A Traitor to Memory (Inspector Lynley Series #11)

by Elizabeth George

Overview

NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • When an elderly woman is killed on a quiet London street, Detective Inspector Thomas Lynley embarks on an investigation that will lead him to choose between personal loyalty and professional honor—an “engrossing” (San Diego Union-Tribune) mystery in the acclaimed Inspector Lynley series.

Don’t miss the upcoming BritBox streaming series Lynley!

“A superbly paced, all-consuming treat.”—USA Today

When an elderly woman is deliberately run down and killed on a quiet London street, Detective Inspector Thomas Lynley must discover why. It is an investigation that will lead him to walk a fine line between personal loyalty and professional honor.

What brought Eugenie Davies to London on a rainy autumn night? Why was she carrying the name of the man who found her body? Could her murder have some connection to a twenty-eight-year-old musical wunderkind, a virtuoso violinist whose talents have been internationally renowned since he was ten?

To answer these questions, Detective Inspector Thomas Lynley will put his career in jeopardy even as he tries to safeguard those of his longtime partners Barbara Havers and Winston Nkata. Together, they must untangle the dark secrets and even darker passions of a family whose history conceals the truth behind a horrific crime.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9780553906363
Publisher:	Random House Publishing Group
Publication date:	03/24/2009
Series:	Inspector Lynley Series , #11
Sold by:	Random House
Format:	eBook
Pages:	736
File size:	4 MB

About the Author

Elizabeth George, a resident of Huntington Beach, California, is the internationally acclaimed author of eleven novels. She is the recipient of the Anthony and the Agatha Awards, as well as Frances' Grand Prix de Litterature Policiere and Germany's MIMI. Two of her novels have been bought by the BBC for development. There are more than seven million copies of her books in U.S. print.

Hometown:

Seattle, Washington

Date of Birth:

February 26, 1949

Place of Birth:

Warren, Ohio

Education:

A.A. Foothill Community College, 1969; B.A. University of California, Riverside, 1970; M.S. California State University

Website:

http://www.elizabethgeorgeonline.com

Read an Excerpt

It was the knowledge of a touch—reserved for him but given to another—that drove Ted Wiley out into the night. He'd seen it from his window, not intending to spy but spying all the same. The time: just past one in the morning. The place: Friday Street, Henley-on-Thames, a mere sixty yards from the river, and in front of her house from which they'd departed only moments before, both of them having to duck their heads to avoid a lintel put into a building in centuries past when men and women were shorter and when their lives were more clearly defined.

Ted Wiley liked that: the definition of roles. She did not. And if he hadn't understood before now that Eugenie would not be easily identified as his woman and placed into a convenient category in his life, Ted had certainly reached that conclusion when he saw the two of them—Eugenie and that broomstick stranger—out on the pavement and in each other's arms.

Flagrant, he'd thought. She wants me to see this. She wants me to see the way she's embracing him, then curving her palm to describe the shape of his cheek as he steps away. God damn the woman. She wants me to see this.

That, of course, was sophistry, and had the embrace and the touch occurred at a more reasonable hour, Ted would have talked himself out of the ominous direction his mind began taking. He would have thought, It can't mean anything if she's out in the street in daylight in public in a shaft of light from her sitting room window in the autumn sunshine in front of God and everyone and most of all me.... It can't mean anything that she's touching a stranger because she knows how easily I can see.... But instead of these thoughts, what was implied by a man's departure from a woman's home at one in the morning filled Ted's head like a noxious gas whose volume continued to increase over the next seven days as he—anxious and interpreting every gesture and nuance—waited for her to say, "Ted, have I mentioned that my brother"—or my cousin or my father or my uncle or the homosexual architect who intends to build another room onto the house—"stopped for a chat just the other night? It went on into the early hours of the morning and I thought he'd never leave. By the way, you might have seen us just outside my front door if you were lurking behind your window shades as you've taken to doing recently." Except, of course, there was no brother or cousin or uncle or father that Ted Wiley knew of, and if there was a homosexual architect, he'd yet to hear Eugenie mention him.

What he had heard her say, his bowels on the rumble, was that she had something important to tell him. And when he'd asked her what it was and thought he'd like her to give it to him straightaway if it was going to be the blow that killed him, she'd said, Soon. I'm not quite ready to confess my sins yet. And she'd curved her palm to touch his cheek. Yes. Yes. That touch. Just exactly like.

So at nine o'clock on a rainy evening deep in November, Ted Wiley put his ageing golden retriever on her lead and decided that a stroll was in order. Their route, he told the dog—whose arthritis and aversion to the rain did not make her the most cooperative of walkers—would take them to the top of Friday Street and a few yards beyond it to Albert Road, where if by coincidence they should run into Eugenie just leaving the Sixty Plus Club, where the New Year's Eve Gala Committee were still attempting to reach a compromise on the menu for the coming festivities, why, that's what it would be: a mere coincidence and a fortuitous chance for a chat. For all dogs needed a walk before they kipped down for the night. No one could argue, accuse, or even suspect over that.

The dog—ludicrously albeit lovingly christened Precious Baby by Ted's late wife and resolutely called P.B. by Ted himself—hesitated at the doorway and blinked out at the street, where the autumn rain was falling in the sort of steady waves that presaged a lengthy and bone-chilling storm. She began to lower herself determinedly to her haunches and would have successfully attained that position had Ted not tugged her out onto the pavement with the desperation of a man whose intentions will not be thwarted.

"Come, P.B.," he ordered her, and he jerked the lead so that the choke chain tightened round her neck. The retriever recognised both the tone and the gesture. With a bronchial sigh that released a gust of dog breath into wet night air, she trudged disconsolately into the rain.

The weather was a misery, but that couldn't be helped. Besides, the old dog needed to walk. She'd become far too lazy in the five years that had passed since her mistress's death, and Ted himself had not done much to keep her exercised. Well, that would change now. He'd promised Connie he'd look after the dog, and so he would, with a new regime that began this very night. No more sniffing round the back garden before bedtime, my friend, he silently informed P.B. It's walkies and nothing else from now on.

He double-checked to make sure the bookshop's door was secure, and he adjusted the collar of his old waxed jacket against the wet and the chill. He should have brought an umbrella, he realised as he stepped out of the doorway and the first splash of rainwater hit his neck. A peaked cap was insufficient protection, no matter how well it suited him. But why the hell was he even thinking about what suited him? he pondered. Fire and ice, if anyone wormed a way inside his head these days, it would be to find cobwebs and rot floating there.

Ted harrumphed, spat in the street, and began to give himself a pep talk as he and the dog plodded past the Royal Marine Reserve, where a broken gutter along the roof erupted rainwater in a silver plume. He was a catch, he told himself. Major Ted Wiley, retired from the Army and widowed after forty-two years of blissful marriage, was a very fine catch for any woman. Weren't available men scarce as uncut diamonds in Henley-on-Thames? Yes. They were. Weren't available men without unsightly nose hairs, overgrown eyebrows, and copious ear hairs scarcer still? Yes and yes. And weren't men who were clean, in possession of their faculties, in excellent health, dexterous in the kitchen, and of an uxorious disposition so rare in town as to find themselves victims of something akin to a feeding frenzy the very moment they chose to show themselves at a social gathering? Damn right, they were. And he was one of them. Everyone knew it.

Including Eugenie, he reminded himself.

Hadn't she said to him on more than one occasion, You're a fine man, Ted Wiley? Yes. She had.

Hadn't she spent the last three years willingly accepting his company with what he knew was pleasure? Yes. She had.

Hadn't she smiled and flushed and looked away when they'd visited his mother at the Quiet Pines Nursing Home and heard her announce in that irritating and imperious way of hers, I'd like a wedding before I die, you two. Yes, yes, and yes. She had, she had.

So what did a touch on a stranger's face mean in light of all that? And why could he not expunge it from his mind, as if it had become a brand and not what it was: an unpleasant memory that he wouldn't even have had had he not taken to watching, to wondering, to lurking, to having to know, to insisting upon battening down the hatches in his life as if it weren't a life at all but a sailing vessel that might lose its cargo if he wasn't vigilant?

Eugenie herself was the answer to that: Eugenie, whose spectral-thin body asked for nurture; whose neat hair—thickly silvered though it was with grey—asked to be freed from the hair slides that held it; whose cloudy eyes were blue then green then grey then blue but always guarded; whose modest but nonetheless provocative femininity awakened in Ted a stirring in the groin that called him to an action he hadn't been capable of taking since Connie's death. Eugenie was the answer.

And he was the man for Eugenie, the man to protect her, to bring her back to life. For what had gone unspoken between the two of them these past three years was the extent to which Eugenie had been denying herself the very communion of her fellow men for God only knew how long. Yet that denial had declared itself openly when he'd first invited her to join him for a simple evening glass of sherry at the Catherine Wheel.

Why, she's not been out with a man in years, Ted Wiley had thought at her flustered reaction to his invitation. And he'd wondered why.

Now, perhaps, he knew. She had secrets from him, had Eugenie. I have something important I want to tell you, Ted. Sins to confess, she'd said. Sins.

Well, there was no time like the present to hear what she had to say.

Editorial Reviews

Eugenie Davies's murderer took no chances: The killer ran over the poor woman twice. Now Detective Inspector Thomas Lynley must ferret out who brought Davies to a grisly death in the drizzle and, more puzzling yet, what secrets about the case his own Superintendent superior seems so intent to conceal. Elizabeth George weaves her tale with a double thread of narrative, shifting between a steady authorial voice and the story of a high-strung violinist. Gathering tension; gutter crimes; magnificent prose.

bn.com Review

Posh Detective Inspector Thomas Lynley and his surly, recently demoted (In Pursuit of the Proper Sinner) sidekick, Constable Barbara Havers, take a backseat to a plethora of unlikable, haphazardly motivated characters who pop in and out over epic length (enormous even by George's garrulous standards) and nearly two decades. After Eugenie Davies becomes a hit-and-run victim, it takes 200 pages for her to get connected to violin virtuoso Gideon Davies, now undergoing therapy to discover the cause of his artistic block. In rambling rants to his therapist, he wonders whether his mother Eugenie's abrupt departure years ago is now haunting him. Gideon recalls their lodger, James, now prowling the Internet as TongueMan; his musical tutor Raphael; his school tutor Sarah-Jane; and, most importantly, Katja Wolff, the German nanny hired to look after his baby sister, a Down's syndrome child. As Lynley, Havers, and their cohort Nkata learn, Katja has just been released from prison, where she spent 20 years for killing her infant charge. Was she guilty? Is she now exacting revenge? And why did Gideon repress not only his sister's murder but her very existence? There'll be another car mishap, more death, more therapy sessions, and several bogus confessions (including one from Gideon's misogynist, controlling dad) before this wrenching saga of family relations lurches to a horrific end. George strews the guilt liberally, even smearing Lynley, before he finally deals with his past and his impending fatherhood. Meantime, her plot has serious problems, from Katja's lengthy silences to the overripe corn of Gideon's psychoanalysis. Even at diminished strength, though, George still stands several rungs up the ladder from her more superficial rivals.

Kirkus Reviews

"This can only add to her growing reputation as doyenne of English mystery novelists. ... [S]ome particularly moving moments."—Publishers Weekly

"A superbly paced, all-consuming treat.... George has the ability to display and then dissect her characters in a painfully realistic way. If dogged police work is what you demand from mysteries, hit the sidewalk with these complicated British detectives."—USA Today

"Wrenching ... George still stands several rungs up the ladder from her more superficial rivals."—Kirkus Reviews

From the Publisher