“I like Wyeth,” Lynley went on. “There’s a simplicity to his work that I find refreshing. I like simplicity. The clarity of line and image. Details.”

Farmington folded his arms. “Are you always this obvious, Inspector?”

“I try to be,” Lynley responded with a smile. “Tell me about your argument with William Teys.”

“And if I refuse?”

“You may, of course. But I’d wonder why. Have you something to hide, Mr. Farming-ton?”

Farmington shifted on the balls of his feet. “I’ve nothing to hide. I was on the moor that day and came down towards dark. Teys must have seen me from a window. Hell, I don’t know. He caught up with me here on the road. We had it out.”

“He destroyed some of your work.”

“It was crap anyway. It didn’t matter.”

“I was always under the impression that artists like to have control over their own creations rather than give it to other people. Wouldn’t you agree?” Lynley immediately saw that he’d struck tender flesh, for Farmington stiffened involuntarily. His eyes moved to the low sun in the sky. He didn’t respond immediately.

“I’d agree,” he said finally. “Yes, by God, I’d agree.”

“Then when Teys took it upon himself-”

“Teys?” Ezra laughed. “I didn’t care what Teys did. I told you, what he’d destroyed was pure crap anyway. Not that he’d have known the difference. Any man who’d play Souza full blast for an evening’s entertainment hasn’t got a whole lot of taste, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Souza?”

“The god-awful stars-and-stripes piece. Christ, you’d think he was entertaining a house full of flag-waving Americans. And then to have the cheek to howl at me for disturbing his peace by tiptoeing across his land to get to the trail. I laughed at him. That’s when he went for my paintings.”

“What did Nigel Parrish do while all this was going on?”

“Nothing. Nigel had seen what he’d come to see, Inspector. He’d done his bit of sleuthing. He could rest an easy man that night.”

“And on other nights?”

Farmington picked up his easel. “If there’s nothing more, I’ll be on my way.”

“No, there is one thing more.”

Farmington pivoted to face him. “What?” he demanded.

“What were you doing the night William Teys died?”

“I was at the Dove and Whistle.”

“And after time was called?”

“Home in bed. Sleeping it off. Alone.” He tossed his hair off his face. It was an odd, distinctly feminine gesture. “Sorry I didn’t take Hannah with me, Inspector. She’d be quite an alibi, but I’ve never gone in for the whips and chains routine.” He climbed over the rock wall and strode angrily down the road.

“It was, as they say in American detective films, a total bust.” Sergeant Havers tossed the photograph onto the table in the Dove and Whistle and dropped wearily into a chair opposite him.

“Which means, I suppose, that no one has ever seen Russell Mowrey in this lifetime?”

“And unless we can believe in reincarnation, no one has ever seen him at all. Tessa, however, was widely recognised. A few lifted eyebrows. A few pointed questions.”

“What was your response?”

“I was suitably vague, murmuring a lot of interesting Latin adages to get me through difficult moments. I was fine until I tried out caveat emptor. Somehow it didn’t have that ring of authority the other phrases had.”

“Would you care to drown your disappointment in a drink, Sergeant?” he asked.

“Just tonic water,” she responded and, seeing his expression, added, “Really. I don’t drink much, sir. Honest,” with a smile.

“I’ve spent a rather fascinating day,” Lynley told her when he returned with her drink. “An encounter with Madeline Gibson, all hotly deshabille in an emerald negligee with absolutely nothing at all underneath.”

“The life of a policeman is rotten,” Havers noted.

“And Gibson upstairs at the absolute ready. I was a welcome guest.”

“I can imagine.”

“I’ve learned the most today about Gillian, however. She was a sunshine angel, a cat in heat, or the loveliest creature ever seen. It depends who’s reporting the details. Either the woman’s a chameleon or some of these people are taking considerable trouble to make it look that way.”

“But why?”

“I don’t know. Unless, of course, they have a vested interest in keeping her as mysterious as possible.” He swallowed the rest of his ale and leaned back in his chair, stretching his tired muscles. “But the real atmosphere today was at Gembler Farms, Havers.”

“Why’s that?”

“I was hot on the trail of Gillian Teys. Picture it, please. Something told me it was all in Roberta’s room. So I threw myself into the investigation with a passion, ripped off the top of her mattress’ box spring, and fairly lost myself on the spot.” He described the sight.

Havers made a grimace of distaste. “Glad I missed that.”

“Oh, have no fear. I was far too discomposed to put the bed back together. So I shall need your assistance tomorrow. Shall we say directly after breakfast?”

“Sod you.” She grinned.

It was obviously teatime when they arrived at the cottage on the corner of Bishop Furthing Road. It was a late tea, however, probably sliding itself right into dinner, for Constable Gabriel Langston answered the door, holding tightly in his hand a plate weighted down with a variety of food. Cold chicken legs, cheese, fruit, and cake jockeyed for position on a brown pottery dish.

Langston seemed very young for a policeman but aptly named Gabriel, for he was slightly built, with thinning yellow hair the consistency of spun glass, babysmooth skin, and features that looked undeveloped, as if the bones were too soft beneath them.

“I sh-sh-should’ve s-seen you at once,” he stammered, blushing heavily on cheeks and neck. “Wh-when you arrived. But I was to-told you’d c-come to m-me if you n-needed anything.”

“Nies told you, no doubt,” Lynley guessed. The other man nodded awkwardly and gestured them into his home.

The table was laid out for one and the constable hastily set his meal down on it, wiped his hand on his trousers, and extended it to Lynley. “N-nice to m-meet you b-both. S-sorry about…” He blushed darker and gestured helplessly at his mouth as if there were something he could have done about his speech impediment. “T-tea?” he said eagerly.

“Thank you. I’d love a cup. What about you, Sergeant?”

“Yes, thank you,” Havers replied.

The man nodded in obvious relief, smiled, and disappeared into an undersized kitchen off the room in which they stood. The cottage, they could see, was strictly a one-person affair, not much more than a bedsitting room. But it was conscientiously clean-swept, polished, and dusted. Only the faint odour of wet dog marred it. The source of this lay on a chewed and stringy rag rug, toasting himself before a single-bar electric fire set into a small stone fireplace. He was a white highland terrier, and he lifted his chin, blinked at them seriously, and yawned, revealing a long pink tongue. This done, he turned his nose happily back to the electric blaze.

Langston returned with a tray in his hands and another terrier at his heels. This was a livelier version of the first, for it threw itself upon Lynley in excited greeting.

“H-here, down!” Langston ordered as sharply as his gentle voice would allow. The dog obeyed reluctantly, then scampered across the room to join the other in a heap by the fire. “Th-they’re g-good lads, Inspector. S-sorry.”

Lynley waved off the apology as Langston poured the tea. “Go on with your meal, Constable. Havers and I are out prowling a bit late this evening. We can talk while you eat.”

Langston didn’t look as if he believed this was possible, but he dug into his food with a shy duck of his head.

“I understand that Father Hart rang you directly after he found William Teys’s body,” Lynley began. When the man nodded eagerly, he went on. “Roberta was still there when you arrived?” Another nod. “Did you bring Richmond in immediately? Why was that?” Lynley regretted the question the moment he asked it. Stupid clod, he thought, wondering what it would be like for the man to have to agonise his way through questioning witnesses, especially those like Father Hart who seemed to float between two distinct planes of existence.