A Great Deliverance (23 page)

He’d stepped neatly out of the mould she’d created and destroyed it without a backward glance. She
had
to fit him back into it somehow. If she didn’t, the fires within her that for so many years had kept her alive would be swiftly extinguished. And then, she knew well, she would die in the cold.

That was the thought that carried her to Keldale, longing to fly from his presence. But when the Bentley made the final turn into the village, she knew immediately that there would be no quick escape. For Nigel Parrish and another man were having a violent quarrel upon the bridge, directly in the path of the car.

Organ music seemed to be blasting from the very trees. It swelled to crescendoes, faded, and roared out again: a baroque combination of chords, rests, and flourishes that made Lynley think that at any moment the phantom himself would come swinging down from the opera chandeliers. At the appearance of the Bentley, the two men parted, the one shouting a final violent imprecation at Nigel Parrish before he stalked off in the direction of the high street.

“I think I’ll have a word with our Nigel,” Lynley remarked. “No need for you to come, Havers. Go have a bit of a rest.”

“I can certainly—”

“That’s an order, Sergeant.”

Damn him
. “Yes, sir.”

Lynley waited until Havers had disappeared into the lodge before he walked back across the bridge to the strange little cottage that sat on the far side of the common. It was, he thought, a more than curious structure. The front of the building was trellissed by late roses. Unrestrained, they spread out like an encroaching wilderness towards the narrow windows on either side of the door. They climbed the wall, crowned the lintel majestically, and travelled upward to begin their glory on the roof. They were a solid blanket of disturbing colour—blood red—and they flooded the air with a scent so rich as to be virtually miasmal. The entire effect was one step short of obscene.

Nigel Parrish had already retreated inside, and Lynley followed him, pausing in the open doorway to survey the room. The source of the music that continued to soar round them was a speaker system that beggared belief. Enormous amplifiers sat in all four corners, creating at the centre a vortex of sound. Other than an organ, a tape recorder, a receiver, and a turntable, there was nothing in the room save a threadbare carpet and a few old chairs.

Parrish switched off the tape recorder that had been the source of the sound. He rewound the tape, removed it from the machine, and replaced it in its container. He took his time about it all, giving every movement a precision which told Lynley that he knew very well that the other man was standing at the door. It was nonetheless a nice performance.

“Mr. Parrish?”

A start of surprise. A swift turn. A welcoming smile breaking over the features. But he couldn’t hide the fact that his hands were shaking. As Lynley saw this, so apparently did Parrish, for he stuffed them into the pockets of his tweed trousers.

“Inspector! A social call, I hope? Sorry you had to come upon that little scene with Ezra.”

“Ah. So that was Ezra.”

“Yes. Honey-haired, honey-tongued little Ezra. Dear boy thought artistic licence’ gave him access to my back garden to study the light on the river. Can you imagine such cheek? Here I was fine-tuning my psyche with Bach when I glanced out the window and saw him setting up shop. Blast his pretty little heart.”

“It’s a bit late in the afternoon to be setting up for a painting,” Lynley remarked. He wandered to the window. Neither the river nor the garden could be seen from the room. He reflected on the nature of Parrish’s lie.

“Well, who knows what goes on in the minds of these great magicians of the paintbrush,” Parrish said lightly. “Didn’t Whistler paint the Thames in the middle of the night?”

“I’m not sure Ezra Farmington’s in Whistler’s league.” Lynley watched Parrish take out a packet of cigarettes and struggle to light one with fingers that wouldn’t cooperate. He crossed the room and offered the flame of his lighter.

Parrish’s eyes met his and then hid themselves behind a thin veil of smoke. “Thanks,” he said. “Beastly little scene. Well, I haven’t welcomed you to Rose Cottage. A drink? No? I hope you don’t mind if I indulge.” He disappeared into an adjoining room. Glass rattled. There was a long pause followed by the sounds of bottles and glassware again. Parrish emerged, a respectable inch of whisky in a tumbler. His second or third, Lynley speculated.

“Why do you drink at the Dove and Whistle?”

The question caught Parrish off guard. “Do sit down, Inspector. I need to, and the thought of you towering over me like Nemesis himself makes me positively limp with fear.”

It was an excellent stall tactic, Lynley thought. But two could play at that game. He walked over to the stereo and took his time over an inventory of Parrish’s tapes: a considerable collection of Bach, Chopin, Verdi, Vivaldi, and Mozart, with an adequate representation of modernists as well. Parrish indulged a wide range of musical tastes, he concluded. He crossed the room to one of the heavy, stuffed chairs and meditated on the black oak beams that spanned the ceiling.

“Why do you live in this village in the middle of nowhere? A man with your musical taste and talent would obviously be happier in a more cosmopolitan environment, wouldn’t he?”

Parrish laughed shortly. He smoothed a hand over his perfectly combed hair. “I think I like the other question better. Have I choice on which one to answer?”

“The Holy Grail is only round the corner. But you walk to the other end of the village on—what was it?—your tired old legs to drink in the other pub on St. Chad’s Lane. What’s the attraction?”

“Absolutely nothing. Well, I could say it’s Hannah, but I doubt if you’d believe me. The truth is I prefer the Dove’s atmosphere. There’s something unholy about getting roaring drunk just opposite a church, isn’t there?”

“Avoiding someone at the Holy Grail?” Lynley asked.

“Avoiding …?” Parrish’s eyes slipped from Lynley to the window. A full-headed rose was kissing the glass with enormous lips. The petals had begun to curl back. Stigma, style, anther, and filament had blackened. It should have been picked. It would die soon. “Good heavens, no. Whom would I avoid? Father Hart, perhaps? Or the dear, deceased William? He and the priest used to tipple a few once or twice a week there.”

“You didn’t care much for Teys, did you?”

“No, not much. Holier-than-thous have never been in my line. I don’t know how Olivia abided the man.”

“Perhaps she wanted a father for Bridie.”

“Perhaps. God knows the child could use some parental influence. Even dour old William was probably better than nothing. Liv is hopeless with her. I’d take it on myself, but to be frank, I don’t much care for children. And I don’t like ducks at all.”

“But you’re close to Olivia anyway?”

Parrish’s eyes showed nothing. “I went to school with her husband. Paul. What a man
he
was! Rip-roaring, good-time Paul.”

“He died four years ago, is that correct?”

Parrish nodded. “Huntington’s chorea. At the end he didn’t even recognise his wife. It was horrible. For everyone. Changed everyone’s life to see him die that way.” He blinked several times and gave his attention to his cigarette and then to his fingernails. They were well manicured, Lynley noted. The man went on with another bright smile. It was his defensive weapon, his way of denying any emotion that might seep through the surface of his thin-shelled indifference. “I suppose the next question is where was
I
on the fatal night? I’d love to trot out an alibi for you, Inspector. In bed with the village tart would be nice. But I’m afraid that I didn’t know our blessed William would encounter an axe that evening, so I sat here playing my organ. Quite alone. But I must clear myself, mustn’t I? So I suppose I should say that anyone who heard me could verify the story.”

“Like today perhaps?”

Parrish ignored the question and finished off his drink. “Then when I was done, I skipped off to bed. Again, unfortunately, very much alone.”

“How long have you lived in Keldale, Mr. Parrish?”

“Ah. Back to the original thought, are we? Let me see. It must be nearly seven years.”

“Before that?”

“Before that, Inspector, I lived in York. I was a music teacher at a prep school. And no, if you’re going to go delving into my past for tasty little items, I was not dismissed. I left by choice. I wanted the country. I wanted some peace.” His voice rose slightly on the last word.

Lynley got to his feet. “Let me give you some now. Good evening to you.”

As he left the cottage, the music resumed—muted this time—but not before the discordant noise of glass breaking on stone told him the manner in which Nigel Parrish celebrated his departure.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve booked you into Keldale Hall for dinner,” Stepha Odell said. She cocked her bright head to one side and regarded Lynley thoughtfully. “Yes, I think I did just the right thing. You look as if you need that tonight.”

“Am I becoming gaunt before your eyes?”

She closed a ledger and shelved it behind the reception desk. “Not at all. The food’s excellent, of course, but that isn’t why I’ve booked you there. The hall is one of our biggest diversions. It’s run by the local eccentric.”

“You have everything here, don’t you?”

She laughed. “All the pleasures that life affords, Inspector. Would you like a drink, or are you still on duty?”

“I wouldn’t say no to a pint of Odell’s.”

“Good.” She led him into the lounge and busied herself behind the bar. “Keldale Hall is run by the Burton-Thomas family. I use that last word quite loosely, of course. Mrs. Burton-Thomas has half a dozen or more young people working for her, and she stubbornly insists that they all call her auntie. It’s part of the cloud of eccentricity in which she likes to move, I should imagine.”

“Sounds a Dickensian group,” Lynley remarked.

She pushed his ale across the bar and pulled a smaller one for herself. “Just wait till you meet them. And meet them you shall, for Mrs. Burton-Thomas always takes dinner with her guests. When I rang her to book you in, she was beside herself with the idea of Scotland Yard dining at her table. No doubt she’ll poison someone just to see you at work. The pickings are going to be rather slim, however. She said she has only two couples there now: an American dentist and two ‘hoochie-smoochie types,’ to use her expression.”

“It sounds just the kind of evening I’m longing for.” He walked to the window, glass in hand, and looked down the winding lane that was Keldale Abbey Road. He couldn’t see much of it, for it curved to the right and disappeared into the dusk.

Stepha came to join him. They didn’t speak for some moments. “I expect you’ve seen Roberta,” she said gently at last.

He turned, thinking to find her watching him, but she wasn’t. Instead her eyes were on the glass of ale she held. She turned it slowly in the palm of her hand, as if all her concentration were centred on its balance and the total necessity of not spilling a drop. “How did you know?”

“She was quite tall as a child, I remember. Almost as tall as Gillian. A big girl.” With a hand dampened by the moisture of the glass, she brushed a few hairs from her brow. Her fingers left a misty streak on her skin. She rubbed it off impatiently. “It happened quite slowly, Inspector. First she was just filled out—chubby, I suppose. Then she was … what you saw today.” The shudder that passed through her body spoke volumes. And as if she realised what her reaction implied, she went on. “That’s horrible of me, isn’t it? I have rather a despicable aversion to ugliness. Frankly, I don’t much like that about myself.”

“But you didn’t answer me.”

“I didn’t? What did you ask?”

“How you knew I’d seen Roberta.”

A dull flash crept into Stepha’s cheeks. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and looked so ill-at-ease that Lynley was sorry he had pressed her.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said.

“It’s just that… you look a bit different than you did this morning. More weighted down. And there are lines at the corners of your mouth.” The flush deepened on her beautiful skin. “They weren’t there before.”

“I see.”

“So I wondered if you’d seen her.”

“But you knew without asking.”

“Yes, I suppose I did. And I wondered how you can bear to look at the ugliness of other people’s lives as you do.”

“I’ve done it for some years. One gets used to it, Stepha.” The big man strangled as he sat at his desk, the dirty girl dead with the needle in her arm, the savage mutilation of a young man’s corpse. Did one ever really get used to man’s dark side?

Her eyes met his with surprising directness. “But surely it must be like looking at hell.”

“A Bit.”

“Then have you never wanted to run from it? Run away madly in the other direction? Never? Not once?”

“One can’t run forever.”

She turned from him, moving her eyes back to the window. “I can,” she murmured.

A sharp rap on the door caused Barbara to stub out her third cigarette. She looked around in a panic, opened the window, and rushed to the lavatory, where she flushed the incriminating evidence down the toilet. A second rap and Lynley’s voice called her name.

She went to the door. He hesitated, glancing over her shoulder curiously before he spoke. “Ah, Havers,” he said. “Apparently Miss Odell has seen fit to find us a more edible repast this evening. She’s booked us into Keldale Hall.” He consulted his watch. “In an hour.”

“What?” Barbara cried out in involuntary horror. “I haven’t… I can’t… I don’t think …”

Lynley raised an eyebrow. “Please don’t go all Helen on me and say you’ve nothing to wear, Havers.”

“But I haven’t!” she protested. “You go alone. I’ll get something at the Dove and Whistle.”

“Considering your reaction to last night’s fare, do you think that’s wise?”

A blow below the belt. Blast him. “I don’t care much for chicken. I never have.”

“Wonderful. I understand the cook at the hall is a bit of a gourmet. I doubt if anything with feathers will even put in an appearance. Unless, of course, Hannah’s waiting on tables.”