Elizabeth George - Missing Joseph

“Perhaps she never agreed to Shepherd’s story in the first place,” St. James offered. “If he testified before she did at the inquest, I doubt she would have wanted to perjure him by telling the truth.”

“But why not agree to the story? Her daughter wasn’t home. If only the two of them — she and Shepherd — knew that she’d phoned him, what possible reason could she have now for telling me a different story, even if it’s the truth? She’s damning herself by the admission.”

“You won’t think I’m guilty if I admit I’m guilty,” Deborah murmured.

“Christ, but that’s a dangerous game to play.”

“It worked on Shepherd,” St. James said. “Why not on you? She fixed in his mind the image of her vomiting. He believed her and he took her part.”

“That was the third factor that infl uenced Hawkins’ decision to call off the CID. The sickness. According to forensic…” Lynley set down his glass, put on his spectacles, and picked up the report. He scanned the first page, the second, and found what he was looking for on the third, saying, “Ah, here it is. ‘Prognosis for recovering from hemlock poisoning is good if vomition can be obtained.’ So the fact that she was sick supports Shepherd’s contention that she ate some of the hemlock accidentally.”

“Purposely. Or, what’s more likely, not at all.” St. James took up his pint of Harp. “ Obtained is the operative word, Tommy. It indicates that vomition isn’t a natural by-product of ingestion. It must be induced. So she’d have had to take a purgative of some sort. Which means she would have had to know that she’d ingested poison in the fi rst place. And if that’s the case, why didn’t she phone Sage to warn him or send someone out looking for him?”

“Could she have known something was wrong with her but not that it was hemlock? Could she have assumed it was something else? Some milk gone bad? A bad piece of meat?”

“She could have assumed anything, if she’s innocent. We can’t get away from that.”

Lynley sailed the report back to the coffee table, removed his spectacles, ran his hand through his hair. “Then we’re nowhere, essentially. It’s a case of yes-you-did, no-I-didn’t unless there’s a motive somewhere. Can I hope the bishop gave you one in Bradford?”

“Robin Sage was married,” St. James said.

“He wanted to talk to his fellow priests about the woman taken in adultery,” Deborah added.

Lynley leaned forward in his chair. “No one’s said…”

“Which seems to mean no one knew.”

“What happened to the wife? Was Sage divorced? That would be an odd thing for a priest, surely.”

“She died some ten or fifteen years ago. A boating accident in Cornwall.”

“What sort?”

“Glennaven — he’s Bradford’s bishop— didn’t know. I phoned Truro but couldn’t get through to the bishop there. And his secretary wasn’t forthcoming with anything other than the basic fact: a boating accident. He wasn’t free to give out information on the telephone, he said. What sort of boat it was, what the circumstances were, where the accident occurred, what the weather was like, if Sage was with her when it happened…nothing.”

“Protecting one of their own?”

“He didn’t know who I was, after all. And even if he did, I hardly have the right to the information. I’m not CID. And what we’re engaged in here is hardly an offi cial endeavour, even if I were.”

“But what do you think?”

“About the idea that they’re protecting Sage?”

“And through him the reputation of the Church.”

“It’s a possibility. The connection to the woman taken in adultery is hard to ignore, isn’t it?”

“If he killed her…” Lynley mused.

“Someone else might have waited for an opportunity for revenge.”

“Two people alone on a sailboat. A rough day. A sudden squall. The boom shifts in the wind, cracks the woman on the head, and she’s overboard in an instant.”

“Could that sort of death be faked?” St. James asked.

“A murder posing as an accident, you mean? No boom at all but a blow to the head? Of course.”

“What poetic justice,” Deborah said. “A second murder posing as an accident. It’s symmetrical, isn’t it?”

“It’s a perfect sort of vengeance,” Lynley said. “There’s truth to that.”

“But then who is Mrs. Spence?” Deborah asked.

St. James listed possibilities. “A former housekeeper who knew the truth, a neighbour, an old friend of the wife.”

“The wife’s sister,” Deborah said. “His own sister even.”

“Being urged back to the Church here in Winslough and finding him a hypocrite she couldn’t endure?”

“Perhaps a cousin, Simon. Or someone who worked for the Bishop of Truro as well.”

“Why not someone who was involved with Sage? Adultery cuts both ways, doesn’t it?”

“He killed his wife to be with Mrs. Spence but once she discovered the truth, she wouldn’t have him? She ran off?”

“The possibilities are endless. Her background’s the key.”

Lynley turned his pint glass thoughtfully on the table. Concentric rings of moisture marked its every position. He’d been listening but felt disinclined to dismiss all his previous conjectures. He said, “Nothing else peculiar in his background, St. James? Alcohol, drugs, an unseemly interest in something disreputable, immoral, or illegal?”

“He had a passion for Scripture, but that doesn’t seem out of character in a priest. What are you looking for?”

“Something about children?”

“Paedophilia?” When Lynley nodded, St. James went on. “Not a hint of that.”

“But would there be a hint, if the Church was protecting him and saving its own reputation to boot? Can you see the bishop admitting to the fact that Robin Sage had a penchant for choirboys, that he had to be moved—”

“And he moved continually, according to the Bishop of Bradford,” Deborah noted.

“—because he couldn’t keep his hands to himself? They’d get him help, they’d insist upon that. But would they ever admit to the truth in public?”

“I suppose it’s as likely as anything else. But it seems the least plausible of the explanations. Who are the choirboys here?”

“Perhaps it wasn’t boys.”

“You’re thinking of Maggie. And Mrs. Spence killing him to put an end to…what? Molestation? Seduction? If that’s the case, why wouldn’t she say?”

“It’s still murder, St. James. She’s the girl’s only parent. Could she depend upon a jury seeing it her way, acquitting, and leaving her free to care for the child who depends upon her? Would she take that risk? Would anyone? Would you?”

“Why not report him to the police? To the Church?”

“It’s her word against his.”

“But the daughter’s word…”

“What if Maggie chose to protect the man? What if she wanted the involvement in the first place? What if she fancied herself in love with him? Or fancied he loved her?”

St. James rubbed the back of his neck. Deborah sank her chin into the palm of her hand. Both of them sighed. Deborah said, “I feel like the Red Queen in Alice . We need to run twice as fast, and I’m already out of breath.”

“It’s not looking good,” St. James agreed. “We need to know more, and all they need to do is hold their tongues to keep us permanently in the dark.”

“Not necessarily,” Lynley said. “There’s still Truro to consider. We’ve plenty of room to manoeuvre there. We’ve got the wife’s death to dig into, as well as Robin Sage’s background.”

“God, that’s a hike. Will you go there, Tommy?”

“I won’t.”

“Then who?”