Believing the Lie - Elizabeth George [97]
LAKE WINDERMERE
CUMBRIA
After Manette had left them, Lynley told Bernard Fairclough that they needed to have a talk. Fairclough apparently anticipated this because he nodded, although he said, despite the rain that had begun to fall, “Let me take you through the topiary garden first.”
Lynley reckoned that Fairclough made this offer in order to prepare himself for whatever talk was coming, but he let the other man have the time. They went in through an arched gate in a stone wall that was grey-speckled with lichen. Fairclough chatted about the site. He sounded casual enough, but doubtless he’d gone this route a hundred times: showing off what his wife had accomplished with her efforts to return the garden to its former glory.
Lynley listened without comment. He found the garden oddly beautiful. He generally preferred his shrubbery natural, but in this place box, holly, myrtle, and yew had been fashioned into fantastic shapes, some of them over thirty feet tall. There were trapezoids, pyramids, and spirals. There were double spirals, mushrooms, arches, barrels, and cones. Paths of bleached limestone led among them and where there were no shrubs, there were parterres created from low box hedges. In these parterres yellow dwarf nasturtiums still bloomed, a contrast to the purple violas that surrounded them.
The garden was more than two hundred years old, and restoring it had been Valerie’s dream upon inheriting Ireleth Hall, Fairclough told him. It had taken her years upon years with the assistance of four gardeners and photos from early in the twentieth century. “Magnificent, eh?” Fairclough said with pride. “She’s amazing, my wife.”
Lynley admired the garden. Anyone, he knew, would have done the same. But there was something not quite right in Fairclough’s tone, and Lynley said to him, “Shall we talk here in the garden or somewhere else?”
Fairclough, obviously knowing that the time had come, replied, “Come with me, then. Valerie’s gone to check on Mignon. She’ll be a while. We can talk in the library.”
This turned out to be a misnomer, as there were no books. The room was a small and cosy chamber just off the great hall, with darkly panelled walls that were hung with portraits of Faircloughs long departed. A desk sat in the centre of the room, and two comfortable armchairs faced a fireplace. This was an impressive Grinling Gibbons affair surmounted by a display of old Willow pattern pottery, and a coal fire was laid within. Fairclough lit this, for the room bore a chill. Then he opened the heavy curtains that covered the lead-paned windows. Rain was streaking them.
Fairclough offered drinks. It was a little early for Lynley, so he demurred, but Fairclough poured sherry for himself. He indicated the chairs, and they sat. He said, “You’re seeing more dirty laundry than I expected. I’m sorry about that.”
“Every family has its share,” Lynley noted. “My own included.”
“Not like mine, I wager.”
Lynley shrugged. He said, because at this point it had to be asked, “Do you want me to proceed, Bernard?”
“Why do you ask?”
Lynley steepled his fingers beneath his chin and looked at the coal fire. Lit by candle stubs beneath it, it was building nicely. The room would soon be quite warm. He said, “Aside from this business about Cresswell’s farm, which bears looking into, you may already have the result you prefer. If the coroner has declared it an accident, you might well want to leave it that way.”
“And let someone get away with murder?”
“At the end of the day, no one gets away with anything, I’ve found.”
“What have you uncovered?”
“It’s not a matter of what I’ve uncovered. So far, that’s little enough as my hands are somewhat tied by the pretence of my being a visitor here. It’s rather a matter of what I might uncover, which is a motive for murder. I suppose what I’m saying is that while this easily could have been an accident, you run the risk of discovering things about your son, your daughters, even your wife that you’d rather not know, no matter how your nephew died. That sort