Free Believing the Lie by Elizabeth George Page A

once.
    “Ah,” Lynley said.
    Fairclough smiled. “The Fairloo,” he said as means of clarification.
    That did it, of course, as it would do. Bernard Fairclough had come to prominence first because of a most unusual lavatory invented and then widely produced by Fairclough Industries. He’d sealed his place in the firmament of those receiving titles from a grateful nation, however, by establishing a charitable foundation whose focus was raising funds to research a cure for pancreatic cancer. However, Fairclough had never been able to escape his association with the lavatory, and much amusement had been generated by tabloids referring to his knighthood and subsequent elevation to the peerage with such declarations as “It was a royal flush.”
    Hillier gestured at the table. Lynley was meant to join them. Without asking, Hillier poured him a cup of coffee and, as Lynley sat and Fairclough resumed his own place at the table, slid the cup in his direction along with the milk and sugar.
    “Bernard’s asked a favour of us,” Hillier said. “It’s an entirely confidential matter.”
    Which explained their meeting at Twins, Lynley thought. Which also explained their meeting at Twins at a time of day when the only members in the building were probably either dozing over newspapers in the library or playing squash in a basement gym. Lynley nodded but said nothing. He glanced at Fairclough, who removed a white handkerchief from his pocket and patted it against his forehead. This bore a moderate sheen of sweat. It was not overly warm in the room.
    He said, “My nephew—Ian Cresswell, my late sister’s son—drowned ten days ago. South end of Lake Windermere sometime after seven in the evening. His body wasn’t found till the next afternoon. My wife was the one who found him.”
    “I’m sorry to hear it.” It was, of course, an automatic response to being given such information. Hearing it, Fairclough’s face remained a blank.
    “Valerie likes to fish,” he told Lynley, a remark that sounded apropos of nothing till he went on with, “She takes a small rowing boat out a few times each week. Odd hobby for a woman but there it is. She’s fished for years. We keep the boat along with several other craft in a boathouse on the property, and that’s where Ian’s body was. Facedown in the water, open gash on his head, although at that point there was no blood.”
    “What seems to have happened?”
    “Lost his footing getting out of a single scull. It’s how he took his exercise, that, the scull. He went down, hit his head on the dock—it’s stone—and fell into the water.”
    “Couldn’t swim or unconscious?”
    “The latter. A terrible accident, according to the inquest.”
    “You think otherwise?”
    Fairclough turned in his seat. He seemed to look at a painting over a fireplace at the far side of the room. This was a circus scene painted in the style of Hogarth: part of the rake’s progress, with assorted human oddities from the circus in place of the rake. It was another vote for the conjoined twins. They’d have been circus material, certainly. Fairclough studied the scene depicted before he finally said, “He fell because two large stones came loose on the dock. They dislodged.”
    “I see.”
    Hillier said, “Bernard thinks there’s a chance the stones had some help, Tommy. The boathouse has stood for more than one hundred years and it was built to stand a hundred more. So was the dock.”
    “Yet if the coroner has ruled an accident—”
    “I don’t actually disbelieve him,” Fairclough said quickly. “But…” He looked at Hillier as if asking the AC to finish.
    Hillier complied. “Bernard wants to be certain it was an accident, as anyone might. There are family concerns.”
    “What sort of family concerns?”
    The other men were silent. Lynley looked from one to the other. He said, “I can hardly make certain of anything if I’m in the dark, Lord Fairclough.”
    “It’s Bernard,”