A Suitable Vengeance (24 page)

“Mick’s been here more recently than last April, Tommy,” St. James said. “And I dare say his visits had nothing to do with the
Spokesman
.” He touched the postage scale lightly, watched the movement of the arrow that indicated weight. “Perhaps we have a better idea why he died.”

Lynley shook his head. His voice was dark. “This isn’t Mick,” he said.

CHAPTER

13

A
t half past seven that evening, St. James knocked on Deborah’s bedroom door and entered to find her stepping back from the dressing table, her forehead wrinkled as she studied her appearance.

“Well,” she said doubtfully, “I don’t know.” She touched the necklace at her throat—a double strand of pearls—and her hand fell to the neckline of her dress where she fingered the material experimentally. It appeared to be silk, and its colour was an odd combination of grey and green, like the ocean on an overcast day. Her hair and skin were a contrast to this, and the result was more striking than she appeared to realise.

“A success,” St. James said.

She smiled at his reflection in the mirror. “Lord, I’m nervous. I keep telling myself that it’s only a small dinner party with Tommy’s family and a few of their friends. I keep telling myself that it doesn’t matter in the least. But then I have visions of fumbling round with all this silverware. Simon, why on earth does it always come down to silverware?”

“The worst nightmare of a genteel society: Which fork do I use when I eat the shrimp? The rest of life’s problems seem inconsequential by comparison.”

“What shall I say to these people? Tommy did tell me there’d be a dinner tonight, but at the time I didn’t think much about it. If I were only like Helen, I could chat amusingly about a thousand and one different topics. I could talk to anyone. It wouldn’t even matter. But I’m not like Helen. Oh, I wish I were. Just for tonight. Perhaps she can pretend to be me and I can fade into the woodwork.”

“Hardly a plan to please Tommy.”

“I’ve managed to convince myself that I’ll trip on the stairs or spill a glass of wine down the front of my dress or get caught on the tablecloth and pull off half the dishes when I get out of my chair. Last night I had a nightmare that my face had broken out in blisters and hives and people were saying, ‘
This
is the fiancée?’ in funereal tones all round me.”

St. James laughed at that and joined her at the dressing table where he peered into the mirror and studied her face. “Not a blister anywhere. Not a hive in sight. As to those freckles, however…”

She laughed as well, such a pure sound, such a pleasure. It shot him back through time to memory. He stepped away.

“I’ve managed…” He reached in his jacket pocket for the photograph of Mick Cambrey which he handed to her. “If you’ll have a look at him.”

She did so, carrying the picture to the light. It was a moment before she answered.

“It’s the same man.”

“Are you certain?”

“Fairly. May I take this with me and show it to Tina?”

He thought about this. Last night it had seemed an innocent plan to have Deborah verify Mick Cambrey’s presence in London through the simple expedient of having Tina Cogin identify his photograph. But after today’s conversation with Harry Cambrey, after seeing the cryptographic paper from the Talisman Cafe, after considering the potential motives behind the crime and how Tina Cogin fit into any or all of them, he was not so sure about the role Deborah could play—or any role he wanted her to play—in investigating the crime and contacting those most closely caught up in it. Deborah seemed to sense his hesitation and presented him with a
fait accompli
.

“I’ve spoken to Tommy about it,” she said. “To Helen as well. We thought we’d take the train up in the morning—Helen and I—and go directly to the flat. So we should know something more about Mick Cambrey by the afternoon. Surely that shall be of help.”

He couldn’t deny this and she seemed to read agreement in his face. She said, “Right. Good,” and put the photograph in the drawer of the bedside table with a
that’s that
movement. As she did so, the bedroom door opened and Sidney wandered in, reaching with one hand over her shoulder to fiddle with the zip on her dress while with the other she aimlessly attempted to rearrange her tousled hair.

“These blasted Howenstow maids,” she was muttering. “They flutter through my room—God knows they mean well—and I can’t find a thing. Simon, will you…good Lord, you look wonderful in that suit. Is it new? Here. I can’t seem to manage this blasted thing on my own.” She presented her back to her brother and, as he finished what she had begun with the zip, she looked at Deborah. “And you look stunning, Deb. Simon, doesn’t she look stunning? Oh, never mind. Why on earth would I ask you when the only thing you’ve found stunning in years is a patch of blood through a microscope. Or perhaps a bit of skin from beneath the fingernail of a corpse.” She laughed, turned, and patted her brother’s cheek before going to the dressing table, where she studied herself in the mirror and picked up a bottle of Deborah’s perfume.

“So the maids have straightened everything up”—she continued with her original thought—“and, of course, I can’t find a thing. My perfume is utterly gone—may I borrow a splash of yours, Deb?—and just try to find my shoes! Why, I almost had to borrow a pair from Helen until I found them tucked in the very back of my wardrobe as if I’d no intention in the world of ever wearing them again.”

“An odd place for shoes,” St. James pointed out sardonically. “In the wardrobe.”

“He’s laughing at me, Deborah,” Sidney said. “But if he didn’t have your father keeping him together, there’s no doubt in my mind what the result would be. Chaos. Complete. Utter. Infinite.” She bent and brought her face closer to the glass. “The swelling’s gone, thank God, although the scratches are stunning. Not to mention the bruise beneath my eye. I look just like a street brawler. D’you think anyone will mention it? Or shall we all just concentrate on keeping our upper lips stiff and our manners impeccable? You know the sort of thing. Eyes forward and no groping at anyone’s thighs beneath the tablecloth.”

“Groping at thighs?” Deborah asked. “Simon, you never told me. And I’ve been worrying about the silver!”

“The silver?” Sidney looked round from the mirror. “Oh, you mean all the forks and knives? Pooh. Unless people start throwing them, don’t give it a thought.” Unbidden, she fluffed up Deborah’s hair, stepped back, frowned, played with it again. “Where’s Justin, d’you know? I’ve not seen him for ages today. He’s probably worried I shall bite him again. I can’t think why he reacted the way he did yesterday. I’ve bitten him before although, now I think, the circumstances
were
a bit different.” She laughed light-heartedly. “Well, if the two of us get into another row tonight, let’s hope it’s at the dinner table. With all those knives and forks, we’ll have plenty of weapons.”

Lynley found Peter in the smoking room on the ground floor of the house. Cigarette in hand, he was standing by the fireplace, his attention fixed upon a red fox that was mounted in a glass case above it. A compassionate taxidermist had thoughtfully poised the animal in the act of flight, just inches from a burrow that would have saved him. Other vulpine trophies had not been so fortunately enshrined, however. Their heads hung from plaques fastened intermittently between photographs on the room’s panelled walls. Since the only light came from an arabesque brass chandelier, these latter foxes cast long shadows, accusatory wedges of darkness like reverse spotlights that emphasised a devotion to blood sports which no one in the family had actually felt since before the First War.

Seeing his brother’s reflection in the glass case, Peter spoke without turning around. “Why do you suppose no one’s ever taken this awful thing down from the mantel?”

“I think it was Grandfather’s first successful hunt.”

“Why blood him when you can give him the poor creature as a prize?”

“That sort of thing.”

Lynley noted that his brother had removed the swastika from his ear, replacing it with a single gold stud. He wore grey trousers, a white shirt, a loosely knotted tie—and although the clothes were overly large, at least they were clean. And he had put on shoes if not socks. This seemed cause enough for fleeting gratification, and Lynley briefly considered the value and the wisdom of confronting his brother—as he knew he had to be confronted eventually—at a moment when Peter’s appearance suggested concession, compromise, and the promise of change.

Peter tossed his cigarette into the fireplace and opened the liquor cabinet that was a hidden feature of the mantel beneath the fox.

“This was one of my little adolescent secrets,” he chuckled as he poured himself a tumbler of whisky. “Jasper showed it to me when I turned seventeen.”

“He showed me as well. A rite of passage, I suppose.”

“D’you think Mother knew?”

“I imagine so.”

“What a disappointment. To think one’s clever and to find out just the opposite.” He turned from the fireplace for the first time and held his glass up in a rakish salute. “The best, Tommy. Weren’t you lucky to have found her.”

At that, Lynley noticed his brother’s eyes. They were unnaturally bright. He felt a twinge of apprehension. Stifling it, he merely said thank you, and watched as Peter wandered to the desk that abutted the wide bay window. There, he began to play with the items arranged on the leather-edged blotter, spinning the letter opener on its ivory handle, lifting the top of an empty silver inkstand, joggling a rack of cherrywood pipes. Still sipping his whisky, he picked up a photograph of their grandparents and yawned as he idly studied their faces.

Seeing this and knowing it for what it was—an attempt to construct a barrier of indifference—Lynley realised there was no point in temporising. “I’d like to ask you about the mill.”

Peter replaced the photograph and picked at a worn spot on the back of the armchair that sat before the desk. “What about the mill?”

“You’ve been using it, haven’t you?”

“I haven’t been there in ages. I’ve been by it, of course, to get down to the cove. But I’ve not been inside. Why?”

“You know the answer to that.”

Peter’s face remained blank as Lynley spoke, but a muscle spasm pulled at the corner of his mouth. He made his way to a row of university photographs that decorated one of the walls. He began gliding from one to the next as if he were seeing them for the very first time.

“Every Lynley for one hundred years,” he remarked, “crewing at Oxford. What a black sheer I’ve been.” He came to a blank spot on the wall and touched the palm of his hand to the panel. “Even Father had his day, didn’t he, Tommy? But of course, we can’t have his picture here. It wouldn’t do if Father were able to look down from the walls and observe our wicked ways.”

Lynley refused to allow the honeyed words to provoke him. “I’d like to talk about the mill.”

Peter threw back the rest of his whisky, put his glass on a lowboy, and continued his perusal. He stopped before the most recent photograph and flicked his index finger against his brother’s picture. His nail snapped sharply upon the glass like a slap in miniature.

“Even you, Tommy. You’ve fit the mould. A Lynley to be proud of. You’re a regular swell.”

Lynley felt his chest tighten. “I’ve no control over the kind of life you’ve chosen to lead in London,” he said, hoping to sound reasonable and knowing how poor a job he made of it. “You’ve chucked Oxford? Fine. You’ve your own digs? Fine. You’ve taken up with this…with Sasha? Fine. But not here, Peter. I won’t have this business at Howenstow. Is that clear?”

Peter turned from the wall, cocking his head slightly. “You won’t have it? You drop into our lives once or twice a year to announce what you will and won’t have, is that it? And this is just one of those momentous occasions.”

“How often I’m here makes no difference to anything. I’m responsible for Howenstow, for every person on the grounds. And I’ve no intention of putting up with the sort of filth—”

“Oh, I see. Some local drug action’s going on at the mill, and you’ve placed me at the centre in your best DI fashion. Well. Nice job. Have you dusted for prints? Found a lock of my hair? Did I leave behind spittle for you to analyse?” Peter shook his head in eloquent disgust. “You’re a fool. If I want to use, I sure as hell won’t go all the way down to the mill. I’ve nothing to hide. From you or from anyone.”

“There’s more than using going on and you know it. You’re in over your head.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

The disingenuous question rubbed Lynley raw. “You’re bringing it onto the estate. That’s what it means. You’re cutting it in the mill. That’s what it means. You’re taking it to London. To use. To sell. Have I painted the picture well enough for you? God in heaven, Peter, if Mother knew, it would kill her.”

“And wouldn’t that be convenient for you? No more worrying about whether she’s going to disgrace you by running off with Roderick. No more wondering how much time he’s been spending in her bed. If she’d only have the good grace to drop dead because of me, you might even celebrate by bringing Father’s photographs back. But that’d be a tough one, wouldn’t it, Tommy? Because you’d have to stop acting like such a bleeding little prig and how on earth could you ever manage it?”