A Traitor to Memory

They replaced everything and lowered themselves back into the cottage proper. Lynley pulled the hatch's cover into position. He said, “Fetch those letters from the bedroom, Havers. Let's go over to the Sixty Plus Club. We might be able to fill in some gaps there.”


Outside, they headed up Friday Street, away from the river, passing opposite Wiley's Books where, Barbara noted, Major Ted Wiley made no effort to hide the fact that he was watching them through the front window, standing just behind a display of picture books. He raised a handkerchief to his face as they moved along the pavement. Crying? Pretending to cry? Or just honking his nose? Barbara couldn't help wondering. Three years was a long time to wait for a commitment, only to be foiled at the end.

Friday Street was a mixed bag of businesses and residences. It gave way to Duke Street, where Henley Piano Galleries featured a display of violins and violas—along with a guitar, a mandolin, and a banjo—in the window. Lynley said, “Hang on a moment, Barbara,” and sauntered over to study them. Barbara took the opportunity to light a fag, and she gazed at the instruments in collegial cooperation, wondering what she and Lynley were supposed to be seeing.

She finally said, “What? What?” to Lynley when he continued gazing, his fingers pulling meditatively at his chin.

He said, “He's like Menuhin. There are all sorts of similarities in their early careers. But one wonders if the family is similar. Menuhin had his parents' complete devotion from the first. If Gideon hadn't—”

“Menu-who?”

Lynley glanced her way. “Another prodigy, Havers.” He folded his arms and shifted his weight, preparatory—it seemed—to settling in for a confab on the topic. “It's something to think about: what happens to the parents' lives when they discover they've produced a genius. A set of responsibilities falls upon them entirely different to those faced by the parents of average children. Now take that set of responsibilities and to them add the responsibilities faced by the parents of a different sort of child.”

“A child like Sonia,” Havers said.

“Those responsibilities are equally challenging, equally demanding, and equally difficult but in an entirely different way.”

“But are they equally rewarding to the parents? And if they aren't, how do the parents cope? And what does the daily act of coping do to their marriage?”

Lynley nodded, looking to the violins again. Considering his words, Barbara wondered how far into his own future he was gazing as he studied the instruments. She hadn't yet mentioned to him the conversation she'd had with his wife on the previous evening. Now didn't seem like the time to do it. But on the other hand, he'd given her an entrée that was tough to ignore. And wouldn't it benefit him to have a friendly ear he could speak his potential concerns into during the months of Helen's pregnancy? He would hardly want to do so with his wife.

She said, “Bit worried, sir?” and dragged on her Player with marginal apprehension because, although she'd worked in partnership with Lynley for three years, they rarely ventured into the realm of their personal lives in conversation.

“Worried, Havers?”

She blew smoke from the side of her mouth, the better to avoid hitting him in the face with it when he turned back to her. She said, “Helen told me last night about … you know. I expect there're worries connected with that. Everyone now and again would have them. You know. I mean …” She rustled her hair and fastened the top button of her pea jacket, which she immediately then unfastened when it felt like a noose.

Lynley said, “Ah. The baby. Yes.”

“Scary moments connected with that, I expect.”

“Moments indeed,” he replied evenly. Then he said, “Let's move on,” and headed round the corner from the piano gallery, the conversation between them dismissed.

Odd answer, Barbara thought. Odd reaction. And she realised how stereotypical she'd expected to find his response to impending fatherhood. The man had a distinguished family tree. He had a title—no matter how anachronistic it was to have a title in the first place—and a family estate that he'd inherited in his early twenties. Wasn't he supposed to produce an heir to all that in fairly short order after marrying? And shouldn't he be delighted at the prospect of a duty fulfilled within a few months of having taken the marital plunge?