“So that’s what Irene Sinclair heard.” St. James moved in his chair to a more comfortable position, grimacing as the lower part of his leg brace caught against the piping on the ottoman’s edge. He disengaged it with an irritable grunt. “But why Joanna Ellacourt? She’s not made it a secret that she loathes Gabriel. Or was that dramatic loathing part of the ploy?”

“She loathed Sydeham more than Gabriel that night, because he’d got her into Joy’s play in the first place. She felt he’d betrayed her.

She wanted to hurt him. So she went to Gabriel’s bedroom at half past eleven and waited there, to take her revenge on her husband in coin that he would well understand. But what she didn’t realise was that, in going to Gabriel, she’d given Sydeham the opportunity he had been looking for ever since Joy made the remark about John Darrow at dinner.”

“I suppose Hannah Darrow didn’t know that Sydeham was married.”

Lynley shook his head. “Evidently not. She’d only seen them once together and even then another man was with them. All she knew was that Sydeham had access to drama coaches and voice coaches and everything else that went into success. As far as Hannah was concerned, Sydeham was the key to her new life. And for a time, she was his key to a sexual prowess he had been lacking.”

“Do you suppose Joy Sinclair knew about Sydeham’s involvement with Hannah Darrow?” St. James asked.

“She hadn’t got that far in her research. And John Darrow was determined she never would. She merely made an innocent remark at dinner. But Sydeham couldn’t afford to take a chance. So he killed her. And of course, Irene’s references to the diaries at the theatre yesterday were what took him to Hampstead last night.”

Deborah had been listening quietly, but now she spoke, perplexed. “Didn’t he take a terrible chance when he killed Joy Sinclair, Tommy? Couldn’t his wife have returned to their room at any moment and found him gone? Couldn’t he have run into someone in the hall?”

Lynley shrugged. “He was fairly sure where Joanna was after all, Deb. And he knew Robert Gabriel well enough to believe that Gabriel would keep her with him as long as he could possibly continue to demonstrate his virility. Everyone else in the house was easily accounted for. So once he heard Joy return from Vinney’s room shortly before one, all he had to do was wait a bit for her to fall asleep.”

Deborah was caught on an earlier thought. “But his own wife…” she murmured, looking pained.

“I should guess that Sydeham was willing to let Gabriel have his wife once or twice if he could get away with murder. But he wasn’t willing to let the man boast about it in front of the company. So he waited until Gabriel was alone at the theatre. Then he caught him in his dressing room.”

“I wonder if Gabriel knew who was beating him,” St. James mused.

“As far as Gabriel was concerned, it probably could have been any number of men. And he was lucky it wasn’t. Anyone else might have killed him. Sydeham didn’t want to do that.”

“Why not?” Deborah asked. “After what happened between Gabriel and Joanna, I should think Sydeham would be more than happy to see him dead.”

“Sydeham was nobody’s fool. The last thing he wanted to do was narrow my field of suspects.” Lynley shook his head. His next words reflected the shame he felt. “Of course, what he didn’t know was that I had suffi ciently narrowed it myself already. A field of one. Havers said it best. Police work to be proud of.”

The other two did not respond. Deborah twisted the lid on the porcelain teapot, slowly tracing the petal of a delicate pink rose. St. James moved a bit of sandwich here and there on his plate. Neither of them looked at Lynley.

He knew they were avoiding the question he had come to ask, knew they were doing it out of loyalty and love. Still, undeserving as he was, Lynley found himself hoping that the bond between them all was strong enough to allow them to see that he needed to fi nd her in spite of her desire not to be found. So he asked the question.

“St. James, where’s Helen? When I got back to Joy’s house last night, she’d vanished. Where is she?”

He saw Deborah’s hand drop from the teapot, saw it tighten on the pleats of her russet wool skirt. St. James lifted his head.

“That’s too much to ask,” he responded.

It was the answer Lynley had expected, the answer he knew was owed to him. Yet, in spite of this, he pressed them. “I can’t change what happened. I can’t change the fact that I was a fool. But at least I can apologise. At least I can tell her-”

“It’s not time. She’s not ready.”

Lynley felt a surge of anger at such implacable resolution. “Damn you, St. James. She tried to warn him off! Did she tell you that as well? When he came over the wall, she gave a cry that he heard, and we nearly lost him. Because of Helen. So if she’s not ready to see me, she can tell me that herself. Let her make the decision.”

“She’s decided, Tommy.”

The words were spoken so coolly that his anger died. He felt his throat tighten in quick reaction. “She’s gone with him, then. Where? To Wales?”

Nothing. Deborah moved, casting a long look at her husband, who had turned his head to the unlit fire.

Lynley felt rising desperation at their refusal to speak. He’d met with the same kind of refusal from Caroline Shepherd at Helen’s fl at earlier, the same kind of refusal on the telephone when he spoke to Helen’s parents and three of her sisters. He knew it was a punishment richly due him, and yet in spite of that knowledge, he railed against it, refused to accept it as just and true.

“For God’s sake, Simon.” He felt riven by despair. “I love her. You, above all people, know what it means to be separated like this from someone you love. Without a word. Without a chance. Please. Tell me.”

Unexpectedly then, he saw Deborah reach out quickly. She grasped her husband’s thin hand. Lynley barely heard her voice as she spoke to St. James.

“My love, I’m sorry. Forgive me. I simply can’t do this.” She turned to Lynley. Her eyes were bright with tears. “She’s gone to Skye, Tommy. She’s alone.”

HE FACED only one last task before heading north to Helen, and that was to see Superintendent Webberly and, through seeing him, to put a period to the case. To other things as well. He had ignored the early-morning message from his superior, with its offi cial congratulations for a job well done and its request for a meeting as soon as possible. Filled with the realisation of how blind jealousy had governed every step of his investigation, Lynley had hardly wanted to hear anyone’s praise. Much less the praise of a man who had been perfectly willing to use him as an unwitting tool in the master game of deceit.

For beyond Sydeham’s guilt and Davies-Jones’ innocence, there still remained Lord Stinhurst. And Scotland Yard’s dance of attendance upon the commitment of the government to keeping a twenty-five-year-old secret out of the public eye.

This remained to be dealt with. Lynley had not felt himself ready for the confrontation earlier in the day. But he was ready now.

He found Webberly at the circular table in his office. There, as usual, open fi les, books, photographs, reports, and used crockery abounded. Bent over a street map which was outlined heavily in yellow marking pen, the superintendent held a cigar clenched between his teeth, filling the already claustrophobic room with a malodorous pall of smoke. He was talking to his secretary, who sat behind his desk, cooperatively nodding and note-taking and all the time waving her hand in front of her face in a useless attempt to keep the cigar smoke from permeating her well-tailored suit and smooth blonde hair. She was, as usual, as close a replica of the Princess of Wales as she could make herself.

She rolled her eyes at Lynley, wrinkled her nose delicately in distaste at the smell and the clutter, and said, “Here’s Detective Inspector Lynley, Superintendent.”