A Traitor to Memory

“Think positive thoughts, I suppose. Just don't make them of food.”


Lynley studied her fondly: the curve of her cheek and the way her ear lay like a perfect shell against her head. There was a greenish cast to her skin, though, and the way she was clutching onto the pillow suggested another round of sickness was fast on its way. He said, “I wish I could do this for you, Helen.”

She laughed weakly. “That's just the sort of thing men say out of guilt when they know very well that the last thing on earth they would ever choose to do is to have a baby for anyone.” She reached for his hand. “I do appreciate the thought, though. Are you off, then? You will have breakfast, won't you, Tommy?”

He assured her that he would have a meal. Indeed, he knew there was no escape from it. If Helen wasn't insisting upon his eating, then Charlie Denton—manservant, housekeeper, cook, valet, aspiring thespian, unrepentant Don Juan, or whatever else he was choosing to call himself on a given day—would bar the door until Lynley had downed a plate of something.

“What about you?” he asked his wife. “What d'you have on? Are you working today?”

“Frankly, I wish not, because I'd like to remain immobile for the next thirty-two weeks.”

“Shall I phone Simon, then?”

“No. He's got that acrylamide business to sort out. They need it in two days.”

“Yes, I see. But does he need you?” Simon Allcourt-St. James was a forensic scientist, an expert witness whose specialities took him into the witness box regularly to confirm the Crown Prosecution's evidence or to bolster the position of the defence. In this particular instance, he was working on a civil case in which the litigation involved determining how much acrylamide—absorbed through the skin—constituted a toxic dose.

“I like to think so,” she replied. “And anyway …” She gazed at him, a smile curving her mouth. “I'd like to tell him our news. I told Barbara last night, by the way.”

“Ah.”

“Ah? Tommy, what's that supposed to mean?”

Lynley rose from the bed. He went to the wardrobe, where the mirrored door illustrated the disaster he'd created with his tie. He un-knotted it and began again. “You did tell Barbara that no one else knows, didn't you, Helen?”

Across from him, she struggled to sit up. The movement cost her, however, and she quickly sank back. “I told her that, yes. But now that she knows, I think we may as well tell—”

“I'd rather not just yet.” The tie looked worse than the first time round. Lynley gave up on the effort, blamed it on the material, and fetched another. He was aware that Helen was watching him, and he knew she expected some very sound reasoning behind his decision. He said, “Superstition, darling. If we keep it to ourselves, there's less chance something might go wrong. It's silly, I know. But there you have it. I hadn't thought to tell anyone till … well, I guess till it took.”

“Till it took.” She repeated the phrase thoughtfully. “Are you worried, then?”

“Yes. Worried. Terrified. Nervous. Apprehensive. Preoccupied. And frequently incoherent. That's about it.”

She smiled gently. “I love you, darling.”

And that smile asked for a further admission. He owed her that much. “There's also Deborah to consider,” Lynley said. “Simon'll be able to cope with the news, but it's going to hurt Deborah like the devil when you tell her you're pregnant.”

Deborah was Simon's wife, a young woman with so many miscarriages to her name that it seemed like a deliberate act of cruelty to mention a successful pregnancy in her hearing. Not that she wouldn't feign joy for the couple. Not that she wouldn't feel that joy at some level. But at a deeper level where her own hopes lay, she would feel the hot brand of failure scorch the skin of dreams, and that skin had been scorched enough times already.

“Tommy,” Helen said kindly, “Deborah's going to find out eventually. How much more hurtful is it going to be if she suddenly realises I've switched to maternity clothes without mentioning the fact that we're having a baby? She'll know why we haven't told her at that point. Don't you think that will hurt her even more?”

“I'm not suggesting we let it go that long,” Lynley said. “Just for a while, Helen. For luck, actually, more than for Deborah. Will you do this for me?”

Helen studied him as he'd studied her. He felt himself chafing under her scrutiny, but he didn't turn from it, waiting for her answer. She said, “Are you happy about this baby, darling? Are you truly happy?”

“Helen, I'm delighted.”

But even as he spoke, Lynley wondered why he did not feel that way. He wondered why what he actually felt was a duty he'd long left undone.

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