Playing for the Ashes (28 page)

“There were none,” she said. “There were book matches in the sitting room. And a packet of those long fireplace matches are on a shelf against the left wall of the dining room
fir
eplace.”

“A few of those couldn’t have been chopped down to use round the cigarette?”

“Too thick.”

Lynley absently passed the packet of Silk Cut from hand to hand. Ardery leaned against the Aga and watched him. “We have scores of dabs, for what they’re worth. We’ve taken them off the Aston Martin as well, in hopes we can at least sort out Mrs. Patten’s from the rest. We’ve got Fleming’s, of course, so we can eliminate his.”

“But that leaves whomever else she may have invited in for a chat at one time or another. Her husband’s been here, by the way.”

“We’re trying to get a handle on local visitors right now. And the DCs are looking for someone else who may have heard the row.”

Lynley set the cigarettes on the work top and went to the door that led into the dining room. It was exactly as Ardery had described it, except for the fact that the source of the fire—the armchair—was gone. She said, unnecessarily, that she had taken it to the lab for testing, and she began talking about fi bres and rates of burning and potential accelerants while Lynley ducked beneath a beam, crossed a passageway that was the depth of two
fir
eplaces, and entered the sitting room. Like the dining room, it was cluttered with antiques, all of them covered with a layer of soot. As he looked from nursing chairs to settees, from corner cupboards to chests, he decided that Celandine Cottage was a holding tank for whatever hadn’t already been crammed into Mrs. Whitelaw’s house in Staffordshire Terrace. At least she was consistent, he thought. No Danish modern in the country to contrast with English nineteenth century in the city.

A magazine lay open on a tripod table, revealing an article entitled “Getting It” and an accompanying photograph of a woman with glossy pouting lips and masses of raven hair. Lynley picked up the magazine and flipped it to its cover.
Vogue
.

Isabelle Ardery was watching him from the doorway, arms folded beneath her breasts. Her expression was unreadable, but he realised she wouldn’t be altogether pleased with his invasion into territory that they’d mutually decided would be hers. He said, “Sorry. It’s a compulsion of mine.”

“I’m not offended, Inspector,” she said steadily. “If our positions were reversed, I’d be doing the same.”

“I imagine you’d rather have the case on your own.”

“I’d rather have lots of things I’m not going to get.”

“You’re far more resigned than I.” Lynley went to the narrow shelf of books and began tipping them out, then opening each, one after the next.

“I’ve had an interesting report from the DS who took Mrs. Fleming to identify the body,” Inspector Ardery said. She added in a patient voice as Lynley opened a small writing desk and began to finger through the letters, brochures, and documents inside, “Inspector, we have catalogued the contents of the entire building. Outbuildings as well. I’ll be only too happy to provide you with the lists.” When Lynley raised his head, she said with a degree of professional dispassion that he had to admire, “It might save time, actually. Our crime scene boys have a reputation for being thorough.”

He appreciated the control she maintained over her feelings, which were no doubt getting progressively more ruffled with every moment he spent doing what she had already directed her crime scene team to do. He said, “Knee jerk reaction. I’ll probably start taking up the carpeting next.” He gave a final scrutiny to the room, noting pictures in heavy gilt frames and a fireplace as large as the one in the dining room. He checked this. Its damper was closed.

“The dining room as well,” Inspector Ardery said.

“What?”

“The damper. It was closed in the dining room fireplace. That’s what you were checking for, isn’t it?”

“Substantiation for murder,” Lynley said.

“You’ve eliminated suicide?”

“Not a single indication of it. And Fleming didn’t smoke.” He headed out of the sitting room, dodging the low oak beams that served as lintels for the doorways. Inspector Ardery followed him outside to the terrace. “What did the DS report to you?” Lynley asked.

“She didn’t ask a single pertinent question.”

“Mrs. Fleming?”

“She insisted upon being called Cooper, not Fleming, by the way. She saw the body and wanted to know why it was coloured so pink. Once she heard it was carbon monoxide, she didn’t ask a thing. When most people hear the words
carbon monoxide poisoning
, they assume exhaust fumes, don’t they? Suicide committed in a garage with a car’s motor providing the means. But even if they make that assumption, they still ask. Where? How? Why? When? Did he leave a note? She didn’t ask a thing. She just looked at the body, agreed it was Fleming, and asked the detective sergeant to buy her a packet of Embassys please. That was it.”

Lynley let his eyes take in the back garden. Beyond it lay another paddock. Beyond the paddock, the field of rape blazed its colour back towards the sun like a mirror. “They’d been separated for years as I understand it. She may have been worn down. She may have reached the point where she didn’t have an interest in him any longer. If that’s the case, why bother with questions?”

“Women tend not to become that indifferent to their former husbands, Inspector. Not when there are children involved.”

He looked back at her. A faint wash of colour made hot spots high on her cheeks. “Accepted,” he said. “But it could have been shock that kept her silent.”

“Accepted,” she said. “But DS Coffman didn’t think so. She’s stood in before when wives have had to identify their husbands. Coffman thought something was off.”

“Generalisations are useless,” Lynley pointed out. “Worse, they’re dangerous.”

“Thank you. I’m quite aware of that. But when the generalisation is coupled with the facts and with the evidence at hand, I think you’ll agree that the generalisation ought to be examined.”

Lynley noted her posture: arms still crossed. He noted the even tone of her voice and the directness of her contact with his eyes. He realised he was questioning her theories for the same reason he had felt compelled to crawl through the cottage inch by inch in order to ascertain that nothing had been missed. He didn’t like what lay behind his instinct to distrust her. It was chauvinistic. If Helen knew he was struggling with the fact that this fellow officer of equal rank was a woman, she’d give him the tongue lashing he well deserved.

“You’ve found something,” he said.
So happy you were able to deduce that much
, her expression replied. She said, “This way.”

Feeling chagrined, he followed her across the grass towards the bottom of the garden. The garden was divided into two sections separated by a fence. Two-thirds of it was given over to lawn, flower beds, a gazebo fashioned of split chestnut rails, a bird house, a birdbath, and a small lily pond. The other third was a strip of lawn interrupted by pear trees and partially covered with a compost heap. It was to this farther section of the garden that Inspector Ardery strode, taking him to the northeast corner where a box hedge served as demarcation between the garden and the paddock that lay beyond it. The paddock itself was marked off by fencing of wooden poles with heavy wire running between them.

Inspector Ardery used a pencil, which she took from her pocket, to point to the pole just beyond the box hedge. “There were seven fibres here, at the top of the pole. Another caught on the wire. They were blue. Possibly denim. And here, you can still see it although it’s rather faint, we had a footprint just beneath the hedge.”

“Type of shoe?”

“We don’t know at the moment. Round toe, distinct heel, thick sole. A dog’s tooth pattern. It was the left foot. Driven deep as if someone jumped from the fence into the garden, landing mostly to the left. We’ve taken a cast.”

“Were there no other prints?”

“None to speak of in this area. I’ve two constables out looking for others to match, but it’s not going to be easy, considering the time that’s passed since the death. We can’t even be sure that this print has anything to do with Wednesday night.”

“Still, it’s a place to start.”

“Yes. That’s what I think.” She pointed to the southwest and explained that there was a spring some ninety yards from the cottage. It bubbled into a stream along which a public footpath wound. The footpath was popular with the locals since it ultimately led to Lesser Springburn, about a ten-minute walk away. Although the path was heavily covered with last autumn’s leaves and this spring’s new growth of grass, it gave way now and again— particularly near stiles—to sections of uncluttered earth. There would be footprints at those points, but since more than a full day had elapsed between the actual death and the discovery of the body, if this footprint by the box hedge had been repeated elsewhere, no doubt others had obscured it since then.

“You’re thinking someone walked in from Lesser Springburn?”

It was a possibility, she said.

“Someone local?”

Not necessarily, she explained. Just someone who knew where to
fin
d the footpath and where the footpath led. It wasn’t particularly well marked in Lesser Springburn. It began behind a housing estate and ducked quickly into an apple orchard, so someone would have had to know what he was looking for in order to take the route in the
fir
st place. She admitted that she couldn’t say for certain that this was the route the killer had chosen, but she had an additional constable in the village, attempting to ascertain if anyone saw movement or torchlight on the footpath on Wednesday night and if anyone else saw a strange vehicle parked anywhere at all in the environs.

“We also found a scattering of cigarette ends along here.” She gestured to the bottom of the hedge. “There were six, all lying within three or four inches of each other. Not crushed out, but allowed to burn down. There were matches as well. Eighteen. Book matches, not kitchen.”

“Windy night?” Lynley speculated.

“A nervous smoker with shaking hands?” she countered. She gestured towards the front of the house, in the direction of Water Street. “We tend to think whoever popped over the fence and the hedge here started out by hopping the wall and coming along the paddock from the street. It’s all grass and clover so there weren’t any footprints, but it makes more sense than to assume someone sneaked up the cottage drive, came through the gate, dashed across the lawn, and hid himself here to watch for a while. And the number of cigarettes does suggest a watcher, wouldn’t you agree?”

“But not necessarily a killer?”

“Quite possibly a killer. Building up his courage.”

“Or her courage?”

“Or hers. Yes. Naturally. It could have been a woman.” She looked towards the cottage as Havers and Mrs. Whitelaw came through the kitchen door. She said, “The lab has the lot: fibres, matches, cigarette ends, cast of the print. We should start getting some results this afternoon.” Her nod at Lynley indicated that this professional offering of information was at an end. She began to head back to the cottage.

“Inspector Ardery,” Lynley said.

She paused, glanced back in his direction. Her hairslide slipped and she made a moue of disgust as she refastened it. “Yes?”

“If you have a moment, I’d like you to hear whatever my sergeant has to report. I’d appreciate your input.”

She favoured him with another one of her disconcerting, unwavering observations. He was aware of how little he was probably benefiting from the scrutiny. She tilted her head towards the cottage. “Had I been a man, would you have done the same in there?”

“I think so,” he said. “But I probably would have had the tact to be more surreptitious. I apologise, Inspector. I was out of line.”

The eyes didn’t waver. “Right,” she said evenly. “You were.”

She waited for Lynley to join her, and they crossed the lawn to meet Sergeant Havers.

Mrs. Whitelaw remained at the wicker table, where she sat, put on her dark glasses, and fixed her attention upon the garage.

“None of her things seems to be missing,” Havers told them quietly. “Aside from the armchair from the dining room, everything’s exactly where it was last time she was here.”

“When was that?”

She made reference to her notes. “The twenty-eighth of March. Less than a week before Gabriella moved in. She says the clothes upstairs are all Gabriella’s. And a set of suitcases in the second bedroom are Gabriella’s as well. Nothing of Fleming’s is anywhere.”

“It looks as if he didn’t intend to stay that night,” Inspector Ardery said.

Lynley thought of the cat bowls, the Silk Cut, the clothes. “It looks as if she didn’t intend to leave, either. Not as a long-range plan, that is.” He studied the cottage from where they stood, continuing reflectively, “They have a tremendous row, the two of them. Mrs. Patten grabs her handbag and charges into the night. Our watcher by the box hedge sees his opportunity—”

“Or her opportunity,” Ardery said.