He remained squatting next to the fire. A countryman born and bred, he could no doubt maintain the position for hours without the slightest discomfort.
“An irregular decision, but not illegal,” the Chief Inspector said. “Colin felt he could handle it. I agreed. Handle it he did. I was with him through most of it, so if it’s the lack of CID input that’s got the Yard in a dither, CID was here all the time.”
“You sat in on all the interviews?”
“The ones that mattered.”
“Chief Inspector, you know that’s more than irregular. I don’t need to tell you that when a crime’s been committed—”
“But no crime was,” the constable said. He kept one hand on the dog, but his eyes were on Lynley. He didn’t move them. “The crime-scene team came out to crawl round the moors and overturn stones, and they saw the situation well enough in an hour. This wasn’t a crime. It was a clear-cut accident. I saw it that way. The coroner saw it that way. The jury saw it that way. End of story.”
“You were certain of that from the fi rst?”
The dog stirred restlessly as the hand on him tightened. “Of course not.”
“Yet aside from the initial presence of the crime-scene team, you made the decision not to involve your divisional CID, the very people who are trained to determine if a death is an accident, a suicide, or murder.”
“I made the decision,” the Chief Inspector said.
“Based upon?”
“A phone call from me,” his son said.
“You reported the death to your father? Not to the divisional headquarters in Clitheroe?”
“I reported to both. I told Hawkins I would handle it. Pa confi rmed. Everything seemed straightforward enough once I’d talked to Juliet…to Mrs. Spence.”
“And Mr. Spence?” Lynley asked.
“There is none.”
“I see.”
The constable dropped his eyes, swirled the liquor in his glass. “This has nothing to do with our relationship.”
“But it adds a complication. I’m sure you see that.”
“It wasn’t a murder.”
St. James leaned forward in the wing chair he’d chosen. “What makes you so certain? What made you so certain a month ago, Constable?”
“She had no motive. She didn’t know the man. It was only the third time they’d even met. He was after her to start going to church. And he wanted to talk about Maggie.”
“Maggie?” Lynley asked.
“Her daughter. Juliet had been having some trouble with her and the vicar got involved. He wanted to help. Mediate between them.
Offer advice. That’s it. That’s their relationship in a nutshell. Should I have called in CID and had them read her the caution over that? Or would you have preferred a motive fi rst?”
“Means and opportunity are powerful indicators in themselves,” Lynley said.
“That’s a lot of balls and you know it,” the Chief Inspector put in.
“Pa…”
Shepherd’s father waved him off with his sherry glass. “I have the means for murder every time I get behind the wheel of my car. I have opportunity when I step on the pedal. Is it murder, Inspector, if I hit someone who dodges into the path of my car? Do we need to call in CID for that, or can we deem it an accident?”
“Pa…”
“If that’s your argument — and I can’t deny its ten-ability at the moment — why involve CID in the person of yourself?”
“Because he
“Every moment you were here. And by your own admission, you weren’t here for each interview.”
“I damn well didn’t need—”
“Pa.” Shepherd’s voice was sharp. It altered to quiet reason when he went on. “Obviously it looked bad when Sage died. Juliet knows her plants, and it was hard to believe she could have mistaken water hemlock for wild parsnip. But that’s what happened.”
“You’re certain of that?” St. James asked.
“Of course I am. She got ill herself the night Mr. Sage died. She was burning with fever. She was sick four or five times, until two the next morning. Now you can’t tell me that without having a blessed motive in the world she’d
“You know for a fact she was ill?” Lynley asked.
“I was there.”
“At the dinner?”
“Later. I stopped by.”
“What time?”
“Towards eleven. After I made my last patrol.”
“Why?”
Shepherd tossed back the rest of his drink and placed the glass on the floor. He took off his spectacles and spent a moment polishing the outer right lens against the sleeve of his fl annel shirt.
“Constable?”
“Tell him, lad,” the Chief Inspector said. “It’s the only way he’s going to be satisfi ed.”
Shepherd gave a shrug, replacing the spectacles. “I wanted to see if she was alone. Maggie’d gone to spend the night with one of her mates…” He sighed, shifted his weight.
“And you thought Sage might be doing the same with Mrs. Spence?”
“He’d been there three times. Juliet gave me no reason to think she’d taken him as a lover. I wondered. That’s all. I wondered. It’s nothing I’m proud of.”
“Would it be likely that she’d take on a lover after so brief an acquaintance, Constable?”
Shepherd picked up his glass, saw it was empty, put it back down. A spring creaked on the sofa as the Chief Inspector stirred.
“Would she, Mr. Shepherd?”
The constable’s spectacles fl ashed briefl y in the light as he lifted his head to meet Lynley’s gaze. “That’s hard to know about any woman, isn’t it? Especially a woman you love.”
There was truth to that, Lynley admitted. More than he liked to think about. People expatiated on the virtues of trust all the time. He wondered how many of them actually lived by it, with no doubts ever camping like restless gypsies just at the edge of their consciousness.
He said: “I take it Sage was gone when you arrived?”
“Yes. She said he’d left at nine.”
“Where was she?”
“In bed.”
“Ill?”
“Yes.”
“But she let you in?”
“I knocked. She didn’t answer. I let myself in.”
“The door was unlocked?”
“I have a set of keys.” He saw St. James glance quickly in Lynley’s direction. He added, “She didn’t give them to me. Townley-Young did. Keys to the cottage, Cotes Hall, the whole estate. He owns it. She’s the care
taker.”
