Believing the Lie - Elizabeth George [38]
St. James rose awkwardly, shoving away from his desk to get purchase on its edge so that he could rise more easily, despite the disability of a leg that hadn’t functioned without a brace for years. He greeted Lynley and moved to the drinks trolley beneath the window. “Whisky’s the answer,” he said to Lynley. “Taller than usual and straight. What about you?”
“Pour away,” Lynley said to him. “Trouble?”
“My brother David’s come across a girl in Southampton who wants to put up her baby for adoption, a private arrangement made through a solicitor.”
“That’s excellent news, Simon,” Lynley said. “You must be delighted after all this time.”
“Under normal circumstances. It’s like a gift we weren’t expecting.” He uncapped a bottle of Lagavulin and poured a good three fingers for each of them. Lynley raised an eyebrow as St. James handed one over to him. “We deserve it,” St. James said. “At least I do, and I expect you do as well.” He gestured towards the leather armchairs in front of the fireplace. They were worn and cracked, suitable for sinking into and getting properly sloshed.
“What are the circumstances then?” Lynley asked.
St. James glanced at the doorway, suggesting the conversation was meant to take place without Deborah’s knowledge. “The mother wants an open adoption. Not only herself involved in the baby’s life but the father as well. She’s sixteen. He’s fifteen.”
“Ah. I see.”
“Deborah’s reaction was that she doesn’t want to share her child.”
“Not entirely unreasonable, is it?”
St. James continued. “And decidedly, she doesn’t want to share her child with two teenagers. She says it would be like adopting three children instead of one and besides that, there are both extended families to consider and how they’d fit in as well.” He took a gulp of the whiskey.
“Actually,” Lynley said, “I rather see her point.”
“As do I. The situation’s far from ideal. On the other hand, it seems… Well, she’s had the rest of the tests, Tommy. It’s definite. It’s highly unlikely she’d ever be able to carry a child to term.”
Lynley knew this. He’d known for over a year, and it seemed that Deborah had finally told her husband the truth she’d carried alone— aside from his own knowledge of it— for the past twelve months.
Lynley said nothing. Both of them meditated on their glasses of Lagavulin. From the corridor, the clicking of dog nails against wood indicated that Peach was coming to them and if Peach was coming, she was no doubt accompanied by her mistress. Lynley said quietly, “Deborah’s asked me to stay to dinner, but I can make an excuse if it’s awkward for you tonight.”
St. James replied with, “God no. I’d prefer it. You know me. Anything to avoid a difficult conversation with the woman I love.”
“I’ve brought us some pre-dinner goodies,” Deborah said as she entered the room. “Cheese straws. Peach has already had one, so I can tell you they’re delicious, at least to a dog. Don’t get up, Simon. I’ll fetch my own sherry.” She put a plate of the cheese straws on an ottoman between the two chairs, shooed the dachshund away from them, and went to the drinks trolley. She said to her husband, “Tommy’s told me he wants to see both of us. I reckon it’s either business or an announcement or both and if it has to do with the Healey Elliott, I vote that we buy it off him straightaway, Simon.”
“Clear your mind of that proposition,” Lynley said. “I’ll be buried in that car.”
“Damn.” St. James smiled.
“I did try,” his wife told him. She came to perch on the arm of his chair and said to Lynley, “What, then, Tommy?”
He thought about how to approach the matter. He settled on saying, “I’m wondering how you two might feel about an autumn’s jaunt up to the Lakes.”
CHELSEA
LONDON
She always brushed the day’s tangles out of her hair before she came to bed. Sometimes he did it for her, and sometimes he watched. Her hair was long and thick and curly and red, ungovernable at most times, which was why he loved it. Tonight he watched from the