Langston was staring at his plate, attempting to formulate an answer.

“I expect that was the quickest way to go about it,” Havers offered. Langston nodded gratefully.

“Did Roberta speak to anyone at all?” Langston shook his head. “Not to you? Not to anyone from Richmond?” Again, the negative. Lynley glanced at Havers. “Then she only spoke to Father Hart.” He considered the situation. “Roberta was sitting on the overturned pail, the axe was nearby, the dog was under Teys. But the weapon used to slit the dog’s throat was missing. Is that correct?” A nod. Langston bit into his third chicken leg, his eyes on Lynley. “What happened to the dog?”

“I…b-buried h-him.”

“Where?”

“Out the b-back.”

Lynley leaned forward. “Behind this cottage? Why? Did Nies tell you to do so?”

Langston swallowed, rubbed his hands on his trousers. He looked miserably at his two companions by the fire and, seeing themselves the focus of his attention, they wagged their tails supportively. “I…” It was embarrassment rather than his speech that stopped him this time. “I love d-dogs,” he said. “D-didn’t want th-them to burn old Wh-Whiskers. He…was a p-pal o’ the l-lads.”

“Poor man,” Lynley murmured when they were on the street again. Darkness was falling quickly. Somewhere a woman’s voice rose, calling to a child. “No wonder he brought in Richmond.”

“What could have possessed him, becoming a police constable?” Havers demanded as they crossed to the lodge.

“I expect he never thought he’d come across a murder. At least not one like this. Who would expect it in a place like Keldale? God knows before this, Langston’s most serious duty was probably patrolling the village and checking shop doors to see they were locked at night.”

“Then what’s next?” Havers asked. “We won’t have the dog till the morning.”

“True.” Lynley flipped open his watch. “That gives me twelve hours to talk St. James into abandoning his honeymoon for the thrill of the chase. What do you think, Havers? Have we a chance?”

“Will he have to choose between the dead dog and Deborah?”

“Afraid so.”

“I think we’ll need a miracle, sir.”

“I’m good at that,” Lynley said grimly.

It would have to be the white shirtwaist again. Barbara took it out of the wardrobe and looked at it critically. A different belt and it wouldn’t look bad. Or perhaps a scarf at the throat. Had she brought a scarf? Even one for the head could be tied someway to give a touch of colour, to change the outfit somehow, to make it look a bit different. Humming beneath her breath, she rummaged through her things. They were tossed into the chest of drawers in a heap, but she found what she was looking for easily enough. A scarf of red and white checks. A bit like a tablecloth, but it couldn’t be helped.

She went to the mirror and saw her refl ection with a start of pleased surprise. The country air had whipped colour into her cheeks and her eyes had sparkle to them. It was being useful that did it, she decided.

She had enjoyed her day in the village alone. It was the first time a DI had allowed her to do something all by herself. It was the fi rst time a DI had assumed she had brains. She felt bolstered by the experience and realised how much her confidence had been destroyed by her humiliating return to uniform. What a horrible time that had been in her life: the seething anger boiling over into imcomprehensible rage, the festering sore of unhappiness, the knowledge of being evaluated by others as not good enough, not up to snuff.

Snuff: the image of Jimmy Havers’s little pig eyes looked back at her from the mirror. Her eyes were his. She turned from the glass.

Everything was going to be better now. She was on her way, and nothing could stop her. She would sit for the inspector’s exam again. She would pass this time. She knew it.

She stepped out of her tweed skirt, struggled out of the pullover, and kicked off her shoes. Of course, no one had given her any information about Russell Mowrey, but everyone had taken her quite seriously in her questioning. Everyone had seen her for what she was: a representative of New Scotland Yard. A fine representative: competent, intelligent, insightful. It was what she had needed. Now she could really be part of the case.

She completed her dressing, tied the scarf jauntily round her throat, and descended the stairs to meet Lynley.

He was in the lounge, standing before the water-colour of the abbey, lost in thought. Behind the bar, Stepha Odell watched him. They might have been part of a painting themselves. The woman stirred fi rst.

“A drink before you leave, Sergeant?” she asked pleasantly.

“Thank you, no.”

Lynley turned. “Ah, Havers,” he said, absently rubbing his temples. “Are you ready for another assault on Keldale Hall?”

“Quite,” she replied.

“Then we’re off.” He nodded a detached goodnight to the other woman and, hand on Barbara’s elbow, guided her from the room. “I’ve been meditating on our best approach,” he said once they were in the car. “You’ll have to keep that dreadful American couple engaged in conversation long enough for me to have a word with St. James. Can you do that? I hate to abandon anyone to such a fate, but if good old Hank hears me, I have the most appalling suspicion that he’ll demand to be part of the case himself.”

“No problem, sir,” Barbara replied. “I’ll keep him enthralled.”

He glanced at her suspiciously. “How?”

“I’ll have him talk about himself.”

In response, Lynley laughed, suddenly looking younger and far less fatigued. “That should do it, all right.”

“Now lookit, Barbie,” Hank said with a wink, “if it’s investigating you and Tom are up to in this burg, then you oughta get yourselfs hooked up in this place for a nighter two. What say, JoJo-bean? This place j-u-m-p-s after dark, huh?”

They were taking their postprandial drinks in the oak hall. Hank, wearing blinding white trousers, an embroidered south-of-the-border shirt open to the waist, and the requisite gold chain, leered at Barbara knowingly. He stood as if hoping to become at one with the garlands and cherubs of the carved chimneypiece. One hand was resting on a stylised stone primrose, the fingers curling round a generous measure of brandy: his third or fourth. The other hand was at his waist, the thumb cocked into the loop of his trousers. It was quite a pose.

His wife sat in a high-backed chair, directing her mournfully apologetic gaze alternately betweeen Deborah and Barbara. Lynley and St. James, Barbara noted with satisfaction, had managed to effect a disappearance in the direction of the stone hall almost immediately after dinner, and Mrs. Burton-Thomas had dozed off noisily on a well-padded couch nearby. Barbara reflected upon the uneven quality of Mrs. Burton-Thomas’s snores and decided the woman was faking it. She couldn’t blame her. Hank had been holding forth for a good quarter hour.

Barbara cast a quick look at Deborah to see how she was dealing with her husband’s sudden desertion of her to Hank’s clutches. The other woman’s face, crossed by fi re and shadow, was tranquil, but when she felt Barbara’s eyes on her, a mischeivous smile touched her lips for an instant. She knows perfectly well what’s happening, Barbara decided, and liked Deborah for the generosity implied behind her acceptance of the fact.

As Hank was opening his mouth to continue his description of the after-dark j-u-m-p-s at Keldale Hall, Lynley and St. James rejoined them by the fi re.

“Now you gotta get the pitcher here,” Hank was continuing. “I go to the window two nights ago to shut out that damned screeching. Ever hear peacocks make such a ruckus, Debbie?”

“Peacocks?” Deborah asked. “Good heavens, Simon, it wasn’t the baby in the abbey at all! Did you lie to me?”

“I was obviously misled,” St. James replied. “It sounded remarkably like a baby to me. Are you telling me we warded off evil for nothing?”