“Police came down from Richmond. It was all very quick. It was…they took Roberta.”

“Well, what could you expect? She admitted to the crime.” Havers had spoken. She’d risen from her seat and wandered to the window. Her voice clearly informed them that in her opinion they were wasting their time with this foolish old man, that they ought to be barrelling towards the North at this very moment.

“Lots of people admit to crimes,” Webberly said, motioning her back to her seat. “I’ve had twenty-five confessions to the Ripper killings so far.”

“I just wanted to point out-”

“That can come later.”

“Roberta didn’t kill her father,” the priest went on as if the other two had not spoken. “It’s just not possible.”

“But family crimes happen,” Lynley said gently.

“Not when there’s whiskers.”

To the priest’s bizarre comment-so obviously logical and satisfactory to himself-no one made a response. No one spoke at all or looked particularly at anyone else. There was a lengthy, unendurable pause in the proceedings, broken by Webberly, who pushed away from the table. “Jesus,” he muttered. “I’m terribly sorry, but…” He stalked to a cabinet at the corner of the room and pulled out three bottles. “Whisky, sherry, or brandy?” he asked the others.

Lynley sent a prayer of thanksgiving to Bacchus. “Whisky,” he replied.

“Havers?”

“Nothing for me,” she said primly. “I’m on duty.”

“Yes, of course. Father, what’ll it be?”

“Oh, a sherry would be only too-”

“Sherry it is.” Webberly tossed back a small, neat whisky before pouring again and returning to the table.

They all stared meditatively into their glasses, as if each wondered who’d be the fi rst to ask the question. Lynley finally did so, his throat newly soothed by the fragrant single malt. “Ah…whiskers?” he prompted.

Father Hart looked down at the papers spread out on the table. “Isn’t it in the report?” he asked plaintively. “About the dog?”

“Yes, it does mention the dog.”

“That was Whiskers,” the priest explained, and sanity was restored.

There was collective relief. “It was dead in the stall with Teys,” Lynley noted aloud.

“Yes, don’t you see? That’s why we all of us know Roberta’s innocent. Aside from the fact that she was devoted to her father, there’s Whiskers to consider. She would never hurt Whiskers.” Father Hart eagerly sought out the words to explain. “He was a farm dog, part of the family since Roberta was five. He was retired, of course, a bit blind, but one just doesn’t put down dogs like that. Everyone in the village knew Whiskers. He was a bit of a pet to all of us. He’d wander down of an afternoon to Nigel Parrish’s house on the common, have a bit of a lie in the sun whilst Nigel played the organ (he’s our organist at church, you see). Or sometimes he’d have his tea at Olivia’s.”

“Got on with the duck, did he?” Webberly asked, straight-faced.

“Oh, famously!” Father Hart beamed. “Whiskers got on with us all. And when Roberta was out and about he followed her everywhere. That’s why, when they took Roberta, I had to do something. And here I am.”

“Yes, indeed, here you are,” Webberly concluded. “You’ve been more than helpful, Father. I believe Inspector Lynley and Sergeant Havers have all that they need for now.” He got to his feet and opened the door of his offi ce. “Harriman?”

The Morse-like tapping of word processor keys stopped. A chair scraped on the fl oor. Webberly’s secretary popped into the room.

Dorothea Harriman bore a modest resemblance to the Princess of Wales, which she emphasised to a disconcerting degree by tinting her sculptured hair the approximate shade of sunlight on wheat and refusing to wear her spectacles in the presence of anyone likely to comment upon the Spencerian shape of her nose and chin. She was eager to advance, swept up in her “c’reer,” as she monosyllabically called it. She was intelligent enough to make a success of her job and would most likely do so, especially if she could bring herself to renounce her distracting manner of dress, which everyone referred to as Parody Princess. Today she was wearing what looked like a drop-waisted pink ball gown that had been shortened for everyday wear. It was utterly hideous.

“Yes, Superintendent?” she asked. In spite of threats and imprecations, Harriman insisted upon calling every employee at the Yard by his or her full title.

Webberly turned to the priest. “Are you staying in London, Father, or returning to Yorkshire?”

“I’m on the late train back. Confessions were this afternoon, you see, and as I wasn’t there, I did promise to have them until eleven tonight.”

“Of course.” Webberly nodded. “Call a cab for Father Hart,” he told Harriman.

“Oh, but I haven’t enough-”

Webberly held up a restraining hand. “It’s on the Yard, Father.”

On the Yard. The priest mouthed the words, coloured with pleasure at the implication of brotherhood and acceptance behind them. He allowed the superintendent’s secretary to shepherd him from the room.

★ ★ ★

“What do you drink when you do drink, Sergeant Havers?” Webberly asked when Father Hart had gone.

“Tonic water, sir,” she replied.

“Right,” he muttered and opened the door again. “Harriman,” he barked, “fi nd a bottle of Schweppes for Sergeant Havers… Don’t pretend you haven’t the slightest idea where to get one. Just get one.” He slammed the door, went to the cabinet, and brought out the bottle of whisky.

Lynley rubbed his forehead and pressed tightly at both sides of his eyes. “God, what a headache,” he murmured. “Have either of you any aspirin?”

“I do,” Havers replied crisply and rooted through her handbag for a small tin. She tossed it across the table to him. “Take as many as you like, Inspector.”

Webberly regarded them both thoughtfully. He wondered, not for the first time, if this partnership of two such antipodal personalities had even the ghost of a chance for success. Havers was like a hedgehog, curling herself into a protective ball of thistle at the least provocation. Yet underneath that prickly exterior of hers was a fine, probing mind. What was left to question was whether Thomas Lynley was the right combination of patience and congeniality to encourage that mind to overcome the wrangling of the termagant personality that had made it impossible for Havers to work in successful partnership with anyone else.

“Sorry to take you out of the wedding, Lynley, but there was no other way. This is the second run-in Nies and Kerridge have had up North. The first one was a disaster: Nies was right all along, and crisis ensued. I thought,” he fingered the rim of his glass and chose his words carefully, “that your presence might serve to remind Nies that he can sometimes be wrong.”

Webberly watched carefully for a reaction from the younger man-a stiffening of muscles, a movement of the head, a fl icker behind the eyelids. But there was nothing to betray him. It was no particular secret among his superior offi cers at the Yard that Lynley’s single run-in with Nies nearly five years before in Richmond had resulted in his own arrest. And however premature and ultimately spurious that arrest had been, it was the only black mark on an otherwise admirable record of service, a denigration that Lynley would have to live with for the rest of his career.

“It’s fine, sir,” Lynley replied easily. “I understand.”

A knock on the door announced Miss Harriman’s successful quest for the Schweppes, which she placed triumphantly on the table in front of Sergeant Havers. She glanced at the clock. Its hands were nearing six.

“As this isn’t a regularly scheduled workday, Superintendent,” she began, “I thought I might-”

“Yes, yes, go on home.” Webberly waved.

“Oh no, it isn’t that at all,” Harriman said sweetly. “But I think in Regulation Sixty-fi ve-A regarding compensatory time…”