the basement firing range or the gym or the squash courts or the indoor pool. He wasn’t in the conservatory. He wasn’t playing a solitary game of horseshoes or croquet. He wasn’t lawn bowling or shooting skeet or practicing his fly-casting. He hadn’t taken any of the horses out for a midday canter. In the garage next to the stables, all the estate’s usual cars were in their usual spaces.
But a big window on the first floor had also broken since yesterday; glaziers were at work replacing a piece of the pearly stained glass.
At midmorning Sparta stood on the wide back porch, leaning on the rustic railings of peeled and varnished pine, watching the woods. Nothing moved besides the occasional squirrel or field mouse or little gray bird. And the falling leaves. She watched them fall. By listening she could hear each leafy collision with the leaf-covered ground.
Blake was gone.
The commander found her there.
“Where is he?” she asked quietly.
“I told him he could go when he wanted to.” His voice was a rattle of stones, but there was something hollow in it. This morning he wasn’t wearing his country clothes, he was wearing his crisp blue uniform, with the few imposing ribbons over the breast. “This morning, early. We took him out by chopper.”
She turned away from the railing and fixed him with her dark blue eyes. “No.”
“You were asleep. You couldn’t hear . . .”
“I couldn’t have heard the chopper, I was too full of your drugs. But he didn’t want to go.”
His blue eyes were lighter than hers, knobs of turquoise. “I can’t change your opinion.”
“I’m glad you know that. If you want this conversation to continue, Commander, stop lying.”
His mouth twitched, an aborted smile. He’d used that line himself, a time or two.
“By now you know quite a lot about me,” she said, “so you may suspect that if I get it into my head, I could bring this house to the ground and bury everybody in it.” Her pale skin was red with anger.
“But you wouldn’t. You’re not like that.”
“If you’ve hurt Blake and I find out about it I will do my best to kill you. I’m not a pacifist on principle.”
He watched the slight, fragile, immensely dangerous young woman for a moment. Then his shoulders relaxed a millimeter or two and he seemed to lean away from her. “We took Blake out of here at four this morning under heavy sedation. He’ll wake up in his place in London with a false memory of a quarrel with you—he’ll have the notion that you told him you were engaged in a project too sensitive and too dangerous for him to get involved, and that for your sake as well as his own you insisted that he leave.”
“I won’t accept that”—because she knew he was still lying—“I’m leaving here now.”
“Your choice, Inspector Troy. But you know as well as I do, it’s the truth.”
“I never said that or anything like it . . .”
“You should have.” For a split second his anger flared to match hers.
“. . . whatever memory you planted in him, it was not that.” She walked away.
“Do you want to know what really happened”—the catch and tension in his voice gave him away; he was playing his last card—“to your parents?”
She stopped but did not turn. “They died in a car accident.”
“Let’s drop that pretense. You were told they died in a helicopter crash.”
Now she turned, poised and dangerous. “Do you know something different, Commander?”
“What I know I can’t prove,” he said.
In his rasping voice she heard something else, not exactly a lie. “Oh, but you want me to think you could —and just won’t.” Is that what he really wanted? “Do you know my name too, Commander?— don’t say it.”
“I won’t say your name. Your number was L. N. 30851005.”
She nodded. “What do you know about my parents?”
“What I’ve read in the files, Miss L. N. And what I’ve learned
But a big window on the first floor had also broken since yesterday; glaziers were at work replacing a piece of the pearly stained glass.
At midmorning Sparta stood on the wide back porch, leaning on the rustic railings of peeled and varnished pine, watching the woods. Nothing moved besides the occasional squirrel or field mouse or little gray bird. And the falling leaves. She watched them fall. By listening she could hear each leafy collision with the leaf-covered ground.
Blake was gone.
The commander found her there.
“Where is he?” she asked quietly.
“I told him he could go when he wanted to.” His voice was a rattle of stones, but there was something hollow in it. This morning he wasn’t wearing his country clothes, he was wearing his crisp blue uniform, with the few imposing ribbons over the breast. “This morning, early. We took him out by chopper.”
She turned away from the railing and fixed him with her dark blue eyes. “No.”
“You were asleep. You couldn’t hear . . .”
“I couldn’t have heard the chopper, I was too full of your drugs. But he didn’t want to go.”
His blue eyes were lighter than hers, knobs of turquoise. “I can’t change your opinion.”
“I’m glad you know that. If you want this conversation to continue, Commander, stop lying.”
His mouth twitched, an aborted smile. He’d used that line himself, a time or two.
“By now you know quite a lot about me,” she said, “so you may suspect that if I get it into my head, I could bring this house to the ground and bury everybody in it.” Her pale skin was red with anger.
“But you wouldn’t. You’re not like that.”
“If you’ve hurt Blake and I find out about it I will do my best to kill you. I’m not a pacifist on principle.”
He watched the slight, fragile, immensely dangerous young woman for a moment. Then his shoulders relaxed a millimeter or two and he seemed to lean away from her. “We took Blake out of here at four this morning under heavy sedation. He’ll wake up in his place in London with a false memory of a quarrel with you—he’ll have the notion that you told him you were engaged in a project too sensitive and too dangerous for him to get involved, and that for your sake as well as his own you insisted that he leave.”
“I won’t accept that”—because she knew he was still lying—“I’m leaving here now.”
“Your choice, Inspector Troy. But you know as well as I do, it’s the truth.”
“I never said that or anything like it . . .”
“You should have.” For a split second his anger flared to match hers.
“. . . whatever memory you planted in him, it was not that.” She walked away.
“Do you want to know what really happened”—the catch and tension in his voice gave him away; he was playing his last card—“to your parents?”
She stopped but did not turn. “They died in a car accident.”
“Let’s drop that pretense. You were told they died in a helicopter crash.”
Now she turned, poised and dangerous. “Do you know something different, Commander?”
“What I know I can’t prove,” he said.
In his rasping voice she heard something else, not exactly a lie. “Oh, but you want me to think you could —and just won’t.” Is that what he really wanted? “Do you know my name too, Commander?— don’t say it.”
“I won’t say your name. Your number was L. N. 30851005.”
She nodded. “What do you know about my parents?”
“What I’ve read in the files, Miss L. N. And what I’ve learned
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