ever being bored.
So when she said, finishing up her grapefruit wedges, “Here’s what it is. I need a direction. I don’t like the way I’ve been fl oundering about. It’s time I narrowed my fi eld of vision. I need to make a commitment and go with it,” he made a vaguely supportive reply as he wondered what on earth she was talking about.
He said, “Good. That’s important.” He buttered a triangle of toast. She nodded vigorously at his approval and, with gastronomical enthusiasm, tapped her spoon against the top of her boiled egg. When she didn’t appear to be forthcoming with any additional information, he said, in a tentative reconnaissance of her meaning, “Floundering makes one feel as if there’s no foundation, don’t you think?”
“Simon, that’s just exactly it. You always understand.”
He mentally patted himself on the back, saying, “A decision about direction gives the foundation, doesn’t it?”
“Absolutely.” She munched happily on her toast. She was looking out the window at the grey day, damp street, and bleak, sooty buildings. Her eyes were alight with whatever obscure possibilities the icy weather and dismal surroundings promised.
“So,” he said, walking a fi ne line between expansive conclusion and information gathering, “what have you narrowed your vision to?”
“I haven’t entirely decided,” she said.
“Oh.”
She reached for the strawberry jam and plopped a teaspoonful onto her plate. “Except just look at what I’ve been doing so far. Landscapes, still lifes, portraits. Buildings, bridges, the interior of hotels. I’ve been eclecticism personified. No wonder I’m not developing a reputation.” She smeared jam on the toast and waved it at him. “It’s this. I need to make a decision about what sort of photography gives me the most pleasure. I need to follow my heart. I’ve got to stop striking out in every direction whenever someone offers me work. I can’t excel at everything. No one does, really. But I can excel at something. I thought it would be portraits at first, when I was in school, d’you know. Then I got sidetracked onto landscapes and still lifes. Now I’m just dabbling in whatever commercial assignment comes to hand. But that’s no good. It’s time to commit.”
So during their morning walk to the common where Deborah took the ducks the rest of her toast, and while they examined the World War I memorial with its solitary soldier, head bowed, rifle extended, she chatted about her art. Still lifes presented a wealth of opportunity — did he know what the Americans were currently doing with flowers and paint? had he seen the studies of metal scored, heated, and treated with acid? was he aware of Yoshida’s depictions of fruit? — but on the other hand, they did seem rather distant, didn’t they? Not much emotional risk involved in shooting a tulip or a pear. Landscapes were lovely — what a treat to be a travel photographer and go on assignment to Africa or the Orient, wouldn’t that be smashing? — but they demanded only an eye for composition, the skill for lighting, the knowledge of fi lters and film, all of it technique. Whereas portraits— well, there was an element of trust that had to be established between artist and subject. And trust required risk. Portraits forced both parties to come out of themselves. You took a picture of a body, but if you were good, you captured the personality beneath. Now there was real living, didn’t he think so, engaging the heart and mind of the sitter, earning his trust, capturing his realness.
Something of a cynic, St. James wouldn’t have put money on most people having much “realness” under their surface personae. But he was happy enough to be involved in Deborah’s conversation. When she first began chatting, he tried to evaluate her words, tone, and expression for the likelihood of their being avoidance. She’d been upset last night with his intrusion into her territory. She wouldn’t want a repeat of that. But the more she talked — weighing this possibility, rejecting that, exploring her motivations for each — the more he felt reassured. There was an energy to her that he hadn’t seen in the last ten months. Whatever her reasons for entering into a discussion of her professional future, the mood it seemed to engender in her was a far sight better than her previous depression. So when she set up her tripod and Hasselblad, saying, “The light’s good right now,” and wanted him to pose in the deserted beer garden of Crofters Inn so that she might test her regard for portraits, he let her snap away at every possible angle, for more than an hour despite the cold, until they received Lynley’s call.
She was saying, “You see, I don’t think I want to do conventional studio portraits. I mean, I don’t want people coming in and posing for their anniversary snaps. I wouldn’t mind being called out to do something special, but largely I think I want to work on the street and in public places. I want to fi nd interesting faces, and let the art grow from there,” when Ben Wragg announced from the rear door of the inn that Inspector Lynley was wanting to speak to Mr. St. James.
The result of that conversation — Lynley shouting over the noise of some sort of roadwork that appeared to call for minor explosives — was a drive to the cathedral at Bradford.
“We’re looking for a connection between them,” Lynley had said. “Perhaps the bishop can provide it.”
“And you?”
“I’ve an appointment with Clitheroe CID. After that, the forensic pathologist. It’s formality mostly, but it’s got to be done.”
“You saw Mrs. Spence?”
“The daughter as well.”
“And?”
“I don’t know. I’m uneasy. I’ve not much doubt that the Spence woman did it and knew what she was doing. I’ve plenty of doubt it was conventional murder. We need to know more about Sage. We need to unearth the reason he left Cornwall.”
“Are you on to something?”
He heard Lynley sigh. “In this case, I hope not, St. James.”
Thus, with Deborah at the wheel of their hired car and a phone call made to ensure their reception, they drove the considerable distance to Bradford, skirting Pendle Hill and swinging to the north of Keighley Moor.
The secretary to the Lord Bishop of Bradford admitted them into the offi cial residence not far from the fi fteenth-century cathedral that was the seat of his ministry. He was a toothy young man who carried a maroon leather diary under one arm and continually riffled through its gold-edged pages as if to remind them how limited was the bishop’s time and how fortunate were they that a half-hour had been carved out for them. He led the way not into a study, library, or conference room, but through the wood-panelled residence to a rear stairway that descended to a small, personal gym. In addition to a wall-size mirror, the room contained an exercise bike, a rowing machine, and a complicated contraption for lifting weights. It also contained Robert Glennaven, Bishop of Bradford, who was occupied with pushing, shoving, climbing, and otherwise tormenting his body on a fourth machine that consisted of moving stairs and rods.
“My Lord Bishop,” the secretary said. He made the introductions, snapped a turn on his heel, and went to sit in a straight-backed chair by the foot of the stairs. He folded his hands over the diary — now opened meaningfully to the appropriate page — took his watch off his wrist and balanced it on his knee, and placed his narrow feet flat on the fl oor.
Glennaven nodded at them brusquely and wiped a rag across the top of his sweat-sheened bald head. He was wearing the trousers to a grey sweat suit along with a faded black T-shirt on which
“This is His Grace’s exercise time,” the secretary announced unnecessarily. “He has another appointment in an hour, and he’ll need an opportunity to shower prior to that. If you’ll be so good as to keep it in mind.”
There were no other seats in the room aside from those provided by the equipment. St. James wondered how many other unexpected or unwanted guests were encouraged to limit their visits to the bishop by having to conduct them standing up.
“Heart,” Glennaven said, jabbing his thumb to his chest before he adjusted a dial on the stair machine. He puffed and grimaced as he spoke, no exercise enthusiast but a man without options. “I’ve another quarter of an hour. Sorry. Can’t let up or the benefits diminish. So the cardiologist tells me. Sometimes I think he has profi t sharing going with the sadists who create these infernal machines.” He pumped, lunged, and continued to sweat. “According to the deacon”—with a tilt of his head to indicate his secretary—“Scotland Yard wants information in the usual fashion of people wanting something in this new age. By yesterday, if possible.”
“True enough,” St. James said.
“Don’t know that I can tell you anything useful. Dominic here”—another head tilt towards the stairs—”could
