A Traitor to Memory

“Oh, you're right, naturally,” Frances said, shooting Helen a smile. “I would be nowhere without Randie. But just you wait, Countess, till the time arrives when that slender body of yours starts to bloat and your ankles swell. Then you'll know what I'm talking about. Lady Hillier, may I offer you cake?”


There it was, Barbara thought, that something not right. Countess. And Lady. She was several beats off, was Frances Webberly, giving those titles a public airing. Helen Lynley never used her title—her husband was an earl as well as a detective inspector, but he'd go to the rack before mentioning that fact and his wife was just as reticent—and while Lady Hillier might indeed be the wife of Assistant Commissioner Sir David Hillier—who himself would go to the rack before failing to make his knighthood known to anyone within hearing distance—she was also Frances Webberly's own sister, and using her title, which Frances had done all night, seemed to be an effort to underscore for everyone differences between them that might otherwise have gone unremarked.

It was all very strange, Barbara thought. Very curious. Very … off.

She gravitated towards Helen Lynley. It seemed to Barbara that the simple word countess had driven a subtle wedge between Helen and the rest of the party, and as a result the other woman was tucking into her cake alone. Her husband appeared oblivious of this—typical man—since he was engaged in conversation with two of his fellow DIs, Angus MacPherson, who was working on his weight problem by ingesting a piece of cake the size of a shoebox, and John Stewart, who was compulsively arranging the remaining crumbs from his own piece of cake in a pattern that resembled a Union Jack. So Barbara went to Helen's rescue.

“Is her countess-ship thoroughly chuffed by the evening's festivities?” she asked quietly when she reached Helen's side. “Or haven't enough forelocks been tugged in her direction?”

“Behave yourself, Barbara,” Helen remonstrated, but she smiled as she said it.

“Can't do that. I've got a reputation to maintain.” Barbara accepted a plate of cake and tucked into it happily. “You know, your slenderness,” she went on, “you could at least try to look dumpy like the rest of us. Have you thought about wearing horizontal stripes?”

“There is that wallpaper I got for the spare room,” Helen said thoughtfully. “It's vertical, but I could wear it on its side.”

“You owe it to your fellow females. One woman maintaining her appropriate body weight makes the rest of us look like elephants.”

“I'm afraid I won't be maintaining it for long,” Helen said.

“Oh, I wouldn't go to Ladbrokes to put five quid—” Barbara suddenly realised what Helen was saying. She glanced at her in surprise and saw that Helen's face bore an uncharacteristically bashful half smile.

“Holy hell,” Barbara intoned. “Helen, are you really …? You and the inspector? Hell. That's bloody brilliant, that is.” She looked across the room at Lynley, his blond head cocked to listen to something that Angus MacPherson was saying to him. “The inspector hasn't said a word.”

“We've only just found out this week. No one actually knows yet. That seemed best.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah,” Barbara agreed, but she didn't know what to think about the fact that Helen Lynley had just confided in her. She felt a sudden warmth swell over her and a quick pulsing in the back of her throat. “Gosh. Hell. Well, never fear, Helen. Mum'll be the absolute word at this end till you tell me otherwise.” And as she realised her inadvertent pun, Helen did also, and they laughed together.

It was at this moment that Barbara caught sight of the caterer tiptoeing along the side of the dining room from the direction of the kitchen, a cordless phone in her hand.

“A call for the superintendent,” she announced, but she managed to sound apologetic about the fact, and she added, “Sorry,” as if there had actually been a chance in hell that she could have done something about it.

“Here comes trouble,” DI Angus MacPherson rumbled as “At this hour?” Frances Webberly asked. She said anxiously, “Malcolm, good heavens … You can't …”

A sympathetic murmur rose from the guests. They all knew either first-or secondhand what a phone call at one in the morning meant. So did Webberly. He said, “Can't be helped, Fran,” and he put a hand on her shoulder as he went to take the call.