"Tell me what? Tell me now!"

Stinhurst stared long at his wife, as if he were trying to summon courage from an examination of her face. "I was the one who gave Geoff over to the government. All of you learned the worst about him on that New Year's Eve. But I...G.o.d help me, I'd known he was a Soviet agent since 1949."

STINHURST HELD himself perfectly still as he spoke, perhaps in the belief that a single movement would cause the floodgates to open and the acc.u.mulated anguish of thirty-nine years to come pouring out. His voice was matter-offact, and although his eyes became increasingly red-rimmed, he shed no tears. Lynley found himself wondering if Stinhurst was even capable of weeping after so many years of deceit.

"I knew that Geoff was a Marxist when we were at Cambridge. He made no secret of it, and frankly, I took it as a bit of a lark, something he would outgrow in time. And if he didn't, I thought what a laugh it would be to have the future Earl of Stinhurst committed to the workers' struggle to change the tide of history. What I didn't know was that his proclivities had been duly noted, and that he had been seduced into espionage while he was still a student."

"Seduced?" Lynley asked.

"It is a process of seduction," Stinhurst replied. "A combination of flattery and cajolery, making the student believe he plays an important role in the scheme of change."

"How did you come to know this?"

"I discovered it quite by chance, after the war when we were all in Somerset. It was the weekend my son Alec was born. I'd gone out looking for Geoff directly after I'd seen Marguerite and the baby. It was..." He smiled at his wife for the first and only time. Her face did not register a single response. "A son. I was so happy. I wanted Geoff to know. So I went out looking and found him in one of our boyhood haunts, an abandoned cottage in the Quantock Hills. Apparently he'd felt that Somerset was safe."

"He was meeting someone?"

Stinhurst nodded. "I probably would have thought it was only a farmer, but earlier that weekend I'd seen Geoff working in the study on some government papers, the sort that are stamped confidential in garish letters across the front. I thought nothing of it at the time, just that he'd brought work home. His briefcase was on the desk, and he was putting a doc.u.ment into a manila envelope. Not an estate envelope, nor a government one. I remember that distinctly. But I thought nothing of it until I came upon him in the cottage and saw him pa.s.s that same envelope to the man he was meeting. I've often thought that had I arrived a minute sooner-a minute later-I might well have a.s.sumed his companion was indeed a Somerset farmer. But as it was, once I saw the envelope change hands, I guessed the worst. Of course, for a moment I tried to tell myself that it was all a coincidence, that the envelope could not possibly be the same one I had seen in the study. But if it was only an innocent exchange of information that I'd witnessed-all legal and aboveboard-why arrange for it to take place in the Quantock Hills, in the middle of nowhere?"

"If you'd discovered them," Lady Stinhurst asked numbly, "why didn't they do...something to keep you from revealing what you knew?"

"They didn't know exactly what I'd seen. And even if they had, I was safe. In spite of everything, Geoff would have drawn the line at the elimination of his own brother. He was, after all, more of a man than I when it came right down to it."

Lady Stinhurst looked away. "Don't say that about yourself."

"It's true, I'm afraid."

"Did he admit to his activities?" Lynley asked.

"Once the other man was gone, I confronted him," Stinhurst said. "He admitted to it. He wasn't ashamed. He believed in the cause. And I...I don't know what I believed in. All I knew was that he was my brother. I loved him. I always had. Even though I was revolted by what he was doing, I couldn't bring myself to betray him. He would have known, you see, that I was the one to turn him in. So I did nothing. But it ate away at me for years."

"I should guess you finally saw your opportunity to take action in 1962."

"The government prosecuted William Va.s.sall in October; they already had arrested and tried an Italian physicist-Giuseppe Martelli-for espionage in September. I thought that if Geoff's activities were uncovered then, so many years after I had come to know about them, he could hardly think I was the one to give him over to the government. So I...in November I handed my facts to the authorities. And surveillance began. In my heart, I hoped-I prayed-that Geoff would discover he was being watched and make his escape to the Soviets. He almost did."

"What prevented him?"

At the question, Stinhurst's clenched fi st tightened. His hand shook with the pressure, knuckles and fingers white. In the outer office a telephone rang; an infectious burst of laughter sounded. Sergeant Havers stopped writing, cast a questioning look towards Lynley.

"What prevented him?" Lynley repeated.

"Tell them, Stuart," Lady Stinhurst murmured. "Tell the truth. This once. At last."

Her husband rubbed at his eyelids. His skin looked grey. "My father," he said. "He killed him."

STINHURST PACED the length of the room, his tall, lean figure like a rod save for his head, which was bent, his eyes on the floor.

"It happened much the way Joy's play depicted it the other night. There was a telephone call for Geoff, but my father and I came into the library without Geoff's knowledge and overheard part of it, heard him say that someone would have to get to his flat for the code book or the whole network would be blown. Father began to question him. Geoff- he was always so eloquent, such a master of the language-was frantic to get away at once.

There was hardly time for an inquisition. He wasn't thinking straight, wasn't answering questions consistently, so Father guessed the truth. It wasn't really difficult after what we'd both heard of the telephone conversation. When Father saw that the very worst was true, something simply snapped. To him, it was more than treason. It was a betrayal of family, of an entire way of life. I think he was overcome in an instant with a need to obliterate. So..." From across the room, Stinhurst examined the lovely posters that lined his office walls. "My father went after him. He was like a bear. And I...G.o.d, I watched it all. Frozen. Useless. And every night since then, Thomas, I've relived that moment when I heard Geoff's neck crack like the branch of a tree."

"Was your sister's husband, Phillip Gerrard, involved?" Lynley asked.

"Yes. He wasn't in the library when Geoff's call came through, but he and Francesca and Marguerite heard my father shouting and came running from upstairs. They burst into the room just a moment after...it was done. Of course, Phillip immediately went for the phone, insisting that the authorities be sent for at once. But we...the rest of us pressured him out of it. The scandal. A trial. Perhaps Father going to prison. Francesca became hysterical at the thought. Phillip was obdurate enough at first, but ultimately, against all of us, especially Francie, what could he do? So he helped us take his-Geoffrey, the body-to where the road forks left to Hillview Farm and begins the descent right towards Kilparie village. We took only Geoff's car, to leave one set of tyre prints." He smiled in exquisite self-denigration. "We were careful about that sort of thing. There's a tremendous declivity that begins at the fork, with two switchbacks, one right after the other like a snake. We started the engine, sent the car off with Geoff in the driver's seat. The car built speed. At the first switchback it shot across the road, broke through the fence, made the drop to the second switchback below, and went over the embankment. It burst into flames." He pulled out a white handkerchief-a perfectly laundered linen square-and wiped at his eyes. He returned to the table but did not sit. "Afterwards, we walked home. The road was almost entirely ice, so we didn't even leave footprints. There was never really a question of its not being an accident." His fingers touched the photograph of his father, still lying where Lynley had placed it among the others on the table.

"Then why did Sir Andrew Higgins come from London to identify the body and testify at the inquest?"

"As insurance. Lest anyone notice anything peculiar about Geoff's injuries that might cause questions to arise about our story. Sir Andrew was my father's oldest friend. He could be trusted."

"And Willingate's involvement?"

"He arrived at Westerbrae within two hours of the accident. He'd been on his way to take Geoff back to London for questioning in the first place. A warning of his impending arrival was evidently the content of the telephone call my brother had received. Father told Willingate the truth. And a deal was struck between them. It would be an official secret. The government didn't want it known that a mole had been in place for years in the Ministry of Defence now that the mole was dead. My father didn't want it known that his son had been the mole. Nor did he want to stand trial for murder. So the accident story stood. And the rest of us vowed silence. We kept it as well.

But Phillip Gerrard was a decent man. The knowledge that he'd allowed himself to be talked into covering up a murder consumed him for the rest of his life."

"Is that why he's not buried on Westerbrae land?"

"He felt he had cursed it."

"Why is your brother buried there?"

"Father wouldn't have his body in Somerset. It was all we could do to convince him to bury Geoff at all." Stinhurst finally looked at his wife. "We all broke on the wheel of Geoffrey's sedition, didn't we, Mag? But you and I worst of all. We lost Alec. We lost Elizabeth. We lost each other."

"It's always been Geoff between us, then," she said dully. "All these years. You've always acted as if you killed him, not your father. There were even times when I wondered if you had."

Stinhurst shook his head, refusing to accept exoneration. "I did. Of course I did. In the library that night, there was a split second of decision when I could have gone to them, when I could have stopped Father. They were on the floor and...Geoff looked at me. Maggie, I'm the last person he saw. And the last thing he knew was that his only brother was going to stand there and do nothing and watch him die. I may as well have killed him myself, you see. I'm responsible for it in the long run."

Treason, like the plague, doth take much in a blood. Lynley thought that Webster's line had never seemed so apt as it did now. For from the fountainhead of Geoffrey Rintoul's treachery had sprung the destruction of his entire family. And since the destruction would not sicken, it continued to feed upon the other lives that touched on the periphery of the Rintouls': on Joy Sinclair's and Gowan Kilbride's. But now it would stop.

There was just one more detail to be attended to. "Why did you involve MI5 this past weekend?"

"I didn't know what else to do. All I knew was that any investigation would inevitably centre itself round the script we were reading the night Joy died. And I thought-I believed- that a close scrutiny of the script would reveal everything my family and the government had been so careful to keep hidden for twenty-five years. When Willingate phoned me, he agreed that the scripts had to be destroyed. Then he got in touch with your people in Special Branch and they in turn contacted a Met commissioner, who agreed to send someone- someone special-to Westerbrae."

Those last words brought with them a renewed swelling of bitterness that Lynley fought against uselessly. He told himself that had it not been for Helen's presence at Wester-brae and the crushing revelation about her relationship with Rhys Davies-Jones, he would have seen through the web of lies that Stinhurst had woven, he would have found Geoffrey Rintoul's grave himself and drawn his own conclusions from it without the generous aid of his friends. At the moment, clinging to that belief was his only source of self-respect.

"I'm going to ask you to make a complete statement at the Yard," Lynley said to Stinhurst.

"Of course," he replied, and the denial that followed his acquiescence was as mechanical as it was immediate. "I didn't kill Joy Sinclair. Thomas, I swear it."

"He didn't." Lady Stinhurst's tone was more resigned than urgent. Lynley didn't respond. She went on. "I would have known had he left our room that night, Inspector."

Lady Stinhurst could not have chosen a single rationale less likely to meet with Lynley's belief. He turned to Havers. "Take Lord Stinhurst in for a preliminary statement, Sergeant. See that Lady Stinhurst goes home."

She nodded. "And you, Inspector?"

He thought about the question, about the time he still needed to come to terms with all that had happened. "I'll be along directly."

ONCE LADY STINHURST'S taxi was on its way to the family's Holland Park home and Sergeant Havers and Constable Nkata had escorted Lord Stinhurst from the Agincourt Theatre, Lynley went back into the building. He did not relish the idea of an accidental meeting with Rhys Davies-Jones, and there was no doubt at all that the man was somewhere on the premises today. Yet something prompted Lynley to linger, perhaps as a form of expiation for the sins he had committed in suspecting Davies-Jones of murder, in doing everything in his power to encourage Helen to suspect him of murder as well. Governed by the force of pa.s.sion rather than by reason, he had scrambled for facts that would point the case in the Welshman's direction and had ignored those that wanted to lay the blame upon anyone else.

All this, he thought wryly, because I was so stupidly ignorant of what Helen meant in my life until it was too late.

"You needn't try to comfort me." It was a woman's faltering voice, coming from the far side of the bar, just out of the range of Lynley's vision. "I haven't come here on any but equal terms. You said, let's talk truthfully. Well, let's do! Unsparingly, truthfully, even shamelessly, then!"

"Jo-" David Sydeham responded.

"It's no longer a secret that I love you. It never was. I loved you as long ago as the time I asked you to read the stone angel's name with your fingers. Yes, it had begun that early, this affliction of love, and has never let go of me since. And that is my story-"

"Joanna, shut up. You've dropped at least ten lines!"

"I haven't!"

Sydeham and Ellacourt's words pounded their way into Lynley's skull. He crossed the lobby, reached the bar, unceremoniously grabbed the script out of Sydeham's hand, and without a word ran his eyes down the page to find Alma's speech in Summer and Smoke. He didn't use his spectacles, so the words were blurred. But legible enough. And absolutely indelible.

You needn't try to comfort me. I haven't come here on any but equal terms. You said, let's talk truthfully. Well, let's do! Unsparingly, truthfully, even shamelessly, then! It's no longer a secret that I love you. It never was. I loved you as long ago as the time I asked you to read the stone angel's name with your fingers.Yes, I remember the long afternoons of our childhood...

And yet, for a moment, Lynley had a.s.sumed Joanna Ellacourt had been speaking for herself, not using the words that Tennessee Williams had written. Just as young Constable Plater must have a.s.sumed when faced with Hannah Darrow's suicide note fifteen years earlier in Porthill Green.

14.

BECAUSE OF a traffic snarl on the M11, he did not arrive in Porthill Green until after one o'clock, and by that time clouds humped along the horizon like enormous tufts of grey cotton wool. A storm was brewing. Wine's the Plough was not yet locked for its midafternoon closing, but rather than go into the pub at once for his confrontation with John Darrow, Lynley crunched across the snow on the green to a call box that leaned precariously in the direction of the sea. He placed a call to Scotland Yard. It was only a matter of moments before he heard Sergeant Havers' voice, and from the background noises of crockery and conversation, he guessed that she was taking the call from the officers' mess.

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, what happened to you?" she demanded. And then amended the question truculently with, "Sir. Where are you? You've had a phone call from Inspector Macaskin. They've done the complete autopsy on both Sinclair and Gowan. Macaskin said to tell you they've fixed Sinclair's time of death between two and a quarter past three. And, he said with a great deal of hemming and hawing that she hadn't been interfered with. I suppose that was his genteel way of telling me that there was no evidence of forcible rape or s.e.xual intercourse. He said that the forensic team aren't through with everything they gathered from the room. He'll phone again as soon as they have it all done."

Lynley blessed Macaskin's thoroughness and his self-a.s.sured willingness to be of help, unthreatened by the involvement of Scotland Yard.

"We've taken Stinhurst's statement, and I've not been able to shake him into a single inconsistency about Sat.u.r.day night at Wester-brae no matter how many times we've been through the story." Havers snorted scornfully. "His solicitor's just arrived-your typical old-boy, pinched-nostril type sent by the wife, no doubt, since his lordship hasn't lowered himself to request the use of a telephone from the likes of me or Nkata. We've got him in one of the interrogation rooms, but unless someone comes up with a piece of hard evidence or a witness in double time, we're in serious trouble. So where in G.o.d's name have you taken yourself?"

"Porthill Green." He cut off her protest with, "Listen to me. I'm not going to argue that Stinhurst isn't involved in Joy's death. But I'll not leave this Darrow situation unresolved. Let's not lose sight of the fact that Joy Sinclair's door was locked, Havers. So like it or not, our access route is still through Helen's room."

"But we've already agreed that Francesca Gerrard could well have given-"

"And Hannah Darrow's suicide note was copied from a play."

"A play? What play?"

Lynley looked across the green to the pub. Smoke curled from its chimney, like a snake against the sky. "I don't know. But I expect John Darrow does. And I think he's going to tell me."

"Where is that going to get us, Inspector? And what am I supposed to do with his precious lordship while you jolly about the Fens?"

"Take him through everything once again. With his solicitor present, if he insists. You know the routine, Havers. Plan it out with Nkata. Vary the questions."

"And then?"

"Then let him go for the day."

"Inspector-"

"You know as well as I that we have nothing substantial on him at the moment. Perhaps destruction of evidence in the burning of the scripts. But absolutely nothing else save the fact that his brother was a Soviet spy twenty-five years ago and he himself obstructed justice in Geoffrey's death. I hardly think it's productive to our case to arrest Stinhurst for that now. And you can't believe his solicitor isn't going to insist that we either charge him or release him to his family."

"We may get something more from the forensic team in Strathclyde," she argued.

"We may. And when that occurs, we'll pick him up again. For now, we've done all we can. Is that clear?"

He heard the exasperation that edged her reply. "And what will you have me do when I send Stinhurst toddling on his way?"

"Go to my office. Shut the door. Don't see anyone. Wait to hear from me."

"And if Webberly wants a report on our progress?"

"Tell him to rot," Lynley replied, "right after you tell him we're wise to Special Branch and MI5's involvement in the case."

He could hear Havers' smile-in spite of herself-across the telephone line. "A pleasure, sir. As I've always said, when the ship is sinking, one may as well bash a few holes in the bow."

WHEN LYNLEY asked for a ploughman's lunch and a pint of Guinness, John Darrow looked as if he would much rather refuse the business. However, the presence of three dour-looking men at the bar and an elderly woman dozing over gin and bitters by the crackling fire seemed to discourage him from doing so. Therefore, within five minutes, Lynley was occupying one of the tables near the window, tucking into a large plate of Stilton and Cheddar, pickled onions, and crusty bread.

He ate calmly enough, not bothered by the curiosity evidenced in the ill-hushed questions of the other customers. Local farmers, no doubt, they would soon be off to see to the rest of their day's work, leaving John Darrow with no choice but to face another interview that he appeared to be doing his best to avoid.

Indeed, Darrow had become decidedly congenial towards the men at the bar within moments of Lynley's arrival, as if an unaccustomed infusion of bonhomie into his behaviour would encourage them to linger long after they would otherwise have departed. They were talking of sports at the moment, a loud conversation about Newcastle football that was interrupted when the pub door opened and a young boy-perhaps sixteen years old- hurried in from the cold.

Lynley had seen him coming from the direction of Mildenhall, on an ancient motorbike whose predominant colour was mud. Wearing heavy work boots, blue jeans, and an antique leather jacket-all stained liberally with what appeared to be grease-the boy had parked in front of the pub and had spent several minutes across the street, admiring Lynley's car and running his hand along the sleek line of its roof. He had the st.u.r.dy build of John Darrow, but his colouring was as light as his mother's had been.

"Whose boat?" he called out cheerfully as he entered.

"Mine," Lynley replied.

The boy sauntered over, tossing fair hair off his forehead in that self-conscious way of the young. "Dead nice, that." He gazed out the window longingly. "Set you back a few quid."

"And continues to do so. It guzzles petrol as if I were the sole support of British Petroleum. Most of the time, frankly, I think about taking on your mode of transportation."

"Sorry?"

Lynley nodded towards the street. "Your motorbike."

"Oh that!" The boy laughed. "Quite a piece, that. Got in a smash with it last week and it didn't even take a dent. Not that you'd notice if it had. It's so old that-"

"You've ch.o.r.es to do, Teddy," John Darrow interrupted sharply. "See to them."

While his words effectively ended the conversation between his son and the London policeman, they also served to remind the others of the time. The farmers dropped coins and notes onto the bar, the old woman by the fire gave a loud snort and awoke, and within moments only Lynley and John Darrow were left in the pub. The muted sound of rock and roll and a banging of cupboards in the flat above them spoke of Teddy seeing to his ch.o.r.es.

"He's not in school," Lynley noted.