Playing for the Ashes by Elizabeth George Page A

sort out what happened.”
    She didn’t stir at first. Then it was only her fingers on the handkerchief, another tight roll along its hem. “A death? But the fire brigade didn’t say. They asked me how to spell her name. They said they’d let me know the moment they discovered anything…And now you’re saying that all along they knew —” She drew a breath. “Why didn’t they tell me? They had me on the phone and they didn’t even bother to say that someone was dead. Dead . In my cottage. And Gabriella…. Oh my God, I must notify Ken.”
    In her words, Lynley heard the fleeting echo of the thane’s distraught wife in Inverness: What, in our house ? He said, “There’s been a death, but it wasn’t Gabriella Patten’s, Mrs. Whitelaw.”
    “Wasn’t…?” She looked from Lynley to Havers. She stiffened in her chair, as if she suddenly realised that a horror was about to befall her. “Then that’s why the gentleman wanted to know if someone else was staying there with her.” She swallowed. “Who? Tell me. Please.”
    “I’m sorry to say it’s Kenneth Fleming.”
    Her face altered to a perfect blank. Then it became perplexed. She said, “Ken? That’s not possible.”
    “I’m afraid it is. We’ve had a formal identification of the body.”
    “By whom?”
    “His—”
    “No,” she said. The colour was rapidly draining from her face. “There’s been a mistake. Ken’s not even in England.”
    “His wife identified his body late this afternoon.”
    “It can’t be. It can not be. Why wasn’t I asked…?” She reached out to Lynley. She said, “Ken’s not here. He’s gone with Jimmy. They’re sailing…. They’ve gone sailing. They’ve taken a brief holiday and…They’re sailing and I can’t remember. Where did he…? Where?”
    She struggled to her feet as if standing upright would allow her to think. She looked right and left. Her eyes rolled back dangerously in her head. She crashed to the flo or, knocking over the tripod table and its drink.
    Havers said, “Holy hell!”
    The crystal decanter and glasses scattered. The liquor sloshed onto the Persian rug. The scent of sherry was honey-sweet.
    Lynley had risen to his feet as Mrs. Whitelaw got to hers, but he wasn’t quick enough to catch her. Now he moved swiftly to her crumpled body. He checked her pulse, removed her spectacles, and lifted her eyelids.
    He took her hand between his. Her skin felt clammy and cold.
    “Find a blanket somewhere,” Lynley said. “There’ll be bedrooms above.”
    He heard Havers dash from the room. She pounded up the stairs. He removed Mrs. Whitelaw’s shoes, pulled one of the tiny footstools over, and elevated her feet. He checked her pulse again. It was strong. Her breathing was normal. He took off his dinner jacket and covered her with it. He rubbed her hands. As Sergeant Havers bounded back into the room, a pale green counterpane in her arms, Mrs. Whitelaw’s eyelids fluttered. Her forehead creased, deepening the incisionlike line between her eyebrows.
    “You’re all right,” Lynley said. “You’ve fainted. Lie still.”
    He replaced his jacket with the counterpane, which Havers had apparently ripped from an upstairs bed. He righted the tripod table as his sergeant collected the glasses and decanter and used a packet of tissues to sop up at least part of the sherry that had pooled out in the shape of Gibraltar, soaking into the rug.
    Beneath the counterpane, Mrs. Whitelaw trembled. The fingers of one hand crept out from beneath the cover. She clutched at its edge.
    “Shall I get her something?” Havers asked. “Water? A whisky?”
    Mrs. Whitelaw’s lips twitched with the effort at talking. She fastened her eyes on Lynley. He covered her fingers with his hand and said to his sergeant, “She’s all right, I think.” And to Mrs. Whitelaw, “Just be still.”
    Her eyes squeezed shut. Her breathing grew ragged, but it appeared to be a battle for emotional control rather than an