Lady Harrison must have heard him coming because she opened the large white door for him as soon as he got out of the car. She wore jeans and a blue cashmere pullover. She hugged herself against the cold as she stood in the doorway.
She had done her best to cover up the marks of misery and pain on her face, but they were still apparent through the make-up, like distant figures looming in the fog.
This time, instead of heading for the white room, she hung up his overcoat and led him to the kitchen, which was done in what Banks thought of as a sort of rustic French style: lots of wood paneling and cupboards, copper-bottomed pots and pans hanging on hooks on the wall, flower-patterned mugs on wooden pegs, a few potted plants, a vase of chrysanthemums on the table and a red-and-white checked tablecloth. The room smelled of herbs and spices, cinnamon and rosemary being the two most prominent. A kettle was just coming to the boil on the red Aga.
“Please sit down,” she said.
Banks sat on a wooden chair at the kitchen table. Its legs scraped along the terracotta floor.
“Tea? I was just going to make some.”
“Fine,” said Banks.
“Ceylon, Darjeeling, Earl Gray or Lapsang Souchong?”
“Lapsang, if that’s all right.”
She smiled. “Exactly what I was going to have.”
Her movements were listless and Banks noticed that the smile hadn’t reached her eyes. It would probably be a long time before one did.
“Are you sure you’re all right here alone, Lady Harrison?” he asked.
“Yes. Actually, it was my idea. I sent Geoffrey out. He was getting on my nerves. I needed a little quiet time to…to get used to things. What would be the point of us both moping around the house all day? He’s used to action, to doing things. And please,” she added with a fleeting smile, “call me Sylvie.”
“Fine,” he said. “Sylvie it is.”
She measured out the leaves into a warmed pot-a rather squat, ugly piece with blue squiggles and a thick, straight spout-then sat down opposite Banks and let it brew.
“I’m sorry to intrude on your grief,” Banks said. “But there are still a lot of questions need answering.”
“Of course,” said Sylvie. “But Geoffrey told me this morning that you already have a suspect. Is it true?”
Interesting, Banks thought. He hadn’t realized there was a lodge meeting last night. Of course, as soon as Stott had tracked down Owen Pierce and sent his anorak off to the lab for analysis, Banks had let the chief constable know what was happening, and Riddle obviously hadn’t wasted much time in reporting to Sir Geoffrey. Ah, privilege.
“Someone’s helping us with our inquiries, yes,” he said, immediately regretting the trite phrase. “I mean, last night we talked to someone who was seen in the area on Monday evening. Detective Inspector Stott is interviewing him again now.”
“It’s not that man from the church, the one who was fired?”
“We don’t think so, but we’re still keeping an open mind about him.”
“Do you think this other person did it?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t talked to him yet. We’re playing it very cautiously, very carefully. If he is the one, we want to be certain we don’t make any mistakes that will come back to haunt us when the case goes to court.”
“Sometimes,” mused Sylvie, “it seems that the system favors the criminal rather than the victim. Don’t you think?”
Tell me about it, thought Banks wearily. If they did think they’d got their man, next they would have to convince the Crown Prosecution Service they had a case-not always an easy job-then, after they had jumped through all the hoops, as often as not they could look forward to watching the accused’s lawyer tear the evidence to shreds. “Sometimes,” he agreed. “Did Deborah ever mention anyone called Owen Pierce?”
Sylvie frowned. “No. I’ve never heard the name before.”
Banks described Pierce, but it meant nothing to her.
She poured the tea, tilting her head slightly and biting the end of her tongue as she did so. The Lapsang smelled and tasted good, its smoky flavor a perfect foil for a gray, cold November day. Outside, the wind whistled through the trees and rattled the windows, creating dust devils and gathering the fallen leaves into whirlwinds. Sylvie Harrison put both hands around her mug, as if keeping them warm. “What do you want to know from me?” she asked.
“I’m trying to find out as much as I can about what Deborah was like. There are still a few gaps.”
“Such as?”
“Boyfriends, for example.”
“Ah, boyfriends. But Deborah was far too busy at school for boys. There was plenty of time for that later. After she finished her education.”
“Even so. There was the summer.”
Sylvie held his gaze. “She didn’t have a boyfriend.”
Banks paused, then said slowly, feeling as if he were digging his career grave with every word, “That’s not what I heard. Someone told me she had a boyfriend in August.”
Sylvie paled. She pressed her lips so tight together they almost turned white.
“Did she have a boyfriend?” Banks asked again.
Sylvie sighed, then nodded. “Yes. In the summer. But she finished with him.”
“Was his name John Spinks?”
She raised her eyebrows. “How did you know that?”
“You knew about him?”
She nodded. “Yes. He was a most unpleasant character.”
“Why do you think a bright, pretty girl like Deborah would go out with someone like that?”
A distant look came into her eyes. “I don’t know. I suppose he was good-looking, perhaps exciting in a way. Sometimes one makes mistakes,” she said, with a shrug that Banks thought of as very Gallic. “Sometimes one makes a fool of oneself, does something with the wrong person for all the wrong reasons.”
“What reasons?”
She shrugged again. “A woman’s reasons. A young woman’s reasons.”
“Was Deborah having sex with John Spinks?”
Sylvie paused for a moment, then nodded and said with a sigh, “Yes. One day I came home unexpectedly and I caught them in Deborah’s bedroom. I was crazy with anger. I shouted at him and threw him out of the house and told him never to come back.”
“How did he react?”
She reddened. “He called me names I will not repeat in front of you.”
“Was he violent?”
“He didn’t hit me, if that’s what you mean.” She nodded in the direction of the hall. “There was a vase, not a very valuable vase, but a pretty one, a present from my father, on a stand by the door. He lifted it with both hands and threw it hard against the wall. One small chip of pottery broke off and cut my chin, that’s all.” She fingered the tiny scar.
“Did he leave after that?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell Sir Geoffrey about him?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
She paused before answering. “You must understand that Geoffrey can be very Victorian in some ways, especially concerning Deborah. I hadn’t even told him she was seeing the boy in the first place. He would have made things very uncomfortable for her if he’d known, given Spinks’s character and background. I…well…I’m a woman, and I think in some ways I understood what she was going through, more than Geoffrey would have, anyway. I’m not saying I approved, but it was something she had to get out of her system. Stopping her would only have made her more determined. In the long run it would probably have resulted in even more damage. Do you know what I mean?”
“I think so. Did Deborah go on seeing Spinks?”
“No. I don’t think so. Not after he threw the vase. She was very upset about what happened and we had a long talk. She said she was really sorry, and she apologized to me. I like to think that she understood what I was telling her, what a waste of time seeing this Spinks boy was. She said she realized now what kind of person he was and she would never go near him again. She’d heard him curse me in the most vile manner. She’d seen him throw the vase at the wall, seen the sliver cut me, draw blood.” Sylvie touched the small scar again. “I think it truly shocked her, made her see him in a new light. Deborah is a good girl inside, Chief Inspector. Stubborn, willful, perhaps, but ultimately sensible too. And like a lot of girls her age, she is very naïve about men.”