A Great Deliverance (4 page)

She blinked, telling herself that there would be no tears, that she would not cry, that she would not react. The sign
LADIES
appeared miraculously in front of her and she ducked inside. No one was present. Here, it was cool. Had it really been so hot in Webberly’s office? Or had it been her outrage? She fumbled at her necktie, jerked it loose, and stumbled over to the basin. The cold water gushed out of the tap beneath her fumbling fingers, sending a spray onto her uniform skirt and across her white blouse. That did it. She looked at herself in the mirror and burst into tears.

“You cow,” she sneered. “You stupid, ugly cow!” She was not a woman easily given to tears, so they were hot and bitter, tasting strange and feeling stranger as they coursed down her cheeks, making unattractive rivulets across what was an extremely plain, extremely pug-like face.

“You’re a real sight, Barbara,” she upbraided her reflection. “You’re an absolute vision!” Sobbing, she twisted away from the basin, resting her head against the cool tile of the wall.

At thirty years old, Barbara Havers was a decidedly unattractive woman, but a woman who appeared to be doing everything possible to make herself so. Fine, shiny hair the colour of pinewood might have been suitably styled for the shape of her face. But instead, she wore it cut bluntly at an unforgivable length just below her ears as if a too-small bowl had been placed upon her head for a model. She used no makeup. Heavy, unplucked eyebrows drew attention to the smallness of her eyes rather than to their fine intelligence. A thin mouth, never heightened in any way by colour, was pressed permanently into a disapproving frown. The entire effect was that of a woman stubby, sturdy, and entirely unapproachable.

So they’ve given you the golden boy, she thought. What a treat for you, Barb! After eight miserable months they bring you back from the street “for another chance”—and all the while it’s Lynley!

“I will not,” she muttered. “I will
not
do it! I will not work with that sodding little fop!”

She pushed herself away from the wall and returned to the basin. She ran cold water into it carefully this time, bending to bathe her hot face and scrub away the incriminating sign of her tears.

“I’d like to give you another opportunity in CID,” Webberly had said. He’d been fingering a letter opener on his desk, but she’d noticed the Ripper photos on the walls and her heart had soared. To be on the Ripper!
Oh God, yes! When do I start? Is it with MacPherson?

“It’s a peculiar case involving a girl up in Yorkshire.”
Oh, so it’s not the Ripper. But still, it’s a case. A girl, you say? Of course I can help. Is it Stewart, then? He’s an old hand in Yorkshire. We’d work well together. I know we would.

“In fact, I’m expecting to receive the information in about three-quarters of an hour. I’ll need you here then, if you’re interested, that is.”
If I’m interested! Three-quarters of an hour gives me time to change. Have a bite to eat. Get back here. Then be on the late train to York. Will we meet up there? Shall I see about a car?

“I’ll need you to pop round to Chelsea before then, I’m afraid.”

The conversation ground to a sudden halt. “To Chelsea, sir?” What on earth had Chelsea to do with all this?

“Yes,” Webberly said easily, dropping the letter opener onto the general clutter on his desk. “You’ll be working with Inspector Lynley, and unfortunately we’ve got to pull him out of the St. James wedding in Chelsea.” He glanced at his watch. “The wedding was at eleven, so no doubt they’re well into the reception by now. We’ve been trying to raise him on the phone, but apparently it’s been left off the hook.” He looked up in time to see the shock on her face. “Something wrong, Sergeant?”

“Inspector Lynley?” She saw it all at once, the reason they needed her, the reason why no one else would really quite do.

“Yes, Lynley. Is there a problem?”

“No, no problem at all.” And then, as an afterthought, “Sir.”

Webberly’s shrewd eyes evaluated her response. “Good. I’m glad to hear it. There’s a lot you might learn from working with Lynley.” Still the eyes watched, gauging her reaction. “Try to be back here as fast as you can.” He gave his attention back to the papers on his desk. She was dismissed.

Barbara looked at herself in the mirror and fumbled in the pocket of her skirt for a comb. Lynley. She tugged the plastic through her hair mercilessly, dragging it against her scalp, abrading the skin, welcoming the pain.
Lynley!
It was only too obvious why they’d brought her back out of uniform. They wanted Lynley on the case. But they needed a woman as well. And every person on Victoria Street knew that there wasn’t a female in CID who was safe near Lynley. He’d slept his way through department and division, leaving a trail of the discarded behind him. He had the reputation of a racehorse put out to stud and, from all the tales told, the endurance as well. She angrily shoved the comb back into her pocket.

So, how does it feel, she demanded of her reflection, to be the one lucky woman whose virtue is quite secure in the presence of the almighty Lynley? No wandering hands while our Barb’s in the car! No confidential dinners to “go over our notes.” No invitations to Cornwall to “think the case out.” No fear here, Barb. God knows that you’re safe with Lynley. In her five years working in the same division with the man, she was certain he’d managed to avoid so much as saying her name, let alone having a single second’s foul contact with her. As if a grammar school background and a working-class accent were social diseases that might infect him if he were not scrupulously careful to keep himself clear of them.

She left the room and stalked down the corridor towards the lift. Was there
anyone
in all of New Scotland Yard whom she hated more than she hated Lynley? He was a miraculous combination of every single thing that she thoroughly despised: educated at Eton, a first in history at Oxford, a public school voice, and a bloody family tree that had its roots somewhere just this side of the Battle of Hastings. Upper class. Bright. And so damnably charming that she couldn’t understand why every criminal in the city simply didn’t surrender to accommodate him.

His whole reason for working at the Yard was a joke, a flaming little myth that she didn’t believe for a moment. He wanted to be useful, to make a contribution. He preferred a career in London to life on the estate. What a ruddy good laugh!

The lift doors opened and she punched furiously for the garage. And hadn’t his career been convenient and sweet, purchased lock, stock, and barrel with the family funds? He bought his way right into his current position and he’d be a Commissioner before he was through. God knew inheriting that precious title hadn’t hurt his chances for success one bit. He’d gone from sergeant to inspector in record time straight away. Everyone knew why.

She headed for her car, a rusty Mini in the far corner of the garage. How nice to be rich, to be titled like Lynley, to work only for a lark, and then to swing home to the Belgravia townhouse, or better yet fly to the Cornish estate. With butlers and maids and cooks and valets.

And think of it, Barb: picture yourself in the presence of such greatness. What shall you do? Shall you swoon or vomit first?

She flung her handbag into the rear seat of the Mini, slammed the door, and started the car with a sputter and roar. The wheels squealed on the pavement as she ascended the ramp, nodded brusquely towards the officer on guard in the kiosk, and headed for the street.

The light weekend traffic made getting from Victoria Street to the Embankment a manoeuvre of a few minutes only, and, once there, the mild breeze of the October afternoon cooled her temper, calmed her nerves, and coaxed her into forgetting her indignation. It was a pleasant drive, really, to the St. James house.

Barbara liked Simon Allcourt-St. James, had liked him from the first time she had met him ten years ago when she was a nervous twenty-year-old probationary police constable all too aware of being a woman in a closely guarded man’s world where women police were still called Wopsies after a few drinks. And she’d been called worse than that—she knew it. Damn them all to hell. To them, any woman who aspired to CID was a bona fide freak and made to feel that way. But to St. James, two years her senior, she had been an acceptable colleague, even a friend.

St. James was now an independent forensic scientist, but he had begun his career at the Yard. By his twenty-fourth birthday he was the very best of the scene-of-crime men, quick, observant, intuitive. He could have gone in any direction: investigations, pathology, administration, anywhere. But it had all ended one night eight years ago on a drive with Lynley, a wild junket through the back roads of Surrey. They had both been drunk—St. James was always prompt to admit this fact. But everyone knew that it was Lynley who had been driving that night, Lynley who had lost control on a curve, Lynley who had walked away without a scratch while his childhood friend, St. James, had emerged a cripple. And although he could have continued his career at the Yard, St. James had instead retired to a family house in Chelsea, where for the next four years he had lived like a recluse. Score that to old Lynley, she thought sourly.

She couldn’t believe that St. James had actually maintained his friendship with the man. But he had, and something, some sort of quirky situation, had cemented their relationship nearly five years ago and had brought St. James back into the field where he belonged. Score
that
, she thought reluctantly, to Lynley as well.

She pulled the Mini into an available space on Lawrence Street and walked back along Lordship Place towards Cheyne Row. Not far from the river, it was an area of the city where elaborate white plaster and woodwork decorated deep umber brick buildings and black paint restored the wrought iron at windows and balconies. In keeping with the village that Chelsea once had been, the streets were narrow, metamorphosed into bright autumn tunnels by massive sycamores and elms. St. James’s house stood on a corner, and as she passed by the high brick wall that fenced in the garden, Barbara heard the sounds of the party in progress. A voice was raised in a toast. Shouts of approval followed applause. An old oak door in the wall was closed, but that was just as well. Dressed as she was, she hardly wanted to burst into the festivities as if she were making an arrest.

She rounded the corner to find the front door of the tall, old house open to the late afternoon sun. The sound of laughter floated towards her, the pure tones of silver and china, the popping of champagne, and somewhere in the garden the music of violin and flute. There were flowers everywhere, right out onto the front steps where the balustrades were twined with white and pink roses that filled the air with a heady perfume. Even the balconies above held potted convolvuli that tumbled trumpet-shaped flowers in a riot of colours over the edge.

Barbara drew in a breath and mounted the steps. There was no point to knocking, for although several guests near the door gave her inquisitive glances as she hesitated outside in her ill-fitting uniform, they strolled back towards the garden without speaking to her, and it soon became apparent that if she wanted to find Lynley, she would have to barge right into the wedding reception to do so. The thought made her more than a little bit ill.

She was about to retreat cravenly back to her car to retrieve an old mackintosh that would at least cover up her clothes—too tight in the hips and straining the material at shoulder and neck—when the sounds of footsteps and laughter close by directed her attention to the stairway in the hall. A woman was descending, calling over her shoulder to someone who remained on the floor above.

“Just the two of us are going. You must come as well and we’ll make a party of it, Sid.” She turned, saw Barbara, and stopped where she was, one hand on the banister. It was very nearly a pose, for she was the kind of woman who could manage to make yards of haphazardly arranged teal-coloured silk look like the very latest word in haute couture. She was not particularly tall, but very slender, with a fall of chestnut hair framing a perfect, oval face. From the dozens of times she had been to fetch Lynley from the Yard, Barbara recognised her at once. She was Lynley’s longest-running mistress and St. James’s lab assistant, Lady Helen Clyde. Lady Helen completed her descent and crossed the hall to the door. So confident, Barbara noted, so completely self-possessed.

“Tve the most dreadful feeling that you’ve come for Tommy,” she said immediately, extending her hand. “Hello. I’m Helen Clyde.”

Barbara introduced herself, surprised at the firmness of the woman’s grip. Her hands were thin, very cool to the touch. “He’s wanted at the Yard.”

“Poor man. How miserable. How damnably unfair.” Lady Helen spoke more to herself than to the other woman, for she suddenly shot Barbara an apologetic smile. “But it’s not your fault, is it? Come, he’s just this way.”

Without waiting for a reply, she moved down the hallway to the garden door, giving Barbara no choice but to follow. However, at her first glimpse of the cluster of linen-covered tables at which fashionably clad guests chatted and laughed, Barbara stepped quickly back into the dimly lit hall. Her fingers wandered up to her neck.

Lady Helen paused, her dark eyes reflective. “Shall I search Tommy out for you?” she offered with another quick smile. “It’s a crush out there, isn’t it?”

“Thank you,” Barbara replied stiffly and watched her walk across the lawn to a group standing in merry conversation round a tall man who managed to look as if somehow he’d been born wearing morning clothes.

Lady Helen touched his arm and said a few words. The man looked towards the house, revealing a face that bore the unmistakable stamp of aristocracy. It was a Greek sculpture sort of face, unaccountably timeless. He brushed his blond hair back from his forehead, placed his champagne glass on a table nearby, and, after exchanging a quip with one of his friends, came towards the house with Lady Helen at his side.

From the safety of the shadows, Barbara watched Lynley’s approach. His movements were graceful, fluid, like a cat’s. He was the handsomest man she had ever seen. She loathed him.