Elizabeth George - In Pursuit of the Proper Sinner

Brilliant, Barbara thought, and she mentally rubbed her hands together in anticipation.

“It's my house, you see.” Mrs. Baden went on to explain that when Mr. Baden had passed on, she'd had the house converted as an investment, to provide her with income in her twilight years. “I let out three flats and live in the fourth myself.” And she added that she always insisted on keeping a key to each of the flats. She'd long ago discovered that the potential of a landlord's surprise visit always kept her tenants on their toes. “However,” she concluded, sinking Barbara's ship with a nonetheless fond smile, “I can't let you in.”

“You can't.”

“I'm afraid it would be such a violation of trust, you see, to let you in without Cilia's permission. I do hope you understand.”

Damn, Barbara thought. She asked when Cilia Thompson generally returned.

Oh, they never kept regular hours, Mrs. Baden told her. She'd be wisest to run by Portslade Road and make an appointment with Cilia while she was painting. And by the way, could Mrs. Baden talk the constable into a slice of lemon cake before she left? One loved to bake but only if one could share one's creations with someone else.

It would balance the chocolate donut nicely, Barbara decided. And since immediate access to Terry Cole's flat was going to be denied her, she thought she might as well continue towards her personal dietary goal of ingesting nothing but sugar and fat for twenty-four hours.

Mrs. Baden beamed at Barbara's acceptance and sliced a wedge of cake suitable for a Viking warrior. As Barbara fell upon it, the older woman made the sort of pleasant chitchat at which her generation so excelled. Buried within it was the occasional nugget about Terry Cole.

Thus, Barbara gleaned that Terry was a dreamer, not entirely practical-to Mrs. Baden's way of thinking-about his future success as an artist. He wanted to open a gallery. But, my dear, the thought that someone might actually want to buy his pieces… or even those done by his colleagues… But then, what did an old woman know about modern art?

“His mother said that he was working on a big commission,” Barbara noted. “Had he mentioned it to you?”

“My dear, he did talk about a big project…”

“But there wasn't one?”

“I'm not quite saying that.” Mrs. Baden made the point hastily. “I think, in his mind, there truly was.”

“In his mind. You're saying that he was delusional?”

“Perhaps he was… just a little overly enthusiastic.” Mrs. Baden gently pressed the tines of her fork against a few cake crumbs and looked reflective. Her next words were hesitant. “It does seem like speaking ill of the dead…”

Barbara sought to reassure her. “You liked him. That's obvious. And I expect you want to help.”

“He was such a good boy. He couldn't do enough to help those he cared for. You'll be hard-pressed to find anyone who'll tell you differently.”

“But…?” Barbara tried to sound encouraging.

“But sometimes when a young man wants something so desperately, he cuts corners, doesn't he? He tries to find a shorter and more direct route to get to his destination.”

Barbara seized on the final word. “You're talking about the gallery he wanted to open?”

“Gallery? No. I'm talking about stature,” Mrs. Baden replied. “He wanted to be someone, my dear. More than money and goods, he wanted a sense of having a place in the world. But one's place in the world has to be earned, hasn't it, Constable?” She set her fork by her plate and dropped her hands into her lap. “I feel terrible saying such things about him. He was, you see, so good to me. He gave me three new finches for my birthday. And only this week, some nice piano music… Flowers on Mothering Sunday as well. So considerate a boy. So generous, really. And helpful. He was so truly helpful when I needed someone to tighten a screw or change a bulb…”

“I understand,” Barbara reassured her.

“It's just that I want you to know he had more than one side to him. And this other part-the part in a hurry-well, he would have outgrown that as he learned more about life, wouldn't he?”

“Without a doubt,” Barbara said.

Unless, of course, his hunger for stature was directly related to his death on the moor.

Upon leaving Broughton Manor, Lynley and Hanken stopped in Bakewell for a quick pub meal not far from the centre of town. There, over a filled jacket potato (Hanken) and a ploughman's lunch (Lynley), they sorted through their facts. Hanken had brought with him a map of the Peak District, which he used to make his major point.

“We're looking for a killer who knows the area,” he said, indicating the map with his fork. “And you can't tell me some lag fresh out of Dartmoor prison took a crash course in trek-and-track in order to get revenge on Andy Maiden by killing his daughter. That kite won't fly.”

Lynley studied the map dutifully. He saw that hiking trails snaked all across the district, and destinations of interest dotted it. It looked like a paradise for a hiker or camper, but a huge paradise in which the unwary or unprepared walker could easily become lost. He also noted that Broughton Manor was of enough historical significance to be indicated as a point of interest just south of Bakewell and that the manor's land abutted a forest which itself gave way to a moor. Both across the moor and through the forest were a series of footpaths for the hiker, which led Lynley to say, “Julian Britton's family have been here for a few hundred years. I expect he's familiar with the area.”

“As is Andy Maiden,” Hanken countered. “And he has the look of someone who's been out and about on the land a fair amount. I wouldn't be surprised to learn his daughter inherited her penchant for trekking from him. And he found that car. All night out scouring the whole blasted White Peak, and he managed to find that bloody car.”

“Where was it, exactly?”

Hanken used his fork again. Between the hamlet of Sparrowpit and Winnat's Pass stretched a road that formed the northwest boundary of Calder Moor. A short distance from the track leading southeast towards Perryfoot, the car had been parked behind a dry-stone wall.

Lynley said, “All right. I see that it was a lucky shot-”

Hanken snorted. “Right.”

“-to find the car. But lucky shots happen. And he knew her haunts.”

“He did indeed. He knew them well enough to track her down, do her in, and dash back home with no one the wiser.”

“With what motive, Peter? You can't hang guilt on the man on the strength of his keeping information from his wife. That kite won't fly either. And if he's the killer, who's his accomplice?”

“Let's get back to his SO 10 years,” Hanken said meaningfully. “What old lag fresh out of Newgate would say no to making a few quid on the side, especially if Maiden made him the offer and guided him personally out to the site?” He forked up a mound of potato and prawns and shoveled them into his mouth, saying, “It could have happened that way.”

“Not unless Andy Maiden has undergone a transformation in personality since moving here. Peter, he was one of the best.”

“Don't like him too much,” Hanken warned. “He may have called in markers to get you sent up here for one very good reason.”

“I could take offence at that.”

“My pleasure.” Hanken smiled. “I've a fancy for seeing a nob cheesed off. But mind you, don't think too highly of this bloke. That's a dangerous place to be.”

“Just as dangerous as thinking too ill of the man. In either case, the vision goes to hell.”

“Touché” Hanken said.

“Julian has a motive, Peter.”