Elizabeth George - Missing Joseph

Lynley took up his brandy and let the balloon glass warm in the palm of his hand. “You weren’t part of the church council who interviewed him?”

“I was. I dissented.” Townley-Young’s ruddy cheeks grew momentarily ruddier. That the apparent Lord of the Manor had held no sway with the council on which he was undoubtedly the most important member went leagues to reveal his position in the hearts of the villagers.

“I dare say you don’t especially mourn his passing, then.”

“He wasn’t a friend, if that’s what you’re getting at. Even if friendship had been possible between us, he’d only been in the village for two months when he died. I realise that two months count for two decades in some arenas of our society these days, but frankly, I’m not of the generation that takes to calling its fellows by their Christian names on a moment’s notice, Inspector.”

Lynley smiled. Since his father had been dead for some fourteen years and since his mother was nothing if not decidedly given to breaking her way past traditional barriers, he sometimes had occasion to forget the older generation’s reliance upon the choice of name as an indicator of intimacy. It always caught him off-guard and amused him mildly to come up against it in his work. What’s in a name indeed, he thought.

“You mentioned that you had something to tell me that was indirectly involved with Mr. Sage’s death,” Lynley reminded Townley-Young, who looked as if he was about to embellish upon his nominal theme.

“In that he was a visitor on the grounds of Cotes Hall several times prior to his death.”

“I’m not sure I follow you.”

“I’ve come about the Hall.”

“The Hall?” Lynley glanced at St. James. The other man lifted one hand fractionally in a don’t-ask-me gesture.

“I’d like you to look into what’s been happening out there. Malicious mischief being made. Pranks being pulled. I’ve been trying to renovate it for the past four months, and some group of little hooligans keep getting in the way. A quart of paint spilled here. A roll of wallpaper ruined there. Water left running. Graffiti on the doors.”

“Are you assuming that Mr. Sage was involved? That hardly seems likely for a clergyman.”

“I’m assuming someone with a bone to pick with me is involved. I’m assuming you — a policeman — will get to the bottom of it and see that it’s stopped.”

“Ah.” As he felt himself bristle beneath the final, imperious statement — their relative positions in an ostensibly classless society brushed aside in the man’s exigent need to have his personal problems resolved post-haste — Lynley wondered how many people in the immediate vicinity felt they had serious bones to pick with Townley-Young. “You’ve a local constable to see to things of this sort.”

Townley-Young snorted. “He’s been deal-ing”—the word heavy with the weight of Townley-Young’s sarcasm—“with this from the first. He’s done his investigating after every incident. And after every incident, he’s turned up nothing.”

“Have you given no thought to hiring a guard until the work is fi nished?”

“I pay my bloody taxes, Inspector. What else are they to be used for if I can’t call upon the assistance of the police when I have a

need?”

“What about your caretaker?”

“The Spence woman? She frightened off a group of young thugs once — and quite competently, if you want my opinion, despite the ruckus it caused round here — but whoever’s at the bottom of this current rash of mischief has managed to do it with a great deal more finesse. No sign of forced entry, no trace left behind save for the damage.”

“Someone with a key, I dare say. Who has them?”

“Myself. Mrs. Spence. The constable. My daughter and her husband.”

“Any of you wishing that the house go unfinished? Who’s supposed to live there?”

“Becky…My daughter and her husband. Their baby in June.”

“Does Mrs. Spence know them?” St. James asked. He’d been listening, his chin in his palm.

“Know Becky and Brendan? Why?”

“Might she prefer it if they didn’t move in? Might the constable prefer it? Might they be using the house themselves? We’ve been given to understand they’re involved with each other.”

Lynley found that this line of questioning did indeed lead in an interesting direction, if not exactly the one intended by St. James. “Has someone dossed there in the past?” he asked.

“The place was locked and boarded.”

“A board is fairly easy to loosen if one needs entry.”

St. James added, obviously continuing with his own line of thought, “And if a couple were using the place for an assignation, they might not take lightly to having it denied them.”

“I don’t much care who’s using it and for what. I just want it stopped. And if Scotland Yard can’t do it—”

“What sort of ruckus?” Lynley asked.

Townley-Young gaped at him blankly. “What the devil…?”

“You mentioned that Mrs. Spence caused a ruckus when she frightened someone off the property. What sort of ruckus?”

“Discharging a shotgun. Got the little beasts’ parents in a snit over that.” He gave another snort. “Let their lads run about like hooligans, they do, this lot of parents in the village. And when someone tries to show them a touch of discipline, you’d think Armageddon had begun.”

“A shotgun’s rather heavy discipline,” St. James remarked.

“Aimed at children,” Deborah added.

“Thesearen’t exactly children and even if they were—”

“Is it with your permission — or perhaps your advice — that Mrs. Spence uses a shotgun to carry out her duties as caretaker of Cotes Hall?” Lynley asked.

Townley-Young’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t particularly appreciate your efforts to turn this round on me. I came here for your assistance, Inspector, and if you’re unwilling to give it, then I’ll be on my way.” He made a movement as if to rise.

Lynley raised a hand briefly to stop him, saying, “How long has the Spence woman worked for you?”

“More than two years now. Nearly three.”

“And her background?”

“What of it?”

“What do you know about her? Why did you hire her?”

“Because she wanted peace and quiet and I wanted someone out there who wanted peace and quiet. The location’s isolated. I didn’t want to employ as caretaker anyone who felt compelled to mingle with the rest of the village on a nightly basis. That would hardly have served my interests, would it?”

“Where did she come from?”

“Cumbria.”

“Where?”

“Outside of Wigton.”

“Where?”

Townley-Young sat forward with a snap. “Look here, Lynley, let’s get one thing straight. I came here to employ you, not the opposite. I won’t be spoken to as if I’m a suspect, no matter who you are or where you’re from. Is that clear?”

Lynley placed his balloon glass on the birch side table next to his chair. He regarded Townley-Young evenly. The man’s lips had fl attened to broom-straw width and his chin jutted out pugnaciously. If Sergeant Havers had been in the residents’ lounge with them, she would have yawned widely at this point, fl ipped her thumb towards Townley-Young, said, “Get this bloke, will you?” and followed that up with a less-than-friendly and more-thanbored “Answer the question before we have you in the nick for failure to cooperate in a police investigation.” It was always Havers’ way to stretch the truth to serve her purposes when hot on the scent of a piece of information. Lynley wondered whether that approach would have worked with someone like Townley-Young. If nothing else, it would have afforded him a moment of pleasure just to see Townley-Young’s reaction to being spoken to in such a way and with such an accent as Havers’. She didn’t have the Voice by any stretch of the imagination, and she generally made the most of that fact when confronted with someone who did.