As if he read her mind, he turned to her before starting the car. “Havers, I’d like to give the case a rest for the evening.”

What on earth would they have to talk about if the murder of Teys was going to be taboo? “All right,” she replied, brusquely.

He nodded and turned the ignition key. The big car purred to life. “I love this part of England,” he said as they set off down Keldale Abbey Road. “You haven’t been told that I’m an unabashed Yorkist, have you?”

“A Yorkist?”

“The War of Roses. We’re deep in their country now. Sheriff Hutton’s not far from here and Middleham’s practically within shouting distance.”

“Oh.” Wonderful. A discourse on history. Her entire knowledge of the War of Roses began and ended with the confl ict’s name.

“Naturally, I know one’s really obliged to think badly of the Yorks. They did, after all, do away with Henry VI.” He tapped his fi ngers reflectively against the wheel. “Except I can never help thinking that there was a justice in that. Pomfret and all. Richard II being murdered by his very own cousin. Killing Henry seems to have closed the circle of the crime.”

She pleated the white dress between her fi ngers and sighed, defeated. “Look, sir, I’m no good at this sort of thing. I…well, I’d do much better at the Dove and Whistle. If you’d please just-”

“Barbara.” He pulled abruptly to the verge. He was looking at her, she knew, but she stared ahead into the darkness and counted the moths that danced in the car’s headlamps. “Would you just for an evening be what you are? Whatever you are.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” God, how shrewish she sounded.

“It means that you may drop the act. Or at least that I wish you would.”

“What act?”

“Just be what you are.”

“How dare you-”

“Why do you pretend not to smoke?” he interrupted.

“Why do you pretend to be such a public school fop?” She hadn’t intended the words to be so shrill. At first, as if evaluating her comment, he didn’t respond.

There was silence. Then he threw back his head and laughed. “Touché. Shall we call a truce for the rest of the evening and go on despising each other with the dawn?”

She glared at him a moment, then, in spite of herself, smiled. She knew she was being manipulated, but it didn’t seem to matter. “All right,” she said reluctantly. But she noticed that neither of them had answered the other’s question.

They were welcomed into Keldale Hall by a woman who put to rest every sartorial fear of Barbara’s that Lynley had not been able to assuage. She was dressed in a moth-eaten skirt of indeterminate colour, a gypsy blouse decorated with stars, and a beaded shawl that she had slung round her shoulders like an Indian blanket. Her grey hair was gathered tightly into two elastic bands, one on each side of her neck, and to complete the ensemble she had perched an elaborate tortoiseshell Spanish comb on the top of her head.

“Scotland Yard?” she asked and looked Lynley over with a critical eye. “God, they didn’t package ’em that way when I was young,” She laughed uproariously. “Come in! We’re a small party tonight, but you’ve saved me from murder.”

“How’s that?” Lynley asked, ushering Barbara ahead of him.

“I’ve an American couple that I’d love to kill. But we’ll leave that. You’ll understand soon enough. We’re gathered in here.” She led them across the massive stone hall, scented with the assorted meats that were roasting in the kitchen nearby. “I haven’t breathed a word that you’re Scotland Yard,” she confi ded loudly, shouldering her beadwork back into place. “When you meet the Watsons, you’ll know why.” On through the dining room, where candlelight was casting shadows on the walls. A linen-covered table was set with china and silver. “The other couple are newlyweds. Londoners. I like ’em. Don’t paw each other in public the way so many newlyweds do. Very quiet. Very sweet. I expect they don’t like to draw attention to themselves because the man’s crippled. Wife is a lovely little creature, though.”

Barbara heard Lynley’s swift intake of breath. Behind her, his steps slowed and then stopped altogether. “Who are they?” he asked hoarsely.

Mrs. Burton-Thomas turned around at the entrance to the oak hall. “Name of Allcourt-St. James.” She threw open the door. “Here’s more company for us!” she announced.

Barbara was intensely aware of the photographic quality of the scene. A fi re burned brilliantly, hissing as the flames devoured the coal. Comfortable chairs were gathered round it. At the far end of the room, touched by shadows, Deborah St. James was bent over a piano, leafing through a family album with delight. She looked up with a smile. The men rose to their feet. And the picture froze.

“Lord,” Lynley whispered-prayer, curse, resignation.

At his tone, Barbara looked at him, and it came with a sudden jolt of recognition. How ridiculous that she hadn’t seen it before. Lynley was in love with the other man’s wife.

“Hi there! That’s kuva nice-lookin’ suit,” Hank Watson said. He extended his hand to Lynley. It was fat, slightly sweaty, like shaking hands with a warm, uncooked fi sh. “Dentistry,” he announced. “Here for the ADA convention in London. Tax write-off to the s-k-y. This is JoJo, my wife.”

Somehow the introductions were muddled through.

“Champagne before dinner is my rule,” Mrs. Burton-Thomas said. “Before breakfast as well, if I have my way. Danny, bring the juice!” she shouted, in the general direction of the doorway, and a few moments later a girl came into the room, burdened with an ice bucket, champagne, and glasses.

“What line-a work you in, fella?” Hank asked Lynley as the glasses went around. “I thought Si here was some sort-a college professor type. Gave me the jumping hee-haws when he said he was a dead-body man.”

“Sergeant Havers and I work for Scotland Yard,” Lynley responded.

“Say-hey, JoJo-bean. Did you hear that, woman?” He looked at Lynley with new interest. “You here on the baby gig?”

“The baby gig?”

“Three-year-old case. Guess the trail’s kinda cold now.” Hank winked in the direction of Danny, who was putting the bottle of champagne into the bucket of ice. “Dead baby in the abbey? You know.”

Lynley didn’t know anything, didn’t want to know anything. He couldn’t have answered if his life depended upon it. He found that he didn’t know what to do with himself, where to cast his eyes, what to say. He was only conscious of Deborah.

“We’re here on the decapitation gig,” Havers responded politely, miraculously.

“De-cap-i-ta-tion?” Hank crowed. “This is one jumping area of the country! Don’t you think so, Bean?”

“Sure is,” his wife said, nodding in solemn affirmation. She fingered the long strand of white beads she wore and looked hopefully in the direction of the silent St. Jameses.

Hank hunched forward in his chair, dragging it closer to Lynley’s. “Well, give us the poop!” he demanded.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The p-o-o-p. The verifi ed, certifi ed poop.” Hank slapped the arm of Lynley’s chair. “Who did it, fella?” he demanded.

It was too much. The appalling little man screwing his face up in excitement was too much to bear. He was wearing a saffron polyester suit, a matching shirt in a fl oral print, and round his neck hung a heavy gold chain with a medallion that danced on the thick hair of his chest. A diamond the size of a walnut glittered on his finger, and he fl ashed white teeth made even whiter by his burnt-sienna tan. His bulbous nose flexed its nostrils blackly.

“We’re not entirely sure,” Lynley replied seriously. “But you fi t the description.”

Hank stared at him, bug-eyed. “I fit the description?” he croaked. Then he peered at Lynley closely and broke into a grin. “Damn you Brits! I just can’t get the hang of your humour! But I’m gettin’ better, right, Si?”