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lunches. They took hasty flight, and Deborah looked up. Her hair, which had been pulled back with a haphazard arrangement of combs, tumbled towards freedom. She muttered in exasperation and began to fuss with it.
    “You know,” she said by way of greeting him, “I always wanted to be one of those women who’re described as having hair like silk. You know what I mean. An Estella Havisham type.”
    “Did Estella Havisham have hair like silk?” He pushed her hand away and saw to the snarls himself.
    “She must have. Can you imagine poor Pip falling for someone who didn’t have hair like silk? Ouch! ”
    “Pulling?”
    “A bit. Honestly, isn’t it pathetic? I lead one life and my hair leads another.”
    “Well, it’s fixed now. Sort of.”
    “That’s encouraging.”
    They laughed together and began gathering her belongings which were scattered on the lawn. She’d come with tripod, camera case, a shopping bag containing three pieces of fruit, a comfortable old pullover, and her shoulder bag.
    “I saw you from my office,” Lynley told her. “What are you working on? A tribute to Mrs. Pankhurst?”
    “Actually, I was waiting for the light to strike the top of the scroll. I thought to create some diffraction with the lens. Utterly defeated by the clouds, I’m afraid. By the time they decided to drift away, the sun had done so as well.” She paused reflectively and scratched her head. “What an appalling display of ignorance. I think I mean the earth.” She fished in her shoulder bag and brought out a mint which she unwrapped and popped into her mouth.
    They strolled back towards Scotland Yard.
    “I’ve managed to get Friday off,” Lynley told her. “Monday as well. So we’re free to go to Cornwall. I’m free, that is. And if you’ve nothing planned, I thought we might…” He stopped, wondering why he was adding the verbal apologia.
    “Cornwall, Tommy?” Deborah’s voice was no different when she asked the question, but her head was turned away from him so he couldn’t see her expression.
    “Yes. Cornwall. Howenstow. I think it’s time, don’t you? I know you’ve only just come back and perhaps this is rushing things. But after all, you’ve never met my mother.”
    Deborah said only, “Ah. Yes.”
    “Your coming to Cornwall would give your father an opportunity to meet her as well. And it’s time they met.”
    She frowned at her scuffed shoes and made no reply.
    “Deb, it can’t be avoided forever. I know what you’re thinking. They’re worlds apart. They’ll have nothing to say to each other. But that isn’t the case. They’ll get on. Believe me.”
    “He won’t want to do this, Tommy.”
    “I’ve already thought of that. And of a way to manage it. I’ve asked Simon to come along. It’s all arranged, in fact.”
    He did not include in the information the details of his brief encounter with St. James and Lady Helen Clyde at the Ritz, they on their way to a business dinner and he en route to a reception at Clarence House. He also didn’t mention St. James’ ill-concealed reluctance nor Lady Helen’s quick excuse. An enormous backlog of work, she’d said, promising to keep them busy for every weekend over the next month.
    Helen’s declining the invitation had been too quick to be believable, and the speed of her refusal, in combination with the effort she made not to look at St. James, told Lynley how important absence from Cornwall was to them both. Even if he had wanted to lie to himself, he couldn’t do so in the face of their behaviour. He knew what it meant. But he needed them in Cornwall for Cotter’s sake, and the mention of the older man’s possible discomfort was what won them over. For St. James would never send Cotter alone to be wretchedly enthroned as a weekend visitor to Howenstow. And Helen would never abandon St. James to what she clearly visualised as four days of unmitigated misery. So Lynley had used them. It was all for Cotter’s sake, he told himself,