Playing for the Ashes by Elizabeth George

to wash it down.”
    “You’re spoiling me with your thoughtfulness, sir.” To the woman, Barbara gave a nod designed to acknowledge her presence at the same time as it communicated disapproval. That social nicety taken care of, she plopped into the chair. At least the crisps were salt and vinegar. She ripped open the bag and began to munch.
    “So what’s up?” she asked. Her voice was casual but her meaningful look in the direction of the other woman said the rest: Who the hell is the beauty queen and what the hell is she doing here and where the dickens is Helen if you need a companion on the very Friday night when you meant to ask her to marry you and did she refuse again and is this how quickly you’ve managed to rebound from the disappointment you blighter you dog?
    Lynley received the message, pushed back his chair, and regarded Havers evenly. After a moment he said, “Sergeant, this is Detective Inspector Isabelle Ardery, Maidstone CID. She’s been good enough to bring us some information. Can you tear yourself away from speculations entirely unrelated to the case and listen to the facts?” Beneath the question she read his unspoken response to her unspoken allegations: Give me a modicum of credit, please.
    Barbara winced and said, “Sorry, sir.” She wiped her hand on her trousers and extended it to Inspector Ardery.
    Ardery shook. She glanced between them but didn’t pretend to understand their exchange. In fact, she didn’t seem interested in it. Her lips curved fractionally in Barbara’s direction, but what went for a smile was merely a cool, professional obligation. Perhaps she wasn’t Lynley’s type after all, Barbara decided.
    “What have we got?” She unlidded her Bovril and took a sip.
    “Arson,” Lynley said. “A body as well. Inspector, if you’d put my sergeant in the picture….”
    In a formal, steady tone Inspector Ardery listed the details: a fif teenth-century restored cottage not far from a market town called Greater Springburn in Kent, a woman in residence, the milkman making his morning delivery, the newspaper and post gone uncollected, a peek through the windows, a burned chair, a trail of deadly smoke against window and wall, a stairway that acted—as all stairways do when a fire breaks out—like a chimney, a body upstairs, and fin ally the source of ignition.
    She opened her shoulder bag which lay on the floor next to her foot. From it, she brought forth a packet of cigarettes, a box of wooden matches, and an elastic band. For a moment Barbara thought, with a rush of delight, that the inspector was actually going to light up, giving Barbara herself an excuse to do likewise. But instead, she spilled six matches from the box onto the desk and shook a cigarette on top of them.
    “The fire raiser used an incendiary device,” Ardery said. “It was primitive but nonetheless quite effective.” Approximately an inch from the tobacco end of the filtered cigarette, she created a shea fin g of matches, their heads up. She fastened them in place with the elastic band and held the contrivance in the palm of her hand. “It acts like a timer. Anyone can make one.”
    Barbara took the cigarette from Ardery’s palm and examined it. The inspector continued to speak. “The fire raiser lights the tobacco and places the cigarette where he wants the blaze, in this case tucked between the cushion and the arm of a wingback chair. He leaves. In four to seven minutes, the cigarette burns down and the matches flame. The fir e starts.”
    “Why the exact time span?” Barbara asked.
    “Each brand of cigarette burns at a different rate.”
    “Do we know the brand?” Lynley had replaced his spectacles on his nose. He was glancing through the report again.
    “Not at the moment. My lab has the works—the cigarette, the matches, and the band that held them together. We’ll—”
    “You’re testing for saliva and latent prints?”
    She offered another half-smile. “As you’d expect,