She laughed engagingly. “Even the dishes! I’d even give up Caroline if it came to that.”

“And Jeffrey Cusick?”

“Even Jeffrey. Poor man. Traded for bullet holes without a second thought.”

“All right then. I’ll see to it as soon as we’ve finished our breakfast. I take it that we may now finish our breakfast?”

“Oh yes, of course.” She dug happily into her plate while Lynley put on his spectacles and looked at his papers once more. “What kind of case is it that has you two rushing off so early in the morning?” Lady Helen asked Barbara, pouring herself a second cup of tea, which she sugared and creamed with a liberal hand.

“A decapitation.”

“That sounds particularly grim. Are you travelling far?”

“Up to Yorkshire.”

The teacup was suspended and then lowered carefully to the saucer beneath. Lady Helen’s eyes moved to Lynley, regarding him for a moment before she spoke. “Where in Yorkshire, Tommy?” she asked impassively.

Lynley read a few lines. “A place called… here it is, Keldale. Do you know it?”

There was a minute pause. Lady Helen considered the question. Her eyes were on her tea, and although her face was without expression, a pulse began to beat in the vein at her throat. She looked up but the smile she offered did not touch her eyes. “Keldale? Not at all.”

Lynley tossed down his newspaper and considered Barbara Havers. There was no need to do so surreptitiously, for she was bent over the glaucous-hued Formica train table between them, perusing the Keldale murder report. He gave momentary, idle consideration to the depths to which British Rail was sinking with its current colour scheme designed to take maximum wear with minimum upkeep, but then his thoughts returned to the offi cer opposite him.

He knew about Havers. Everyone did. She’d failed miserably through her first tenure in CID, swiftly alienating MacPherson, Stewart, and Hale, three of the easiest DIs with whom one could ever hope to work. MacPherson especially, with his rolling highland humour and his paternal approach, should have been a mentor extraordinaire for someone like Havers. The man was a virtual teddy bear. Had any DS ever failed to work successfully at his side? Only Havers.

Lynley remembered the day of Webberly’s decision to put her back in uniform. Everyone had known it was coming, of course. It had been coming for months. But no one had been quite prepared for the woman’s reaction.

“If I was lah-dee-dah Eton, you’d be keeping me,” she’d shouted in Webberly’s offi ce in a broken voice loud enough for the entire fl oor to hear. “If I’d a cheque-book large enough and a title on my name and a willingness to screw everything in sight-woman, man, child, or animal-I’d be quite good enough for your precious department!”

At the mention of Eton, three heads had swivelled in Lynley’s direction. By the end of the diatribe, a quick cessation of workday noise indicated to him that every person within range of vision was looking his way. He’d been standing at a cabinet, rooting about for the file on that miserable little worm Harry Nelson, but found that his fi ngers had suddenly become clumsy. Of course, he really didn’t need the file. Not exactly at the moment. Indeed, he couldn’t stand there forever; he had to turn, to go back to his desk.

He made himself do it, made himself say quite lightly, “Good Lord, I always draw the line at animals,” and made himself walk casually across the room.

Nervous, uncomfortable laughter greeted his remark. Then Webberly’s door slammed and Havers stormed wildly down the corridor. Her mouth was twisted with rage, her face blotched and mottled with tears that she wiped off savagely with the sleeve of her coat. Lynley felt the entire force of her hatred wash over him as her eyes met his and her lips curled in contempt. It was like being struck by an illness for which there was no cure.

A moment later, MacPherson lumbered by his desk, tossed down the file on Harry Nelson, and said, “Ye’re a class act, laddie,” in his amiable rumble. But still, it had taken at least ten minutes for his hands to stop shaking so that he could dial the phone for Helen.

“Lunch, old duck?” he had asked her.

She could tell. She could hear it at once. “Absolutely, Tommy. Simon’s been forcing me all morning to look at the most hideous hair samples imaginable-did you know that scalp actually comes off when you pull out someone’s hair, darling?-and somehow lunch seems just the very thing. Shall we say the Connaught?”

Blessed Helen. God, what a wonderful anchor she’d been in his life this past year! Lynley pushed the thought from his mind and returned to his study of Havers. She reminded him just a bit of a turtle. Especially this morning when Helen had come into the room. The poor wretch had absolutely frozen, muttered less than ten words, and retreated right into her shell. What bizarre behaviour! As if she had something to fear from Helen! He felt in his pockets for his cigarette case and lighter.

Sergeant Havers glanced up at his movement, then returned to her report, her face impassive. She doesn’t smoke or drink, Lynley thought and smiled wryly. Well, get used to it, Sergeant. I’m not at all a man who neglects his vices. Not in the past year, at least.

He’d never quite been able to comprehend the woman’s remarkable antipathy towards him. There was, if one thought about it, the entire ridiculous subject of class-and God knows he’d taken a fair share of ribbing once his colleagues discovered he’d inherited a title.

Yet after a week or two of their mocking bows and fanfares whenever he entered a room, the title had simply ceased to be an issue at all. But not for Havers, who seemed to hear the orotund words Eighth Earl of Asherton booming out every time he walked anywhere near her, something he’d scrupulously avoided doing since she’d been returned to uniform.

He sighed. And here they were now together. What was it exactly that Webberly had in mind in establishing this grotesque alliance of theirs? The super was by far the most intelligent man he’d ever run across at the Yard, so this quixotic little partnership hadn’t come out of nowhere. He looked out the rain-splattered window. If I can only determine which one of us is Sancho Panza, we’ll get on famously. He laughed.

Sergeant Havers looked up curiously but said nothing. Lynley smiled. “Just look for windmills,” he told her.

They were drinking the railway’s Styrofoam coffee from its Styrofoam cups when Sergeant Havers tentatively brought up the question of the axe.

“No prints on it at all,” she observed.

“It does seem odd, doesn’t it?” Lynley replied. He winced at the taste of the liquid and shoved the cup aside. “Kill your dog, kill your father, sit there waiting for the police to arrive, but wipe the axe handle clean of your fingerprints? It doesn’t follow.”

“Why do you think she killed the dog, Inspector?”

“To silence it.”

“I suppose so,” she agreed reluctantly.

Lynley saw that she wanted to say something more. “What do you think?”

“I…It’s nothing. You’re probably quite right, sir.”

“But you have another idea. Let’s hear it.” Havers was eyeing him warily. “Sergeant?” he prompted.

She cleared her throat. “I was only thinking that she really wouldn’t need to silence it. I mean…it was her dog. Why would it bark at her? I could be wrong, but it seems that it would bark at an intruder and an intruder would want to silence it.”

Lynley studied the tips of his steepled fi ngers. “‘The curious incident of the dog in the night-time,’” he murmured. “It would bark at a girl it knew if she were killing her father,” he argued.

“But…I was thinking, sir.” Havers nervously pushed her clipped hair behind her ears, a gesture that made her more unattractive than ever. “Doesn’t it look as if the dog was killed first?” She leafed through the papers that she had replaced in the folder and took out one of the photographs. “Teys’s body has collapsed right over the dog.”