was the anomaly, a single one — without cutting the stem in some way?
Even breaking the root off from the stem would have produced that singular oil.”
“And you believe that’s enough of a warning to a herbalist? Isn’t it possible that she might have been distracted from noticing? What if someone was with her when she was digging it up? What if she were talking to a friend or arguing with her lover or distracted in some way? Perhaps even deliberately distracted.”
“Those are possibilities. And they bear looking into, don’t they?”
“Let me make a few phone calls.”
He had done so. The nature of the answers he’d managed to dig up had piqued his interest. Since the holiday in Corfu had turned into another one of life’s promises unkept, he threw tweeds, blue jeans, and sweaters in his suitcase and stowed that along with gumboots, hiking shoes, and anorak into the boot of his car. He’d been wanting to get out of London for weeks. While he’d have preferred his escape to be effected by a flight to Corfu with Helen Clyde, Crofters Inn and Lancashire would have to do.
He rolled past the terraced houses that signalled entry into the village proper and found the inn at the junction of the three roads, just where St. James had told him it would be. St. James himself, along with Deborah, Lynley found in the pub.
The pub itself was not yet open for its evening business. The iron wall sconces with their small tasselled shades hadn’t been lit. Near the bar, someone had set out a blackboard upon which the night’s specialities had been printed in a hand that employed oddly pointed letters, sloping lines, and a devotion to fuchsia-coloured chalk.
St. James and Deborah were seated beneath one of the two windows that looked out onto the street. On the table between them, the remains of an afternoon tea mixed with beer mats and a stapled sheaf of papers that St. James was in the act of folding and stuffing into his inside jacket pocket. He was saying:
“Listen to me, Deborah,” to which she was replying, “I won’t. You’re breaking our agreement.” She crossed her arms. Lynley knew that gesture. He slowed his steps.
Three logs burned in the fi replace next to their table. Deborah turned in her chair and looked into the fl ames.
St. James said, “Be reasonable.”
She said, “Be fair.”
Then one of the logs shifted and a shower of sparks rained onto the hearth. St. James worked the fire brush. Deborah moved away. She caught sight of Lynley. She said, “Tommy” with a smile and looked a mixture of saved and relieved as he stepped into the greater light that the fire provided. He set his suitcase by the stairway and went to join them.
“You’ve made excellent time,” St. James said as Lynley offered his hand in greeting and then brushed a kiss against Deborah’s cheek.
“The wind at my back.”
“And no trouble getting away from the Yard?”
“You’ve forgotten. I’m on holiday. I’d just gone into the office to clear off my desk.”
“And we’ve taken you from your holiday?” Deborah asked. “Simon! That’s dreadful.”
Lynley smiled. “A mercy, Deb.”
“But surely you and Helen had plans.”
“We did. She changed her mind. I was at a loose end. It was either a drive to Lancashire or a prolonged rattle round my house in London. Lancashire seemed to hold infi nitely more promise. It’s a diversion, at least.”
Deborah shrewdly assessed the fi nal statement. “Does Helen know you’ve come?”
“I’ll phone her tonight.”
“Tommy…”
“I know. I’ve not behaved well. I’ve picked up my marbles and run away.”
He dropped into the seat next to Deborah and picked up a shortbread still left on the plate. He poured some tea for himself into her empty cup and stirred in sugar as he munched. He looked about. The door to the restaurant was shut. The lights behind the bar were switched off. The office door was open a crack, but no movement came from within, and while a third door — set at an angle behind the bar — was open far enough to emit a lance of light that pierced the labels of the spirit bottles that hung upside down awaiting use, no sound came from beyond it.
“No one’s here?” Lynley asked.
“They’re about somewhere. There’s a bell on the bar.”
He nodded but made no move to go to it.
“They know you’re the Yard, Tommy.”
Lynley raised an eyebrow. “How?”
“You had a phone message during lunch. It was the talk of the pub.”
“So much for incognito.”
“It probably wouldn’t have served us well, anyway.”
“Who knows?”
“That you’re CID?” St. James leaned back and let his glance wander, as if trying to remember who had been in the pub when the call came through. “The owners, certainly. Six or seven locals. A group of hikers who’re no doubt long gone.”
“You’re certain about the locals?”
“Ben Wragg — he’s the owner — was chatting some of them up at the bar when his wife brought the news from the office. The rest got the information with their lunches. At least Deborah and I did.”
“I hope the Wraggs charged extra.”
St. James smiled. “They didn’t, that. But they did give us the message. They gave everyone the message. Sergeant Dick Hawkins, Clitheroe Police, phoning for Detective Inspector Thomas Lynley.”
“‘I asked him where this Detective Inspector Thomas Lynley was from, I did,’” Deborah added in her best Lancashire accent. “‘And wouldn’t you know’—with a wonderfully dramatic pause, Tommy—‘he’s from New Scotland Yard! Staying right here at the inn, he’ll be. He booked a room hisself not three hours past.
Lynley chuckled. St. James said pensively, “Clitheroe’s not the regional constabulary for Winslough, is it? And this Hawkins said nothing about being attached to anyone’s CID, because if he had, we surely would have heard that bit of news along with everything else.”
“Clitheroe’s just the divisional police centre,” Lynley said. “Hawkins is the local constable’s superior officer. I spoke to him this morning.”
“But he’s not CID?”
“No. And you were right in your conclusions about that, St. James. When I spoke to Hawkins earlier, he affirmed the fact that Clitheroe’s CID did nothing more than photograph the body, examine the crime scene, collect physical evidence, and arrange for autopsy. Shepherd himself did the rest: investigation and interviews. But he didn’t do them alone.”
“Who assisted?”
“His father.”
“That’s deucedly odd.”
“Odd and irregular but not illegal. From what Sergeant Hawkins told me earlier, Shepherd’s father was Detective Chief Inspector at the regional constabulary in Hutton-Preston at the time. Evidently he pulled rank on Sergeant Hawkins and gave the order how things would be.”
“
“This Sage affair was his last police case. He retired shortly after the inquest.”
“So Colin Shepherd must have arranged with his father to keep Clitheroe’s CID out of it,” Deborah said.
“Or his father wanted it that way.”
“But why?” St. James mused.
