gordon taught bloody instructions, the defence would argue, and they came back in full measure to plague her.

There was truth in this. Lynley thought of his final sight of the woman-so late into the night that milk delivery was already rumbling in the streets-five hours after they had wheeled her out of the operating theatre. She was in a room outside of which a uniformed constable sat as a guard, a ludicrous formality required to guarantee that the offi cial prisoner-the killer of record-not try to escape. She seemed such a small fi gure in the bed that the form of her barely disturbed the covers. She lay heavily bandaged and heavily sedated, her lips blue-edged and her skin bruised snow. Still alive, still breathing, and still unaware of the additional loss she would have to face.

We managed to save the arm, the surgeon told him, but I can’t say she’ll ever be able to use it again.

Lynley had stood by the bed, looked down on Sarah Gordon, and thought about the alternative merits of seeking justice and obtaining revenge. In our society the law calls out for justice, he thought, but the individual still craves revenge. Yet to allow a man or woman to pursue a course of retaliation is to invite further violence as a result. For outside a courtroom, there is no real way to balance the scales when an injury has been done to an innocent party. And any attempt to do so only promises grief, additional injury, and further regret.

There is no eye for an eye, he thought. As individuals, we cannot design the means of another’s retribution.

But now he wondered about that facile philosophy-so appropriate to a hospital room at dawn-as he and Sergeant Havers left the Bentley on Garret Hostel Lane and walked back towards the college to clear his belongings from the small room in Ivy Court. Directly in front of St. Stephen’s Church, a hearse was parked. Lined up before it and behind it were more than a dozen other cars.

“Did she say anything to you?” Havers asked. “Anything at all?”

“‘She thought it was her dog. Elena loved animals.’”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“No regrets? No remorse?”

“No,” Lynley said. “I can’t say she acted as if she felt either.”

“But what did she think, sir? That if she killed Elena Weaver, she’d be able to paint again? That murder would somehow free up her creativity?”

“I think she believed that if she made Weaver suffer as she was suffering, she’d be able to go on with her life somehow.”

“Not very rational, if you ask me.”

“No, Sergeant. But human relationships aren’t rational in the least.”

They skirted the graveyard. Havers squinted up at the church’s Norman tower. Its slate roof was only a few shades lighter than the sombre colour of the late morning sky. It was a suitable day for the dead.

“You were right about her from the very start,” Havers said. “Nice policework, Lynley.”

“No need for compliments. You were right as well.”

“Right? How’s that?”

“She reminded me of Helen from the moment I saw her.”

It was only a few minutes’ work to gather his belongings and see to his suitcase. Havers stood by the window, looking down on Ivy Court while he emptied cupboards and packed up shaving gear. She seemed more at peace with herself than she had been in months. She wore with a fair degree of comfort the relief that comes from effecting a closure.

He said casually as he threw a final pair of socks into his case, “Did you take your mother to Greenford?”

“Yes. This morning.”

“And?”

Havers picked at a flaking patch of white paint on the window sill. “And I’ll have to get used to it. Letting go, I mean. Being alone.”

“That’s what one has to do sometimes.” Lynley saw her look in his direction, saw her start to speak. “Yes. I know, Barbara. You’re a better man than I am. I haven’t been able to manage it yet.”

They left the building and crossed the court, skirting the graveyard through which a narrow path wound between sarcophagi and tombstones. It was old and bent, cracked in places where tree roots lifted it and weeds pushed through.

From the church, they could hear a hymn coming to an end, and rising out of its concluding notes came the high, sweet sound of a trumpet playing “Amazing Grace.” Miranda Webberly, Lynley guessed, giving Elena her own public form of farewell. He felt unaccountably touched by the unadorned melody and he marvelled at the human heart’s capacity to be moved by something as simple as sound.

The church doors opened, and the even-paced procession began to file out, headed by the bronze-coloured coffi n which was carried on the shoulders of six young men. One of them was Adam Jenn. The immediate family followed: Anthony Weaver and his former wife, behind them Justine. And then the mourners, a large crowd of University dignitaries, colleagues and friends of both the Cambridge Weavers, and countless junior and senior fellows of St. Stephen’s. Among them, Lynley noted Victor Troughton with a pear-shaped woman leaning on his arm.

Weaver’s face registered neither reaction nor recognition as he passed by Lynley, following the coffin which was draped with a sheet of pale pink roses. Their odour was sweet in the heavy air. As the rear door of the hearse closed upon the coffin and one of the undertakers scuttled inside to rearrange the cave of additional flowers in which the coffi n rode, the crowd pressed in round Weaver, Glyn, and Justine, black-garbed men and women with melancholy faces, earnestly offering affection and condolence. Among them was Terence Cuff, and it was to Cuff that the college porter-crossing the lane from the gatehouse-excused his way through the crowd to see. He carried a thick, creamy envelope which he handed to the Master of the College with a quiet word which Cuff bent to hear.

Cuff nodded, tore open the envelope. His eyes scanned the message. His face fl ashed briefly with a smile. He was not standing far from Anthony Weaver, so it took only a moment for him to reach his side and only another moment for the words he murmured to filter back through the crowd.

Lynley heard it coming from several directions at once.

“Penford Chair.”

“He’s been named…”

“So deserved…”

“…an honour.”

Next to him, Havers said, “What’s going on?”

Lynley watched Weaver lower his head, press a clenched fist to his moustache, then raise his head again, shaking it, perhaps stunned, perhaps touched, perhaps humbled, perhaps disbelieving. He said, “Dr. Weaver has just reached the pinnacle of his career before our very eyes, Sergeant. He’s been awarded the University’s Penford Chair in History.”

To which she replied, “He has? Bloody hell.”

My sentiments exactly, Lynley thought. They stayed for a moment longer, watching the condolences change to quiet congratulations, hearing the murmurs of conversation that spoke of triumph coming upon the heels of tragedy.

Havers said, “If he’s charged, if he goes to trial, will they take the Chair from him?”

“Chairs are for life, Sergeant.”

“But don’t they know-”

“About what he did yesterday? The committee? How could they? The decision was probably made by then anyway. And even if they did know, even if they decided this morning, he was, after all, only a father driven wild by his grief.”

They edged round the crowd and headed in the direction of Trinity Hall. Havers was dragging her feet on the ground, her attention given to the tops of her shoes. She drove her fists into the pockets of her coat.

“Did he do it for the Chair?” she asked abruptly. “Did he want Elena to go to St. Stephen’s because of the Chair? Did he want her to behave because of the Chair? Did he want to stay married to Justine because of it? Did he want to end his affair with Sarah Gordon because of it?”

“We’ll never know, Havers,” Lynley replied. “And I’m not sure Weaver will ever know either.”

“Why?”

“Because he still has to look at himself in the mirror every morning. And how can he do that if he ever starts digging through his life for the truth?”

They rounded the corner into Garret Hostel Lane. Havers stopped abruptly, slapping a hand to her forehead with a loud groan. “Nkata’s book!” she said.

“What?”

“I promised Nkata I’d pop into a few bookshops-they’re supposed to have a decent place called Heffers-and look for…now what was it…where did I put the fl ipping…” She zipped open her shoulder bag and began mauling her way through its contents, saying, “You go on without me, Inspector.”

“But we’ve left your car-”

“No problem. The station’s not far and I want to have a word with Sheehan before I head back to London.”

“But-”

“It’s okay. Really. Fine. See you. Bye.” And with a wave of her hand, she whipped back round the corner.

He stared after her. Detective Constable Nkata hadn’t read a book in a decade or more, as far as he knew. His idea of an evening’s entertainment was having the senior offi cer on the bomb squad retell the story of how, as a member of the Met’s PSU, he lost his left eye in a brawl in Brixton which, no doubt, Nkata himself had probably instigated during his salad days as chief battle counsel for the Brixton Warriors. They would talk and argue and laugh over scotch eggs, pickled onions, and beer. And if they moved on to other topics, none of them were likely to be centred round literature. So what was Havers up to?

Lynley turned back to the lane and saw the answer, sitting on the top of a large tan suitcase at the side of his car. Havers had seen her as they turned the corner. She had read the moment and left him to face it alone.

Lady Helen stood. “Tommy,” she said.

He walked to join her, trying to keep his eyes off the suitcase lest looking at it make the purpose for its presence something other than what he hoped it would be.

“How did you find me?” he asked.

“Luck and the telephone.” She smiled at him fondly. “And knowing that you have a need to finish things, even when you can’t fi nish them the way that you’d like.” She looked towards Trinity Lane where cars were starting and people were calling out quiet farewells. “It’s over, then.”

“The official part of it.”

“And the rest?”

“The rest?”

“The part where you blame yourself for not being quicker, not being more clever, not being able to stop people from doing the worst to each other?”

“Ah. That part.” He let his eyes follow the progress of a group of students who passed them, pedalling their bicycles in the direction of the Cam as the bells of St. Stephen’s Church started tolling the hollow, stately accompaniment to a funeral’s conclusion. “I don’t know, Helen. That part never seems to be over for me.”

“You look exhausted.”

“I was up all night. I need to go home. I need to get some sleep.”

“Take me with you,” she said.

He turned back to her. Her words were smooth enough and said with conviction, but she looked uncertain about their reception. And he was unwilling to risk misunderstanding or to allow hope even a moment to plant roots in his breast.

“To London?” he asked.

“Home,” she replied. “With you.”

How odd it was, he thought. It felt as if someone had cut into him quite painlessly and all of his life force were pouring out. It was the strangest sensation in which blood, bones, and sinews transformed into a palpable deluge which flowed from his heart to encompass her. Caught in the midst of it, he saw her clearly, felt his own body’s presence, but couldn’t speak.

She faltered under his gaze, seemed to think she had made an error in judgement. She said, “Or you could drop me in Onslow Square.

You’re tired. You won’t be in the mood for company. And no doubt my flat could use a good airing out. Caroline won’t be back yet. She’s with her parents-did I tell you?-and I ought to see what sort of state things are in because-”

He found his voice. “There are no guarantees, Helen. Not in this. Not in anything.”

Her face grew soft. “I know that,” she said.

“And it doesn’t matter?”

“Of course it matters. But you matter more. And you and I matter. The two of us. Together.”

He didn’t want to feel any happiness yet. It seemed too ephemeral a condition in life. So for a moment he stood there and merely let himself feel: the cold air washing from the Backs and the river, the weight of his overcoat, the ground beneath his feet. And then, when he was sure that he could bear any reply she might make, he said:

“I still want you, Helen. Nothing’s changed there.”

“I know,” she said, and when he would speak again she stopped him with, “Let’s go home, Tommy.”

He loaded their suitcases into the boot, his heartbeat light and his spirit soaring free. Don’t make too much of it, he told himself roughly, and don’t ever believe your life depends on it. Don’t ever believe your life depends upon anything at all. That’s the way to live.

He got into the car, determined to be casual, determined to be the one in control. He said, “You took quite a chance, Helen, waiting like that. I might not have come back and found you for hours. You might have been sitting in the cold all day.”

“It doesn’t matter.” She drew her legs up beneath her and settled companionably into the seat. “I was quite prepared to wait for you, Tommy.”

“Oh. How long?” Still, he was casual. Still, he was the one in control.

“Just a bit longer than you’ve waited for me.”

She smiled. She reached for his hand. He was lost.