pay, but death brings them running to part with a few quid.”
“Is this irony from the man who’s made at least five pilgrimages to Bosworth Field on the twenty-second of August?” Deborah asked blithely. “An old cow pasture in the back of beyond where you drink from the well and swear to Richard’s ghost you would have fought for the Yorks?”
“That’s not death,” Lynley said with some dignity, lifting his glass to salute her. “That’s history, my girl. Someone’s got to be willing to set the record straight.”
The door that led to the kitchen swung open, and Josie Wragg presented them with their starters, muttering, “Smoked salmon
“Fine,” St. James said.
“Get you more butter?”
“I don’t think so. Thanks.”
“Wine okay? Mr. Wragg’s got a cellarful if that’s gone off. Wine does that sometimes, you know. You got to be careful. If you don’t store it right, the cork gets all dried up and shrivelled and the air gets in and the wine turns salty. Or something.”
“The wine’s fine, Josie. We’re looking forward to the bordeaux as well.”
“Mr. Wragg, he’s a connoisseur of wine.” She pronounced it con-NOY-ser and bent to scratch her ankle, from which activity she looked up at Lynley. “You’re not here on holiday, are you?”
“Not exactly.”
She straightened up, reclasping the tray behind her. “That’s what I thought. Mum said you were a detective from London and I thought at first you’d come to tell her something about Paddy Lewis which she, of course, wouldn’t be likely to share with me for fear I’d spread it to Mr. Wragg which, of course, I would definitely not do even if it meant she was to run off with him — Paddy, that is — and leave me here with Mr. Wragg.
kind of detective, are you?”
“What kind is that?”
“You know. Like on the telly. Someone you hire.”
“A private detective? No.”
“I thought that’s what you were at first. Then I heard you talking on the phone just now. I wasn’t exactly eavesdropping. Only, your door was open a crack and I was taking fresh towels to the rooms and I happened to hear.” Her fingers scratched against the tray as she grasped it more tightly behind her before going on. “She’s my best friend’s mum, you see. She didn’t mean any harm. It’s like if someone is making preserves and they put in the wrong stuff and a bunch of people get ill. Say they buy the preserves at a church fete even. Strawberry or blackberry. Well, they might do that, huh? And then they take them home and spread them on their toast the next morning. Or on their scones at tea. Then they get sick. And everyone knows it was an accident. See?”
“Naturally. That could happen.”
“And that’s what happened here. Only it wasn’t a fete. And it wasn’t preserves.”
None of them replied. St. James was idly twirling his wineglass by the stem, Lynley had stopped tearing apart his roll, and Deborah was looking from the men to the girl, waiting for one of them to respond. When they didn’t, Josie went on.
“It’s just that Maggie’s my best mate, see. And I’ve never had a best mate before. Her mum — Missus Spence — she keeps to herself lots. People call that queer, and they want to make something of it. But there’s nothing to make. You got to remember that, don’t you think?”
Lynley nodded. “That’s wise. I’d agree with that.”
“Well then…” She bobbed her ill-clipped head and looked for a moment as if she intended to dip into a curtsy. Instead, she backed away from the table in the direction of the kitchen door. “You’ll want to start eating, won’t you? The pate’s mum’s own recipe, you know. The smoked salmon’s real fresh. And if you want anything…” Her voice faded when the door closed behind her.
“That’s Josie,” St. James said, “in case you haven’t been introduced. A strong advocate of the accident theory.”
“So I noticed.”
“What did Sergeant Hawkins have to say? I take it that’s the conversation Josie overheard you having.”
“It was.” Lynley speared a piece of salmon and was pleasantly surprised to find it — as Josie had declared — quite fresh. “He wanted to restate that he was following Hutton-Preston’s orders from the first. Hutton-Preston Constabulary got involved through Shepherd’s father, and as far as Hawkins was concerned, everything from that moment was on the up and up. Still is, in fact. So he’s backing his man in Shepherd, and he’s none too pleased that we’re poking about.”
“That’s reasonable enough. He’s responsible for Shepherd, after all. What falls on the village constable’s head isn’t going to look good on Hawkins’ record either.”
“He also wanted me to know that Mr. Sage’s bishop had been entirely satisfied with the investigation, the inquest, and the verdict.”
St. James looked up from his prawn cocktail. “He attended the inquest?”
“He sent someone, evidently. And Hawkins seems to feel that if the investigation and inquest had the blessing of the Church, they damn well ought to have the Yard’s blessing as
well.”
“He won’t cooperate, then?”
Lynley speared more salmon onto his fork. “It isn’t a question of cooperation, St. James. He knows the investigation was a bit irregular and the best way to defend it, himself, and his man is to allow us to prove their conclusions correct. But he doesn’t have to like any of it. None of them do.”
“They’re going to start liking it a great deal less when we take a closer look at Juliet Spence’s condition that night.”
“What condition?” Deborah asked.
Lynley explained what the constable had told them about the woman’s own illness on the night the vicar died. He explained the ostensible relationship between the constable and Juliet Spence. He concluded with, “And I have to admit, St. James, that you might have got me here on a fool’s errand after all. It looks bad that Colin Shepherd handled the case by himself with only his father’s intermittent assistance and a cursory glance at the scene by Clitheroe CID. But if she was ill too, then the accident theory bears far more weight than we originally thought.”
“Unless,” Deborah said, “the constable’s lying to protect her and she wasn’t ill at all.”
“There’s that, of course. We can’t discount it. Although it does suggest collusion between them. But if alone she had no motive to murder the man — a point, of course, which we know is moot — what on earth would theirs together have been?”
“There’s more to it than uncovering motives if we’re looking for culpability,” St. James said. He pushed his plate to one side. “There’s something peculiar about her illness that night. It doesn’t hold together.”
“What do you mean?”
“Shepherd told us that she was repeatedly sick. She was burning with fever as well.”
“And?”
“And those aren’t symptoms of hemlock poisoning.”
Lynley toyed a moment with the last piece of salmon, squeezed some lemon on top of it, but then decided against eating. After their conversation with Constable Shepherd, he’d been on the path to dismissing most of St. James’ earlier concerns regarding the vicar’s death. Indeed, he’d been well on his way to chalking the entire adventure up to one hell of a long drive away from London to cool himself off from his morning’s altercation with Helen. But now…“Tell me,” he said.
St. James listed the symptoms for him: excessive salivation, tremors, convulsions, abdominal pain, dilation of the pupils, delirium, respiratory failure, complete paralysis. “It acts on the central nervous system,” he concluded. “A single mouthful can kill a man.”
“So Shepherd’s lying?”
