Lynley maintained his calm with an effort. “Why?”
“Because of Phillip Gerrard’s will,” Lady Helen said impulsively. “Francesca’s husband. He said he wouldn’t allow himself to be buried on the grounds of Westerbrae. Because of the telephone calls Lord Stinhurst placed on the morning of the murder. They weren’t only to cancel his appointments, Tommy. Because-”
Lynley looked at St. James, feeling the blow of treachery strike him from the single most unexpected quarter. “My God. You’ve told them about my conversation with Stinhurst.”
St. James had the grace to drop his eyes. “I’m sorry. Truly. I felt I had no choice.”
“No choice,” Lynley repeated incredulously.
Lady Helen took a hesitant step towards him, her hand extended. “Please, Tommy. I know how you must feel. As if we’re all against you. But that isn’t it at all. Please. Listen.”
Compassion from Helen was just about the last thing Lynley could bear at the moment. He struck out at her cruelly, without a thought. “I think we’re all perfectly clear on where your interests lie, Helen. You can hardly be the most objective assessor of truth, considering your involvement in this case.”
Lady Helen’s hand fell. Her face was stricken with pain. St. James spoke, his voice cold with quick anger. “Nor can you, Tommy, if the truth be faced among us.” He let a moment pass. Then he went on in a different tone, but as implacably as before. “Lord Stinhurst lied to you about his brother and his wife. First and last. A good possibility is that Scotland Yard knew he planned to do so and sanctioned it. The Yard chose you deliberately to handle this case because you were the most likely person to believe whatever Stinhurst told you. His brother and his wife never had an affair, Tommy. Now do you want to hear the facts, or shall we be on our way?”
Lynley felt as if ice were melting into his bones. “What in God’s name are you talking about?”
St. James moved towards a chair. “That’s what we’ve come to tell you. But I think we all could do with a brandy.”
WHILE ST. JAMES outlined the information they had gathered on Geoffrey Rintoul, Barbara Havers watched Lynley, gauging his reaction. She knew how resistant he would be to the facts, considering Rintoul’s privileged background and how closely it resembled Lynley’s own. Everything in Lynley’s upper-class constitution was going to act in concert, provoking him to disclaim each of their facts and conjectures. And the policewoman in Barbara knew exactly how insubstantial some of their facts were. The inescapable reality was that if Geoffrey Rintoul had indeed been a Soviet mole-working for years within that sensitive area of the Defence Ministry-the only way they would know for a certainty would be if his brother Stuart admitted it to them.
Ideally, they needed access to an MI5 computer. Even a file on Geoffrey Rintoul marked inaccessible would verify that the man had been under some sort of investigation by the counterintelligence agency. But they had no access to such a computer and no source within MI5 who could validate their story. Even Scotland Yard’s Special Branch would be of no service to them if the Yard itself had sanctioned Lord Stinhurst’s fabrication about his brother’s death in Scotland in the first place. So it all came down to Lynley’s ability to see past his tangle of prejudices against Rhys Davies-Jones. It all came down to his ability to look the truth squarely in the face. And the truth was that Lord Stinhurst, not Davies-Jones, had the strongest possible motive for wanting Joy Sinclair dead. Provided with the keys to Joy’s room by his own sister, he had murdered the woman whose play-cleverly revised without his prior knowledge-had threatened to reveal his family’s darkest secret.
“So when Stinhurst heard the name Vassall in Joy’s play, he had to know what she was writing about,” St. James concluded. “And consider how Geoffrey Rintoul’s background supports his having been a spy for the Soviets, Tommy. He went to Cambridge in the thirties. We know that Soviet recruiting went on like the devil during that period. Rintoul read economics, which no doubt made him even more receptive to arguments in favour of the teachings of Marx. And then his behaviour during the war. Requesting reassignment to the Balkans gave him contact with the Russians. I shouldn’t be at all surprised to discover that his control was in the Balkans as well. No doubt that’s when he received his most important instructions: to work his way into the Ministry of Defence. God knows how much sensitive data he supplied the Soviets over the years.”
No one said anything when St. James fi nished speaking. Their attention was on Lynley. They had taken their seats under the portrait of the seventh Earl of Asherton, and as they watched, Lynley lifted his eyes to his father’s face as if in the need of counsel. His expression was unreadable.
“Tell me again what Stinhurst’s message was to Willingate,” he said at last.
St. James leaned forward. “He said that resurfacing forced him to put Willingate off a second time this month. And to telephone Westerbrae if that presented a problem.”
“Once we discovered exactly who Willingate is, the message began to make more sense,” Barbara continued. She felt a sense of urgency, a need to convince. “He seemed to be telling Willingate that the fact that Geoffrey Rintoul had been a mole had surfaced for the second time, the first time being on that New Year’s Eve of 1962. So Willingate was to telephone Westerbrae to assist with a problem. The problem being Joy Sinclair’s death and the script she was writing that exposed all the details of Geoffrey’s unsavoury past.”
Lynley nodded.
Barbara went on. “Of course, Lord Stinhurst couldn’t telephone Willingate himself, could he? Any research into the Westerbrae telephone records would have shown us that call. So he placed the one call to his secretary. She did the rest. And Willingate, understanding the message, did telephone him, sir. Twice, I should guess. Remember? Mary Agnes told me she heard two calls come in. They had to be from Willingate. One to find out what in God’s name had happened. And the second to tell Stinhurst what he’d managed to set up with Scotland Yard.”
“Remember as well,” St. James said, “that according to Inspector Macaskin, Strathclyde CID never requested the Yard’s assistance in the case at all. They were merely informed that the Yard would take over. It seems likely that Willingate arranged all that, telephoning someone in high command at the Yard to set the investigation up and then getting back to Stinhurst with the details of who the investigating officer would be. No doubt Stinhurst was more than ready for your appearance on the scene, Tommy. And he had all day to plan out a story that you, a fellow peer, would be likely to believe. It had to be a personal story, one that, as a gentleman, you would be unlikely to repeat. What better choice than his wife’s allegedly illegitimate child? It was insidiously clever. He simply didn’t take into account that you would confide in me. Nor that I-not very much of a gentleman myself, I’m afraid- would break your confidence. And I’m sorry I did that. Had there been any other way, I’d have said nothing. I hope you believe me.”
St. James’ last remark bore the sound of conclusion. But after it, Lynley merely reached for the brandy. He poured himself more and passed the decanter on to St. James. His hands did not shake, his face did not change. Outside, a horn honked twice on Eaton Terrace. An answering shout rose from a house nearby.
Feeling a rising need to force him into taking a position, Barbara spoke. “The question we were trying to answer on the way here, sir, is why the government would involve themselves in a case like this now. And the answer seems to be that in 1963 they engaged in a cover-up of Rintoul’s activities-probably using the Official Secrets Act-in order to spare the prime minister the embarrassment of having a Soviet spy discovered in the high reaches of government so soon upon the heels of the Vassall situation and the Profumo scandal. Since Geoffrey Rintoul was dead, he could do the Defence Ministry no further damage. He could only be of damage to the prime minister himself if the news of his activities leaked. So they kept that from happening. And now, they’d apparently prefer not to have that old cover-up exposed. I suppose it would be rather embarrassing for them. Or maybe they’ve debts to be paid to the Rintoul family and this is how they’re paying them. At any rate, they’ve covered up again. Only…” Barbara paused, wondering how he would take the final bit of information, knowing only that in spite of their rows and the often insurmountable differences between them, she couldn’t be the one to give him such pain.