A Great Deliverance by Elizabeth George
Havers looked from Lady Helen to Lynley. “Of course,” she replied impassively.
Lady Helen watched the pair walk off before she spoke again. “I’m really not sure which one of them is the worse for wear, Tommy.”
“Thank you for last night,” he said in answer. “Was it awful for you?”
She took her eyes off the departing women. “Awful?” The terrible desolation in Jonah Clarence’s face; the sight of Gillian lying vacant-eyed, scarcely covered by a bloodied sheet, her wounds still seeping slow crimson where the self-inflicted damage was most severe; the blood on the floor and the walls of the bathroom and deep in the grout where it would never come clean; the smashed door and the brushes with bits of flesh still adhering to their horrifying metal bristles.
“I’m sorry for putting you through it,” Lynley said. “But you were the only one I could trust to manage it. I don’t know what I would have done had you not been at home when I phoned.”
“I’d only just got in. I have to admit that Jeffrey wasn’t at all pleased at the manner in which our evening ended.”
Lynley’s reaction played at the corners of his mouth and eyes, equal parts amusement and surprise. “Jeffrey Cusick? I thought you threw him over.”
She laughed lightly and took his arm. “I tried, darling Tommy. I did try. But Jeffrey is quite determined to prove that, whether I realise it or not, he and I are on the path to true love. So he was working on advancing us a bit further towards the journey’s end last night. It was romantic. Dinner in Windsor on the bank of the Thames. Champagne cocktails in the garden of the Old House. You would have been proud of me. I even remembered that Wren built it, so all these years of your seeing to my education haven’t been in vain.”
“But I hardly thought you’d be throwing it away on Jeffrey Cusick.”
“Not throwing it away at all. He’s a lovely man. Really. Besides, he was only too helpful in assisting me with my dressing.”
“I’ve no doubt of that,” Lynley remarked drily.
She laughed at his grim expression. “Not that way. Jeffrey would never take advantage. He’s far too…too…”
“Fish-like?”
“Spoken like the most petulant Oxonian, Tommy,” she declared. “But to be dreadfully honest, he is the teeniest bit like a cod. Well, what can one expect? I’ve never in my life known a Cambridge man to get caught in the throes of passion.”
“Was he wearing his Harrovian tie when I phoned?” Lynley asked. “For that matter, was he wearing anything?”
“Tommy, how vicious! But, let me think.” She tapped her cheek thoughtfully. Her eyes twinkled up at him as she pretended to consider his question at some length. “No, I’m afraid we were both fully clothed when you phoned. And after that, well, there simply wasn’t time. We rushed desperately to my wardrobe and began looking for something that would do. What do you think? Is it a success?”
Lynley eyed the beautifully tailored black suit and matching accessories. “You look like a Quaker on the path to hell,” he said soberly. “Good Lord, Helen, is that really a Bible?”
She laughed. “Doesn’t it just do?” She examined the leather volume in her hand. “Actually, it’s a collection of John Donne, given to me by darling Grandfather on my seventeenth birthday. I may actually open it someday.”
“What would you have done if she had asked you to read a few verses to her to get her through the night?”
“I can sound positively biblical when I want to, Tommy. A few thees and thous, a few lays and begets and…What is it?” He had stiffened at her words. She felt the sudden rigidity in his arm.
Lynley was looking at his car parked outside the station doors. “Where’s her husband?”
She regarded him curiously. “I don’t know. He’s vanished. I went directly in to see Gillian, and later, when I came out of the bedroom, he’d gone. I spent the night there, of course, and he never returned.”
“How did Gillian react to that?”
“I’m…” Lady Helen considered how best to answer the question. “Tommy, I’m not even certain that she’s aware that he’s gone. This sounds a little strange, I’m sure, but I think he’s ceased to exist for her. She hasn’t mentioned his name to me.”
“Has she said anything?”
“Only that she left something for Bobby.”
“The message in the newspaper, no doubt.”
Lady Helen shook her head. “No. I have the distinct impression that it was something at the house.”
Lynley nodded pensively and asked a final question. “How did you talk her into coming, Helen?”
“I didn’t. She’d already made up her mind, and I credit that to Sergeant Havers, Tommy, although from the way she’s been acting, I think she believes that I performed some sort of loaves and fishes in the Clarence flat. Do speak to her, won’t you? She’s been positively monosyllabic since I rang her this morning, and I think she’s blaming herself for everything that’s happened.”
He sighed. “That sounds just like Havers. Christ, what I don’t need is one more thing to have to deal with in this bloody case.”
Lady Helen’s eyes widened fractionally. Rarely, if ever, did he give vent to anger. “Tommy,” she said hesitantly, “while you were in Keldale, did you happen to…Is it…” She didn’t want to speak of it. She wouldn’t speak of it.
He flashed her his crooked smile. “Sorry, old duck.” He dropped his arm round her shoulders and squeezed affectionately. “Did I mention how damnably good it is to have you here?”
He hadn’t said anything to her. He hadn’t so much as acknowledged her beyond a cursory nod. But then, why should he? Now that her little ladyship was there to save the day—just as she’d managed to do last night—there was no reason for them to communicate at all.
She might have known that Lynley would use one of his mistresses rather than someone from the Yard. Wasn’t that typical of him? An ego so enormous that he had to make certain his London women would jump to his bidding in spite of his catting about in the country. Wonder if her ladyship will still jump through hoops when she finds out about Stepha, Barbara thought. And just look at her with her perfect skin, perfect posture, perfect breeding—as if her ancestors spent the last two hundred years throwing out the rejects, leaving them on hillsides like unacceptable Spartan babies in order to arrive at the eugenic masterpiece that was Lady Helen Clyde. But not quite good enough to keep his lordship faithful, are we, sweetheart? Barbara smiled inwardly.
She observed Lynley from the rear seat. Had another big night with little Stepha, I’ll bet. Of course he had. Since he hadn’t had to worry about how much the woman howled, he probably banged happily away at her for hours on end. And now here was her precious ladyship to be serviced tonight. Well, he could handle it. He could rise to the challenge. Then he could move right on to give Gillian a treat. No doubt that anaemic little husband of hers would be only too happy to give the reins over to a real man.
And weren’t they both handling the little bitch with kid gloves! One couldn’t really blame her ladyship for that approach. She didn’t have all the facts on Gillian Teys. But what was Lynley’s excuse? Since when did an accessory to murder get the red carpet treatment from CID?
“You’re going to find Roberta very much changed, Gillian,” he was saying.
Barbara listened to the words with incredulity. What was he doing? What was he talking about? Was he actually preparing her to see her sister when both of them knew damn well she’d seen her only three weeks ago when they’d killed William Teys?
“I understand,” Gillian responded in a very small, nearly inaudible voice.
“She’s been placed in the asylum as a temporary measure,” Lynley continued gently. “It’s a question of mental competence arising out of her admission to the crime and her unwillingness to speak.”
“How did she…Who…?” Gillian hesitated, then gave up the effort. She seemed to shrink into her seat.
“Your cousin Richard Gibson had h
“Richard?” Her voice grew even smaller.
“Yes.”
“I see.”
No one spoke. Barbara waited impatiently for Lynley to begin questioning the woman, and she couldn’t understand his obvious reluctance to do so. What was he doing? He was making the kind of solicitous conversation that one generally made with the victim of a crime, not with its perpetrator!
Furtively, Barbara examined Gillian. Good God, she was manipulative, right to the bitter end. A few minutes in the bathroom last night and she had the whole lot of them right where she wanted. How long had she been trotting out that little routine?
Her eyes moved back to Lynley. Why had he brought her back on the case today? There could be only one reason, really: to put her in her place once and for all, to humiliate her with the knowledge that even an amateur like her sweet ladyship had more expertise than Havers the pig. And then to condemn her, forever, to the street.
Well, the message was received, Inspector. Now all she longed for was a return to London and to uniform, leaving Lynley and his lady to sweep up the shards of the mess she had made.
She’d worn her hair in two long, blonde braids. That’s why she looked so young that first night in Testament House. She spoke to no one, instead taking a quiet measure of the group, deciding whether they were worthy of her trust. The decision once made, she said only her name: Helen Graham, Nell Graham.
But hadn’t he known from the first that it wasn’t really her name? Perhaps the slight hesitation before her response when someone addressed her had betrayed her. Perhaps it was the wistful look in her eyes when she said it herself. Perhaps it was her tears when he first entered her body and whispered Nell in the darkness. At any rate, hadn’t he always known—somewhere in his heart—that it wasn’t her name?
What had drawn him to her? At first, it was the childlike innocence with which she embraced the life at Testament House. She was so eager to learn, and then so passionately involved in the purpose of the community. After that it was her purity he so admired, the purity which allowed her to lead a new life, unaffected by personal animosities in a world where she had simply decided that such ugliness would never exist. Then it was her devotion to God—not the breast-beating, ostentatious piety of the religious reborn but a calm acceptance of a power greater than her own—that touched him. And last, it was her steadfast faith in his ability to do anything, her words of encouragement when he felt despair, her abiding love when he needed it most.
As I do now, Jonah Clarence thought.
In the last twelve hours he had looked deeply, unforgivingly, at his own behaviour and had come to see it for what it was: unremitting cowardice. He had left wife and home, running to an unknown destination, fleeing so that he wouldn’t have to face what he was afraid to know. Yet what was there to fear when Nell—whoever she was—could be nothing more nor less than the lovely creature who stood by his side, who listened, rapt, to his words, who held him in her arms at night? There could be no dark monster in her past for him to dread. There could be only what she was and always had been.
This was the truth. He knew it. He could feel it. He believed it. And when the door to the mental hospital opened, he stood up quickly and strode across the central hall to meet his wife.
Lynley felt, rather than saw, the hesitation in Gillian’s footsteps as they entered the hospital. At first he attributed it to her understandable trepidation about seeing her sister after so many years. But then he saw that her gaze was fixed on a young man who came across the lobby in their direction. Curious, Lynley turned to Gillian to speak, only to see on her face an expression of unmitigated dread.
“Jonah,” she gasped, taking a step backwards.
“I’m sorry.” Jonah Clarence reached out as if to touch her but stopped. “Forgive me. I’m sorry, Nell.” His eyes were burnt out, as if he hadn’t slept in days.
“You mustn’t call me that. Not any longer.”
He ignored her words. “I spent the night sitting on a bench in King’s Cross, trying to sort it all out, trying to decide if you could love a man who was too much of a coward to stay with his wife when she needed him most.”
She reached out, touched his arm. “Oh, Jonah,” she said. “Please. Go back to London.”
“Don’t ask that of me. It would be too easy.”
“Please. I beg you. For me.”
“Not without you. I won’t do that. Whatever you feel you must do here, I’ll be here as well.” He looked at Lynley. “May I stay with my wife?”
“It’s up to Gillian,” Lynley replied and noticed the manner in which the young man involuntarily recoiled at the name.
“If you want to stay, Jonah,” she whispered.
He smiled at her, touched her cheek lightly, and looked up from her face only when the sound of voices from the transverse passage signalled Dr. Samuels’s approach. The man carried a stack of file folders which he handed to a female colleague before swiftly crossing towards them.
He eyed the entire group, unsmiling. If he was grateful for the appearance of Roberta Teys’s sister and the possibility of progress that her presence implied, he gave no indication.
“Inspector,” he said by way of greeting. “Is a group this large absolutely necessary?”
“It is,” Lynley responded evenly and hoped the man had the good sense to take a close look at Gillian’s condition before he raised a storm of protest and threw them all out.
A pulse beat in the psychiatrist’s temple. It was obvious that he was unused to anything short of fawning courtesy and that he was caught between a desire to put Lynley summarily in his place and a wish to carry on with the planned meeting between the two sisters. His concern for Roberta won out.
“This is the sister?” Without waiting for an answer, he took Gillian’s arm and devoted his attention to her as they started down the passageway towards the locked ward. “I’ve told Roberta that you’re coming to see her,” he said quietly, his head bent to hers, “but you must prepare yourself for the fact that she may not respond to you. She probably won’t, in fact.”
“Has she…” Gillian hesitated, seemed unsure how to proceed. “Has she still said nothing?”
“Nothing at all. But these are the very early stages of therapy, Miss Teys, and—”
“Mrs. Clarence,” Jonah interjected firmly.
The psychiatrist stopped, swept his eyes over Jonah Clarence. A spark shot between them, suspicion and dislike.
“Mrs. Clarence,” Samuels corrected himself, his eyes steadily on her husband. “As I was saying, Mrs. Clarence, these are the earliest stages of therapy. We’ve no reason to doubt that your sister will someday make a full recovery.”
The use of the modifier was not lost on Gillian. “Someday?” Her arm encircled her waist in a gesture very like her mother’s.
The psychiatrist appeared to be evaluating her reaction. He answered in a way that indicated that her single-word response had communicated far more than she realised.
“Yes, Roberta is very ill.” He put his hand on her elbow and guided her through the door in the panelling.
They walked through the locked ward, the only noise among them the muffled sounds of their footsteps on the carpeting and the occasional cry of a patient from behind the closed doors. Near the end of the corridor, a narrow door was recessed into the wall, and Samuels stopped before it, opening it and switching on the light to reveal a small, cramped room. He motioned them inside.
“You’re going to find yourselves crowded in here,” he warned, his tone of voice indicating how little he regretted the fact.
It was a narrow rectangle, no larger than a good-sized broom closet, which in fact it once had been. One wall was completely covered by a large mirror, two speakers hung at either end, and a table and chairs were set up in the middle. It was claustrophobic and pungent with the smell of floor wax and disinfectant.
“This is fine,” Lynley said.
Samuels nodded. “When I fe
“Yes, of course.”
“Fine.” He smiled at them grimly as if he sensed their apprehension and was glad to see that they—like himself—were not anticipating that the upcoming interview would be a diverting lark. “I’ll be in the next room with Gillian and Roberta.”
“Is that necessary?” Gillian asked hesitantly.
“Considering the circumstances, yes, I’m afraid it is.”
“The circumstances?”
“The murder, Mrs. Clarence.” Samuels surveyed them all one last time and then buried his hands deeply in the pockets of his trousers. His eyes were on Lynley. “Shall we deal in legalities?” he asked brusquely.
“That isn’t necessary,” Lynley said. “I’m well aware of them.”
“You know that nothing she says—”
“I know,” Lynley repeated.
He nodded sharply. “Then I’ll fetch her.” He spun smartly on one heel, switched out the lights, and left the room, closing the door behind him.
The lights from the room beyond the mirror gave them some illumination, but their close little cell was alive with shadows. They seated themselves on the unforgiving wooden chairs and waited: Gillian with her legs straight out in front of her, staring passionately down at the scarred tips of her fingers; Jonah with his chair next to hers, cradling its wooden back protectively; Sergeant Havers slumped down, brooding on the darkest corner of the room; Lady Helen next to Lynley, observing the unspoken communication between husband and wife; and Lynley himself, lost in deep contemplation from which he was roused by the touch of Lady Helen’s hand squeezing his own.