indication of a physical crisis.
Havers added another several coals to the fire. Mrs. Whitelaw raised her hand to her temple. “Head,” she whispered. “God. The hammering.”
“Shall we phone for your doctor? You may have hit it badly.”
She shook her head weakly. “Comes and goes. Migraines.” Her eyes fil led with tears and she widened them, it seemed, in an effort to keep the tears from spilling over. “Ken…he knew.”
“He knew?”
“What to do.” Her lips looked dry. Her skin seemed cracked, like old glaze on porcelain. “My head. He knew. He could always make the pain go.”
But not this pain, Lynley thought. He said, “Are you alone here in the house, Mrs. Whitelaw?” She nodded. “Shall we phone for someone?” Her lips formed the word no . “My sergeant can stay with you the night.”
Her hand shook the counterpane in a gesture of refusal. “I…I shall be…” She blinked hard. “I shall be…all right presently,” she said, although her voice was faint. “Forgive me, please. So sorry. The shock.”
“Don’t apologise. It’s quite all right.”
They waited in a silence broken only by the hissing of the coal as it burned and the ticking of several clocks in the room. Lynley felt oppression closing in on all sides. He wanted to throw open the stained and painted windows. Instead, he remained where he was, one hand on Mrs. Whitelaw’s shoulder.
She began to raise herself. Sergeant Havers came to her side. She and Lynley eased the older woman to a sitting position and from there to her feet. She wobbled. They kept their hands on her elbows and guided her to one of the overstuffed chairs. Sergeant Havers handed her her spectacles. Lynley found her handkerchief under the nursing chair and returned it to her. He wrapped the counterpane round her shoulders.
She cleared her throat and said, “Thank you,” with some dignity. She put on her spectacles and straightened her clothes. She said tentatively, “If you don’t mind…If I might have my shoes as well,” and waited until she had them on before she spoke again. When she did, it was with the trembling fin gers of her right hand pressed into her temple in an attempt to master whatever pounding she felt in her skull. She said in a quiet voice, “Are you certain?”
“That it was Fleming?”
“If there was a fir e, surely it’s possible that the body was…” She pressed her lips together so hard that the impressions of her teeth showed against her skin. “There could be a mistake, couldn’t there?”
“You’ve forgotten. It wasn’t that kind of fire,” Lynley said. “He wasn’t burned. The body was only discoloured.” When she flinched, he said quickly to reassure her, “From carbon monoxide. Smoke inhalation. His skin would have been deeply flu shed. But it wouldn’t have prevented his wife from recognising him.”
“No one told me,” she said dully. “No one even phoned.”
“The police generally notify the family first. The family takes it from there.”
“The family,” she repeated. “Yes. Well.”
Lynley took her place in the nursing chair as Sergeant Havers returned to her original position and picked up her notebook. Mrs. Whitelaw’s colour was still bad, and Lynley wondered how much questioning they could expect her to endure.
She stared at the pattern in the Persian rug. Her voice was slow, as if she recalled each fact moments before stating it.
“Ken said he was going…It was Greece. A few days’ boating in Greece, he said. With his son.”
“You mentioned Jimmy.”
“Yes. His son. Jimmy. For his birthday. That’s the reason Ken was cutting some training to go. He had…they had a fli ght from Gatwick.”
“When was this?”
“Wednesday night. He’d had it planned for months. It was Jimmy’s birthday present. Just the two of them were going.”
“You’re certain about the trip? You’re certain he meant to leave Wednesday night?”
“I helped him carry his luggage to the
Havers added another several coals to the fire. Mrs. Whitelaw raised her hand to her temple. “Head,” she whispered. “God. The hammering.”
“Shall we phone for your doctor? You may have hit it badly.”
She shook her head weakly. “Comes and goes. Migraines.” Her eyes fil led with tears and she widened them, it seemed, in an effort to keep the tears from spilling over. “Ken…he knew.”
“He knew?”
“What to do.” Her lips looked dry. Her skin seemed cracked, like old glaze on porcelain. “My head. He knew. He could always make the pain go.”
But not this pain, Lynley thought. He said, “Are you alone here in the house, Mrs. Whitelaw?” She nodded. “Shall we phone for someone?” Her lips formed the word no . “My sergeant can stay with you the night.”
Her hand shook the counterpane in a gesture of refusal. “I…I shall be…” She blinked hard. “I shall be…all right presently,” she said, although her voice was faint. “Forgive me, please. So sorry. The shock.”
“Don’t apologise. It’s quite all right.”
They waited in a silence broken only by the hissing of the coal as it burned and the ticking of several clocks in the room. Lynley felt oppression closing in on all sides. He wanted to throw open the stained and painted windows. Instead, he remained where he was, one hand on Mrs. Whitelaw’s shoulder.
She began to raise herself. Sergeant Havers came to her side. She and Lynley eased the older woman to a sitting position and from there to her feet. She wobbled. They kept their hands on her elbows and guided her to one of the overstuffed chairs. Sergeant Havers handed her her spectacles. Lynley found her handkerchief under the nursing chair and returned it to her. He wrapped the counterpane round her shoulders.
She cleared her throat and said, “Thank you,” with some dignity. She put on her spectacles and straightened her clothes. She said tentatively, “If you don’t mind…If I might have my shoes as well,” and waited until she had them on before she spoke again. When she did, it was with the trembling fin gers of her right hand pressed into her temple in an attempt to master whatever pounding she felt in her skull. She said in a quiet voice, “Are you certain?”
“That it was Fleming?”
“If there was a fir e, surely it’s possible that the body was…” She pressed her lips together so hard that the impressions of her teeth showed against her skin. “There could be a mistake, couldn’t there?”
“You’ve forgotten. It wasn’t that kind of fire,” Lynley said. “He wasn’t burned. The body was only discoloured.” When she flinched, he said quickly to reassure her, “From carbon monoxide. Smoke inhalation. His skin would have been deeply flu shed. But it wouldn’t have prevented his wife from recognising him.”
“No one told me,” she said dully. “No one even phoned.”
“The police generally notify the family first. The family takes it from there.”
“The family,” she repeated. “Yes. Well.”
Lynley took her place in the nursing chair as Sergeant Havers returned to her original position and picked up her notebook. Mrs. Whitelaw’s colour was still bad, and Lynley wondered how much questioning they could expect her to endure.
She stared at the pattern in the Persian rug. Her voice was slow, as if she recalled each fact moments before stating it.
“Ken said he was going…It was Greece. A few days’ boating in Greece, he said. With his son.”
“You mentioned Jimmy.”
“Yes. His son. Jimmy. For his birthday. That’s the reason Ken was cutting some training to go. He had…they had a fli ght from Gatwick.”
“When was this?”
“Wednesday night. He’d had it planned for months. It was Jimmy’s birthday present. Just the two of them were going.”
“You’re certain about the trip? You’re certain he meant to leave Wednesday night?”
“I helped him carry his luggage to the
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