amusing, don’t you? But just look at me. One morning without Caroline in the flat and I’m a complete disaster. Surely you don’t think this is an ensemble that
she
would approve of?”
Lynley regarded the ensemble in question. Barbara didn’t need to do so. The vision of Lady Helen was branded into her mind: a smartly tailored burgundy suit, silk blouse, and a mauve scarf that cascaded down to a trim waist.
“What’s wrong with it?” Lynley asked. “It looks fine to me. In fact, considering the hour”—he glanced at his pocket watch—“I’d say you’re almost too sartorially splendid.”
Lady Helen turned to Barbara in exasperation. “Isn’t that every bit just like a man, Sergeant? I end up this morning looking like an overripe strawberry and he murmurs looks fine to me’ and buries his nose in a murder file.”
“Far better that than assist you with your clothing for the next few days.” Lynley nodded at the ignored shopping bag that had toppled over and now spilled a few assorted pieces of material onto the floor. “Is that why you’ve come?”
Lady Helen pulled the bag towards her. “I only wish it were that simple,” she sighed. “But it’s worse by far than the Denton-Caroline affair—we’ve not finished with that, by the way—and I’m at a total loss. I’ve mixed up Simon’s bullet holes.”
Barbara was beginning to feel as if she’d walked into something designed by Wilde. Surely at any moment Lane would enter stage left with the cucumber sandwiches.
“Simon’s bullet holes?” Lynley, more accustomed to Lady Helen’s pirouettes of thought, was patient.
“You
know. We were working on the patterns of blood splattering based on trajectory, angle, and calibre. You remember that, don’t you?”
“The piece to be presented next month?”
“The very one. Simon had left it all organised for me in the lab. I was supposed to run off the preliminary set of data, attach them to the cloth, and set up the lab for the final study. But I—”
“Mixed up the cloths,” Lynley finished. “St. James
will
go on about that, Helen. What do you propose to do?”
She looked forlornly down at the samples that she had dumped unceremoniously onto the floor. “Of course, I’m not hopelessly ignorant in the matter. After four years in the laboratory, at least I recognise the twenty-two calibre and can easily find the forty-five and the shotgun. But as to the others … and even worse, as to which blood pattern goes with each trajectory…”
“It’s a muddle,” Lynley finished.
“In a word,” she agreed. “So I thought I’d pop by this morning to see if perhaps we could sort it all out.”
Lynley leaned down and fingered his way through the pile of material. “Can’t be done, old duck. Sorry, but you’ve hours of work here and we’ve a train to catch.”
“Then whatever shall I say to Simon? He’s been working on this for ages.”
Lynley pondered the question. “There’s one thing …”
“What?”
“Professor Abrams at Chelsea Institute. Do you know him?” When she shook her head, he went on. “He and Simon both have testified as expert witnesses. They did in the Melton case only last year. They know each other. Perhaps he’d help. I could phone him for you before I leave.”
“Would
you, Tommy? I’d be so grateful. I’d do anything for you.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Surely not the thing to say to a man over breakfast.”
She laughed engagingly. “Even the dishes! I’d even give up Caroline if it came to that.”
“And Jeffrey Cusick?”
“Even Jeffrey. Poor man. Traded for bullet holes without a second thought.”
“All right then. I’ll see to it as soon as we’ve finished our breakfast. I take it that we
may
now finish our breakfast?”
“Oh yes, of course.” She dug happily into her plate while Lynley put on his spectacles and looked at his papers once more. “What kind of case is it that has you two rushing off so early in the
she
would approve of?”
Lynley regarded the ensemble in question. Barbara didn’t need to do so. The vision of Lady Helen was branded into her mind: a smartly tailored burgundy suit, silk blouse, and a mauve scarf that cascaded down to a trim waist.
“What’s wrong with it?” Lynley asked. “It looks fine to me. In fact, considering the hour”—he glanced at his pocket watch—“I’d say you’re almost too sartorially splendid.”
Lady Helen turned to Barbara in exasperation. “Isn’t that every bit just like a man, Sergeant? I end up this morning looking like an overripe strawberry and he murmurs looks fine to me’ and buries his nose in a murder file.”
“Far better that than assist you with your clothing for the next few days.” Lynley nodded at the ignored shopping bag that had toppled over and now spilled a few assorted pieces of material onto the floor. “Is that why you’ve come?”
Lady Helen pulled the bag towards her. “I only wish it were that simple,” she sighed. “But it’s worse by far than the Denton-Caroline affair—we’ve not finished with that, by the way—and I’m at a total loss. I’ve mixed up Simon’s bullet holes.”
Barbara was beginning to feel as if she’d walked into something designed by Wilde. Surely at any moment Lane would enter stage left with the cucumber sandwiches.
“Simon’s bullet holes?” Lynley, more accustomed to Lady Helen’s pirouettes of thought, was patient.
“You
know. We were working on the patterns of blood splattering based on trajectory, angle, and calibre. You remember that, don’t you?”
“The piece to be presented next month?”
“The very one. Simon had left it all organised for me in the lab. I was supposed to run off the preliminary set of data, attach them to the cloth, and set up the lab for the final study. But I—”
“Mixed up the cloths,” Lynley finished. “St. James
will
go on about that, Helen. What do you propose to do?”
She looked forlornly down at the samples that she had dumped unceremoniously onto the floor. “Of course, I’m not hopelessly ignorant in the matter. After four years in the laboratory, at least I recognise the twenty-two calibre and can easily find the forty-five and the shotgun. But as to the others … and even worse, as to which blood pattern goes with each trajectory…”
“It’s a muddle,” Lynley finished.
“In a word,” she agreed. “So I thought I’d pop by this morning to see if perhaps we could sort it all out.”
Lynley leaned down and fingered his way through the pile of material. “Can’t be done, old duck. Sorry, but you’ve hours of work here and we’ve a train to catch.”
“Then whatever shall I say to Simon? He’s been working on this for ages.”
Lynley pondered the question. “There’s one thing …”
“What?”
“Professor Abrams at Chelsea Institute. Do you know him?” When she shook her head, he went on. “He and Simon both have testified as expert witnesses. They did in the Melton case only last year. They know each other. Perhaps he’d help. I could phone him for you before I leave.”
“Would
you, Tommy? I’d be so grateful. I’d do anything for you.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Surely not the thing to say to a man over breakfast.”
She laughed engagingly. “Even the dishes! I’d even give up Caroline if it came to that.”
“And Jeffrey Cusick?”
“Even Jeffrey. Poor man. Traded for bullet holes without a second thought.”
“All right then. I’ll see to it as soon as we’ve finished our breakfast. I take it that we
may
now finish our breakfast?”
“Oh yes, of course.” She dug happily into her plate while Lynley put on his spectacles and looked at his papers once more. “What kind of case is it that has you two rushing off so early in the
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