“What is it?” Lady Helen asked.

“A grave,” Barbara replied.

THE FOREST had been planted to the south of a pathway that circled the great house. It was not the sort of woodland that would have sprung up naturally in this moor-filled area of Scotland.There were English and sessile oaks, beeches, walnuts, and sycamores mixed in with pines. A narrow path led through them, marked out by small circles of yellow paint that had been dotted onto the trunks of the trees.

The forest was a place of that unearthly kind of silence that comes from the heavy insulation of snow upon tree branches and ground. No wind moved, and although the raw burst of an automobile engine pierced the stillness momentarily, it died off quickly, leaving in its wake only the restless lapping of water in the loch some twenty yards down the slope to their left. The going was not easy, for even though Sergeant Havers had indeed fl attened a primitive path through the woods, the snow was deep and the ground irregular, no place for a man who had difficulty enough on a surface that was fl at and dry.

It took fi fteen minutes to make a four-minute walk, and, in spite of Lady Helen’s supportive arm, St. James was damp-faced from exertion when Havers finally led them off the main path onto a smaller branch that rose gently through a copse towards a knoll. During the summer, heavy foliage would probably have hidden both the knoll and the little track from the view of anyone on the main path from the house. But in the winter, hydrangeas that otherwise would have been vibrant with clusters of pink and blue fl owers, and walnuts that would have created a verdant screen of protection, were bare, giving anyone free access to the plot of ground at the knoll’s top. It was an area about twenty-fi ve feet square, bounded by an iron fence. White powder dusted this, hiding the fact that long ago the fence had surrendered to rust.

Lady Helen was the first to speak. “What on earth is a graveyard doing here? Is there a church nearby?”

Havers indicated the direction the main path took towards the south. “There’s a locked chapel and a family vault not too much further along. And an old pier on the loch just below it. It looks like they’ve boated their way to burials.”

“Like the Vikings,” St. James said absently. “What have we here, Barbara?” He pushed open the gate, wincing at the shriek of its unoiled metal. There was one set of footsteps in the snow already.

“I had a look,” Havers explained. “I’d already gone along to the family chapel and had a look there. So when I saw this on my way back, I was curious. See for yourself. Tell me what you think.”

While Havers waited at the gate, St. James and Lady Helen crunched through the snow to the single gravestone that rose from it like a solitary grey augury, scratched by a bare elm branch that drooped heavily onto its top. It was not a terribly old stone, certainly not as old as those found in tumbling graveyards throughout the country. Yet it was very much abandoned, for the black residue of lichen ate at the meagre carving and St. James guessed that in midsummer, the yard itself would be wildly overgrown with cow parsley and weeds. Nonetheless, the words upon the stone were legible, only partially effaced by weather and neglect.

Geoffrey Rintoul, Viscount Corleagh 1914-1963

Quietly, they studied the lonely grave. A dense chunk of snow fell from a branch above it and disintegrated on the stone.

“Is that Lord Stinhurst’s older brother?” Lady Helen asked.

“It looks that way,” Havers replied. “Curious, wouldn’t you say?”

“Why?” St. James’ eyes swept across the plot, looking for other graves. There were none.

“Because the family home’s in Somerset, isn’t it?” Havers replied.

“It is.” St. James knew that Havers was watching him, knew that she was attempting to gauge how much Lynley had told him of his private conversation with Lord Stinhurst. He tried to sound completely detached.

“So what’s Geoffrey doing buried here? Why isn’t he in Somerset?”

“I believe he died here,” St. James replied.

“You know as well as I that nobs like these bury their own in family plots, Simon. Why wasn’t this particular body taken home? Or,” she queried before he could answer, “if you’re going to say that it wasn’t possible for them to take the body home, then why wasn’t he buried in the Gerrard family plot just a few hundred yards further down the path?”

St. James chose his words with care. “Perhaps this was a favourite spot of his, Barbara. It’s peaceful, no doubt quite beautiful in the summer with the loch just below it. I can’t think that it means all that much.”

“Not even when you consider that this man, Geoffrey Rintoul, was Stinhurst’s older brother, and the rightful Lord Stinhurst in the fi rst place?”

St. James’ eyebrows raised quizzically. “You’re not suggesting that Lord Stinhurst murdered his brother in order to gain the title? Because if that’s the case, wouldn’t it make a lot more sense, if he wished to cover up a murder, to take his brother home and bury him with attendant pomp and circumstance in Somerset?”

Lady Helen had been listening to their exchange quietly, but she spoke at the mention of burials. “There’s something not quite right here, Simon. Francesca Gerrard’s husband-Phillip Gerrard-isn’t buried in the family plot either. He’s on a small island in the loch, just a bit off shore. I saw the island from my window right after my arrival, and when I commented upon it to Mary Agnes-it has a curious tomb on it that looks like a folly-she told me all about it. According to Mary Agnes, that’s where Francesca’s husband, Phillip, insisted upon being buried. Insisted, Simon. It was in the terms of his will. I should guess it’s a bit of local colour because Gowan told me the exact same thing when he brought up my luggage not fifteen minutes later.”

“There you have it,” Havers put in. “Something awfully strange is going on with these two families. And you certainly can’t argue that this is a Rintoul family graveyard here. Not without any other graves. Besides, the Rintouls aren’t even Scots! Why would they bury one of their family here unless-”

“They had to,” Lady Helen murmured.

“Or wanted to,” Havers finished triumphantly. She crossed the little yard and stood in front of St. James. “Inspector Lynley’s told you about his interrogation of Lord Stinhurst, hasn’t he? He’s told you everything Stinhurst said. What’s going on?”

For a moment, St. James considered lying to Havers. He also considered telling her the brutal truth: that what Lynley had told him had been said in confidence and was none of her business. But he had a sense that she had not brought them out on this trek as an exercise in attempting to affix blame for the last two days’ deaths upon Stuart Rintoul, Lord Stinhurst. She could have done that easily enough by insisting that Lynley himself be the one to look at this solitary grave, by arguing its peculiarity with him. The fact that Havers had not done so suggested one of two things to St. James. Either she was collecting her own evidence in an attempt to aggrandise herself and denigrate Lynley in front of their superiors at Scotland Yard, or she was seeking his own help to prevent Lynley from making a colossal mistake.

Havers turned her back on him, walking away. “It’s all right. I ought not to have asked that. You’re his friend, Simon. Of course he’d talk to you.” She pulled her woollen cap down roughly so that it covered her forehead and ears, looking cheerlessly down at the loch.

Watching her, St. James decided that she deserved the truth. She deserved the tribute of someone’s trust and the opportunity to prove herself worthy of it. He told her Lord Stinhurst’s story as Lynley had related it to him.

Havers listened, doing nothing more than tugging at one or two dead weeds along the fence while St. James spun out the twisted tale of love and betrayal that had ended with Geoffrey Rintoul’s death. Her eyes, narrowed against the gleam of sunlight on the snow, rested on the tombstone nearby. When St. James was done, she asked only one question.