A Suitable Vengeance (12 page)

“No!” Nancy looked desperately at Lynley. “I just…I…” She shook her head, her face dissolving into misery.

Penellin moved heavily to the wall map of the estate. His skin was grey. “Look at what he’s done to you,” he said dully. And then to Lynley, “See what Mick Cambrey’s done to my girl.”

CHAPTER

6

S
imon and Helen shall come with us as well,” Sidney announced. Only moments before, she had pulled a coral-coloured dress from the jumble of clothing scattered across her room. The colour should have been all wrong on her, but in this case fashion triumphed over hue. She was swirls of crepe from shoulder to midcalf, like a cloud at sunset.

She and Deborah were heading through the garden towards the park where St. James and Lady Helen walked together beneath the trees. Sidney shouted at them.

“Come and watch Deb snap away at me. At the cove. Half in and half out of a ruined dinghy. A seductive mermaid. Will you come?”

Neither responded until Deborah and Sidney reached them. Then St. James said, “Considering the volume of your invitation, no doubt you can expect quite a crowd, with everyone ready to see just the sort of mermaid you have in mind.”

Sidney laughed. “That’s right. Mermaids
don’t
wear clothes, do they? Oh well. Pooh. You’re just jealous that I’m to be Deb’s subject for once and not you. However,” she admitted, twirling in the breeze, “I did have to make her swear she’d take no snaps of you. Not that she needs any more, if you ask me. She must have a thousand in her collection already. A veritable history of Simon-on-the-stairs, Simon-in-the-garden, Simon-in-the-lab.”

“I don’t recall being given much choice about posing.”

Sidney tossed her head and set off across the park with the others in her wake. “Poor excuse, that. You’ve had your chance for immortality, Simon. So don’t you dare step in front of the camera today and take away mine.”

“I think I can restrain myself,” St. James replied drily.

“I’m afraid I can’t promise the same thing, darlings,” Lady Helen said. “I plan to compete ruthlessly with Sidney to be in the foreground of every picture Deborah takes. Surely I’ve a future as a mannequin just waiting to be discovered on the Howenstow lawn.”

Ahead of them, Sidney laughed and marched southeast, in the direction of the sea. Under the enormous park trees, where the air was rich with the fertile smell of humus, she found myriad sources of inspiration. Perched on a massive branch struck down by the winter storm, she was an impish Ariel, freed from captivity. Holding a cluster of larkspur, she became Persephone, newly delivered from Hades. Against the trunk of a tree with a crown of leaves in her hair, she was Rosalind, dreaming of Orlando’s love.

After she had explored all the permutations of antic posturing for Deborah’s camera, Sidney ran on, reaching the edge of the park and disappearing through an old gate in the rough stone wall. In a moment, the breeze brought her cry of pleasure back to the others.

“She’s reached the mill,” Lady Helen said. “I’ll see that she doesn’t fall into the water.”

Without waiting for a response, without giving the other two a passing glance, she hurried off. In a moment, she too was through the gate and out of the park.

Deborah welcomed the opportunity to be alone with Simon. There was much to say. She hadn’t seen him since the day of their quarrel, and once Tommy had informed her that he would be part of their weekend party, she had known she would have to say or do something to serve as apology and to make amends.

But now that a chance for conversation had presented itself, Deborah found that anything other than the most impersonal comment was unthinkable. She knew quite well that she had severed the final ties to Simon in Paddington, and there was no way she could unsay the words that had effected the surgical cut between them.

They continued in the direction that Lady Helen had taken, their slow pace dictated by St. James’ gait. In the silence that grew, broken only by the ceaseless calling of the gulls, the sound of his footsteps seemed an amplified deformity. Deborah finally spoke in the need to drive that sound from her ears, reaching aimlessly back into the past for a memory they shared.

“When my mother died, you opened the house in Chelsea.”

St. James looked at her curiously. “That was a long time ago.”

“You didn’t have to do it. I didn’t know that then. It all seemed so reasonable to my seven-year-old mind. But you didn’t have to do it. I don’t know why I never realised till today.”

He brushed a tangle of Dutch clover from his trouser leg. “There’s no real easing a loss like that, is there? I did what I could. Your father needed a place to forget. Or if not to forget, at least to go on.”

“But
you
didn’t have to do it. We could have gone to one of your brothers. They were both in Southampton. They were so much older. It would have been reasonable. You were…were you really only eighteen? What on earth were you thinking about, saddling yourself with a household when you were just eighteen? Why did you do it? Why on earth did your parents agreè to let you do it?” She felt each question increase in intensity.

“It was right.”

“Why?”

“Your father needed something to take the place of the loss. He needed to heal. Your mother had only been dead two months. He was devastated. We were afraid for him, Deborah. None of us had ever seen him like that. If he did something to harm himself…You’d already lost your mother. We none of us wanted you to lose your father as well. Of course, you’d have had us to take care of you. There’s no question of that. But it’s not the same as a real parent, is it?”

“But your brothers. Southampton.”

“If he’d gone to Southampton, he’d just have been a spare wheel in an established household, at loose ends and feeling everyone’s pity. But in Chelsea, the old house gave him something to do.” St. James shot her a smile. “You’ve forgotten what a condition the house was in, haven’t you? It took all his energy—mine as well—to make the place habitable. He didn’t have time to keep agonising over your mother the way he had been. He had to start letting the worst part of the sorrow go. He had to get on with his life. With yours and mine as well.”

Deborah played with the shoulder strap of her camera. It was stiff and new, not like the comfortably frayed strap on the old, dented Nikon she had used for so many years before she had gone to America.

“That’s why you came this weekend, isn’t it?” she said. “For Dad.”

St. James didn’t reply. A gull swept across the park, so close to them that Deborah could feel the wild rush of its wings beat the air. She went on.

“I saw that this morning. How thoughtful you are, Simon. I’ve been wanting to tell you that ever since we arrived.”

St. James thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, a gesture that momentarily emphasised the distortion which his brace brought to his left leg. “It has nothing to do with thoughtfulness, Deborah.”

“Why not?”

“It just doesn’t.”

They walked on, passing through the heavy birch gate, and entering the woodland of a combe that fell down to the sea. Sidney shouted unintelligibly up ahead, her words bubbling with laughter.

Deborah spoke again. “You’ve always hated the thought that someone might see you as a fine man, haven’t you? As if sensitivity were a sort of leprosy. If it isn’t thoughtfulness that brought you with Dad, what is it, then?”

“Loyalty.”

She gaped at him. “To a servant?”

His eyes became dark. How funny that she had completely forgotten the sudden changes their colour could take on when an emotion struck him. “To a cripple?” he replied.

His words defeated her, bringing them full circle to a beginning and an end that would never alter.

From her perch on a rock above the river, Lady Helen saw St. James coming slowly through the trees. She’d been watching for him since Deborah had come hurrying down the path a few minutes before. As he walked, he flung to one side a heavy-leafed stalk that he’d broken from one of the tropical plants that grew in profusion in the woodland.

Below her, Sidney gambolled in the water, her shoes hanging from one hand and the hem of her dress dangling, disregarded, in the river. Nearby with her camera poised, Deborah examined the disused mill wheel that stood motionless beneath a growth of ivy and lilies. She clambered among the rocks on the river bank, camera in one hand, the other outstretched to maintain her balance.

Although the photographic qualities of the old stone structure were apparent even to Lady Helen’s untutored eye, there was an unnecessary intensity to Deborah’s study of the building, as if she had made a deliberate decision to devote all her energy to the task of determining appropriate camera angles and depth of field. She was obviously angry.

When St. James joined her on the rock, Lady Helen observed him curiously. Shadowed by the trees, his face betrayed nothing, but his eyes followed Deborah along the bank of the river and every movement he made was abrupt.
Of course
, Lady Helen thought, and not for the first time she wondered what inner resources of fine breeding they would have to call upon to get them through the interminable weekend.

Their walk finally ended at an irregularly shaped clearing which rose to a promontory. Perhaps fifty feet below, gained by a steep path that wound through scrub foliage and boulders, the Howenstow cove glittered in the steamy sun, the perfect destination on a summer afternoon. Fine sand cast up visible waves of heat on the narrow beach. Limestone and granite at the water’s edge held tide pools animated by tiny crustaceans. The water itself was so perfectly crystalline that, had not the waves declared it otherwise, a sheet of glass might have been placed on its surface. It was a place not safe enough for boating—with its rocky bottom and its distant, reef-guarded outlet to the sea—but it was a fine location for sunbathing. Three people below them were using it for this purpose.

Sasha Nifford, Peter Lynley, and Justin Brooke sat on a crescent band of rocks at the water’s edge. Brooke was shirtless. The other two were nude. Peter was skin stretched over a rib cage with neither sinews nor fat as buffer between them. Sasha consisted of a bit more mass, but it hung upon her with neither tone nor definition, particularly her breasts, which dangled pendulously when she moved.

“Of course, it’s a lovely day for a lie in the sun,” Lady Helen said hesitantly.

St. James looked at his sister. “Perhaps we’d—”

“Wait,” Sidney said.

As they watched, Brooke handed Peter Lynley a small container from which Peter tapped powder onto the flat of his hand. He bent to it, hovered over it with such a passion to possess that even from the clifftop the others could see his chest heave with the effort to ingest every particle. He licked his hand, sucked it, and at the last, raised his face to the sky as if in thanksgiving to an unseen god. He handed the container back to Brooke.

At that, Sidney exploded. “You promised! Damn you to hell. You promised!”

“Sid!” St. James grabbed his sister’s arm. He felt the tensility of her insubstantial muscles as adrenaline shot through her body. “Sidney, don’t!”

“No!” Sidney tore herself away from him. She kicked off her shoes and began to descend the cliff, sliding in the dust, catching her frock against a rock, and all the time cursing Brooke foully with one imprecation after another.

“Oh, God,” Deborah murmured.
“Sidney!
”

At the cliff bottom, Sidney hurtled across the narrow strip of sand to the rock where the three sunbathers were watching her in dazed surprise. She threw herself on Brooke. Her momentum dragged him down off the rocks and onto the sand. She fell upon him, punching his face.

“You told me you wouldn’t! You liar! You bleeding, rotten, filthy little liar! Give it to me, Justin. Give it to me. Now!”

She grappled with him, her fingers gouging at his eyes. Brooke put up his arms to fend her off and thus exposed the cocaine. She bit his wrist and ripped the container from his hand.

Brooke shouted as she rose to her feet. He grabbed her legs and toppled her to the ground. But not before she had staggered to the water, uncapped the container, and thrown it—with a tomboy’s sure strength—into the sea.

“There’s your drug,” she shrieked. “Go after it. Kill yourself. Drown.”

Above them on the rock, Peter and Sasha laughed idly as Justin surged to his feet, pulled Sidney to hers, and began to drag her into the water. She clawed at his face and neck. Her nails drew a vicious four-pronged trail of blood on his skin.

“I’ll tell them,” she screamed.

Brooke struggled to hold on to her. He caught her arms and pinned them savagely behind her. She cried out. He smiled and forced her to her knees. He shoved her forward. Putting one foot on her shoulder, he plunged her head beneath the water. When she fought for air, he shoved her back down.

St. James felt rather than saw Lady Helen turn to him. His entire body had gone icy.

“Simon!” Never had his own name sounded so dreadful.

Below them, Brooke dragged Sidney to her feet. But her arms now released, she fell upon him, undaunted.