“How long have you lived in Keldale, Mr. Parrish?”

“Ah. Back to the original thought, are we? Let me see. It must be nearly seven years.”

“Before that?”

“Before that, Inspector, I lived in York. I was a music teacher at a prep school. And no, if you’re going to go delving into my past for tasty little items, I was not dismissed. I left by choice. I wanted the country. I wanted some peace.” His voice rose slightly on the last word.

Lynley got to his feet. “Let me give you some now. Good evening to you.”

As he left the cottage, the music resumed- muted this time-but not before the discordant noise of glass breaking on stone told him the manner in which Nigel Parrish celebrated his departure.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve booked you into Keldale Hall for dinner,” Stepha Odell said. She cocked her bright head to one side and regarded Lynley thoughtfully. “Yes, I think I did just the right thing. You look as if you need that tonight.”

“Am I becoming gaunt before your eyes?”

She closed a ledger and shelved it behind the reception desk. “Not at all. The food’s excellent, of course, but that isn’t why I’ve booked you there. The hall is one of our biggest diversions. It’s run by the local eccentric.”

“You have everything here, don’t you?”

She laughed. “All the pleasures that life affords, Inspector. Would you like a drink, or are you still on duty?”

“I wouldn’t say no to a pint of Odell’s.”

“Good.” She led him into the lounge and busied herself behind the bar. “Keldale Hall is run by the Burton-Thomas family. I use that last word quite loosely, of course. Mrs. Bur-ton-Thomas has half a dozen or more young people working for her, and she stubbornly insists that they all call her auntie. It’s part of the cloud of eccentricity in which she likes to move, I should imagine.”

“Sounds a Dickensian group,” Lynley remarked.

She pushed his ale across the bar and pulled a smaller one for herself. “Just wait till you meet them. And meet them you shall, for Mrs. Burton-Thomas always takes dinner with her guests. When I rang her to book you in, she was beside herself with the idea of Scotland Yard dining at her table. No doubt she’ll poison someone just to see you at work. The pickings are going to be rather slim, however. She said she has only two couples there now: an American dentist and two ‘hoochie-smoochie types,’ to use her expression.”

“It sounds just the kind of evening I’m longing for.” He walked to the window, glass in hand, and looked down the winding lane that was Keldale Abbey Road. He couldn’t see much of it, for it curved to the right and disappeared into the dusk.

Stepha came to join him. They didn’t speak for some moments. “I expect you’ve seen Roberta,” she said gently at last.

He turned, thinking to find her watching him, but she wasn’t. Instead her eyes were on the glass of ale she held. She turned it slowly in the palm of her hand, as if all her concentration were centred on its balance and the total necessity of not spilling a drop. “How did you know?”

“She was quite tall as a child, I remember. Almost as tall as Gillian. A big girl.” With a hand dampened by the moisture of the glass, she brushed a few hairs from her brow. Her fingers left a misty streak on her skin. She rubbed it off impatiently. “It happened quite slowly, Inspector. First she was just filled out-chubby, I suppose. Then she was…what you saw today.” The shudder that passed through her body spoke volumes. And as if she realised what her reaction implied, she went on. “That’s horrible of me, isn’t it? I have rather a despicable aversion to ugliness. Frankly, I don’t much like that about myself.”

“But you didn’t answer me.”

“I didn’t? What did you ask?”

“How you knew I’d seen Roberta.”

A dull flash crept into Stepha’s cheeks. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and looked so ill-at-ease that Lynley was sorry he had pressed her.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said.

“It’s just that…you look a bit different than you did this morning. More weighted down. And there are lines at the corners of your mouth.” The flush deepened on her beautiful skin. “They weren’t there before.”

“I see.”

“So I wondered if you’d seen her.”

“But you knew without asking.”

“Yes, I suppose I did. And I wondered how you can bear to look at the ugliness of other people’s lives as you do.”

“I’ve done it for some years. One gets used to it, Stepha.” The big man strangled as he sat at his desk, the dirty girl dead with the needle in her arm, the savage mutilation of a young man’s corpse. Did one ever really get used to man’s dark side?

Her eyes met his with surprising directness. “But surely it must be like looking at hell.”

“A bit.”

“Then have you never wanted to run from it? Run away madly in the other direction? Never? Not once?”

“One can’t run forever.”

She turned from him, moving her eyes back to the window. “I can,” she murmured.

A sharp rap on the door caused Barbara to stub out her third cigarette. She looked around in a panic, opened the window, and rushed to the lavatory, where she flushed the incriminating evidence down the toilet. A second rap and Lynley’s voice called her name.

She went to the door. He hesitated, glancing over her shoulder curiously before he spoke. “Ah, Havers,” he said. “Apparently Miss Odell has seen fi t to find us a more edible repast this evening. She’s booked us into Keldale Hall.” He consulted his watch. “In an hour.”

“What?” Barbara cried out in involuntary horror. “I haven’t…I can’t…I don’t think…”

Lynley raised an eyebrow. “Please don’t go all Helen on me and say you’ve nothing to wear, Havers.”

“But I haven’t!” she protested. “You go alone. I’ll get something at the Dove and Whistle.”

“Considering your reaction to last night’s fare, do you think that’s wise?”

A blow below the belt. Blast him. “I don’t care much for chicken. I never have.”

“Wonderful. I understand the cook at the hall is a bit of a gourmet. I doubt if anything with feathers will even put in an appearance. Unless, of course, Hannah’s waiting on tables.”

“But I simply can’t-”

“It’s an order, Havers. In an hour.” He turned on his heel.

Damn him! She slammed the door loud enough to signal her displeasure. Wonderful! What an evening to look forward to: fumbling aimlessly with sixteen pieces of silverware; wineglasses everywhere; waiters and waitresses removing knives and forks before one even had a chance to decide what to do with them. Chicken and peas at the Dove and Whistle sounded like heaven compared to that.

She stomped to the wardrobe and yanked it open. Divine. Now what shall it be for an evening of mingling elegantly with society? The brown tweed skirt and matching pullover? The jeans and hiking boots? What about the blue suit, to remind him of Helen? Ha! Who could ever remind him of Helen, with her impeccable wardrobe, her well-cut hair, her manicured hands, her lyrical voice?

She yanked a white wool shirtwaist from the wardrobe and tossed it onto the rumpled bed. It really was almost amusing. Would people actually think she was his date? Apollo taking Medusa to dine? How would he handle the stares and the gibes?

One hour later, as good as his word, he knocked on her door. She looked in the mirror, her stomach churning. Oh God, the dress was awful. She resembled a white-garbed barrel with legs. She jerked open the door and glared at him furiously. He was dressed to the absolute teeth.

“Do you always carry clothes like that around with you?” she demanded, incredulous.

“Just like the Boy Scouts.” He smiled. “Shall we go?”

He escorted her gallantly down the stairs and into the night, where he opened the car door for her and tucked her within the tooled leather comfort of the Bentley. The born gentleman, she thought derisively. On automatic pilot. Get him into his Lord of the Manor outfit and forget Scotland Yard.