Lynley 03 - Well-Schooled in Murder by Elizabeth George

Author:Elizabeth George
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2010-11-27T23:00:00+00:00

384 ELIZABETH GEORGE

“And this past weekend?”

Comprehension swept across the girl’s face.

She looked beyond Barbara to the doorway.

“Mr. Pitt’s waiting for me. Thanks awfully for the handkerchief.”

Barbara let her go, remaining behind to refl ect on the only piece of information that seemed viable—her remark about Chas Quilter and hypocrisy. That the senior prefect was not all that he seemed had been evident from the fi rst moment they had stepped into Erebus House and seen its disorder. Even before that, a casual remark tossed over the shoulder of a passing boy— sod you, Quilter— spoke of some sort of cancer that ate at both the prefect’s authority and his position at the school. But that cancer lacked a clear defi nition. Whether it had anything at all to do with the death of Matthew Whateley remained to be seen.

Colonel Andrew Bonnamy and his daughter lived less than a mile from the village of Cissbury, in one of a cluster of fi ve cottages partially hidden from the passing lane by a privet hedge in need of trimming. Like the other structures, the Bonnamy cottage was small, half-timbered, with wattle-and-daub WELL-SCHOOLED IN MURDER 385

infi lling that was whitewashed but showing signs of age. Cracks etched its surface like geological faults, threading upwards from the foundation and creeping towards the roof.

Chestnut trees shadowed this, tall and angular with branches that dipped down to scrape against the tiles.

When Lynley and Havers pulled into the narrow drive to one side of the cottage, they saw a woman descending a slope that led to an orchard beyond it. She was wearing a faded denim skirt, a navy windcheater zipped to her throat, and heavy workshoes. In one hand she dragged a rubbish sack behind her while the other held secateurs and a rake. As she approached them, they saw that her face was stained with disregarded dirt. They saw also that she had been weeping recently, for her tears had left tracks against her skin. She appeared to be about forty years old.

Seeing Lynley and Havers, she dropped the rubbish sack by a stack of fi rewood and came towards them, rake and secateurs still in hand.

She had not, Lynley noted, worn gloves for her gardening, so her hands were grimy. Dirt made black crescents under her nails.

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