A Suitable Vengeance (29 page)

One of the gardeners was waiting for them at the furthest point of the house’s south wing. He stood opposite a beech tree, secateurs in his hand and a worn woollen cap pulled low on his brow. He nodded when St. James and Lady Asherton joined him, and he directed St. James’ attention to the large yew bush that abutted the house.

“Dead pity, that,” the gardener said. “She be right damaged, poor thing.”

“Deborah’s room is just above,” Lady Asherton said.

St. James looked at the plant and saw that the portion of the yew nearest the house had been destroyed, its growth split, broken, and torn off completely by an object which had, most likely, been dropped from above. The damage was recent, all the breakage fresh. The distinct scent of conifer rose from the mangled branches.

St. James stepped back and looked up at the windows. Deborah’s room was directly above, with the billiard room beneath it. Both were far removed from the dining and drawing rooms where the party had gathered on the previous evening. And as far as he knew, no one had played billiards, so no one would have been witness to the noise which the camera case must have made as it crashed to the ground.

Lady Asherton spoke quietly as the gardener went back to his work, clipping off the ruined branches and stowing them in a plastic rubbish sack tucked under his arm. “There’s a margin of relief in all this, Simon. At least we know no one from the house took the cameras.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It hardly makes sense that one of us would take them and drop them outside. Far easier to hide them in one’s room and slip off with them later, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Easier, yes. But not as wise. Especially if someone inside the house wanted to make it look as if an outsider took the cameras in the first place. But even that’s not a wise plan. Because who were the technical outsiders last night? Mr. and Mrs. Sweeney, Dr. Trenarrow, your sister-in-law, the MP from Plymouth.”

“John Penellin,” she added. “The daily help from the village.”

“An unlikely lot to be stealing cameras.” From her expression, he could tell that Lady Asherton had already done some considerable thinking about Deborah’s cameras, about where they might be, about who had taken them. Her words, however, acted to camouflage this.

“I’m having difficulty understanding why they were stolen in the first place.”

“They’re valuable. They can be sold by someone who needs money.”

Her face crumpled momentarily then regained composure.

St. James showed mercy by saying, “The house was open during the party. Someone could have got in while we were in the dining room. It would have been no large matter to slip up to Deborah’s room and take the cameras then.”

“But why take the cameras at all, Simon, if it’s a matter of money? Why not take something else? Something even more valuable?”

“What?” he asked. “Everything else is too easily associated with Howenstow. The silver’s marked. The family crest is on everything. Surely you wouldn’t expect someone to cart off one of the paintings and hope it wouldn’t be noticed as missing until the next day.”

She turned her head to look out at the park, a movement designed merely to avert her face for a moment. “It can’t be a question of money,” she said, twisting her gardening gloves in her hands. “It can’t, Simon. You do know that.”

“Then perhaps Mrs. Sweeney objected to having her photograph taken after all,” he suggested.

She smiled bleakly at that but went along with his effort to divert her. “Could she have slipped out to the loo sometime after dinner and trundled through the house looking for Deborah’s room?”

Her question brought them back to the inescapable reality. Whoever had taken the cameras had also known which room was Deborah’s.

“Has Tommy spoken to Peter this morning?” St. James asked.

“Peter’s not up yet.”

“He vanished after dinner, Daze.”

“I know.”

“And do you know where he went? Where Sasha went?”

She shook her head. “A walk on the grounds, down to the cove, for a drive. Perhaps to the lodge to see Mark Penellin.” She sighed. The effort seemed too much. “I can’t believe he’s taken Deborah’s cameras. He’s sold most of his own things. I know that. I pretend not to, but I know it. Still, I don’t believe he’d actually steal things and sell them. Not Peter. I won’t believe that.”

A shout rose from the park as she finished speaking. Someone was coming towards the house at a hobbling run, a man who alternately clutched his side then his thigh with one hand while with the other he waved a cap in the air. All the time he continued to shout.

“Jasper, m’lady,” the gardener said, joining them with his rubbish sack trailing behind him.

“Whatever is he up to?” As he reached the gatehouse, Lady Asherton raised her voice. “Stop shouting like that, Jasper. You’re frightening us all to death.”

Jasper dashed to her side, wheezing and gasping. He seemed unable to gather enough breath to put together a coherent sentence.

“’Tis ’im,” he panted. “Down the cove.”

Lady Asherton looked at St. James. They shared the same thought. Lady Asherton took a step away as if to distance herself from information she couldn’t bear to hear.

“Who?” St. James asked. “Jasper, who’s at the cove?”

Jasper bent double, coughed, “’N the cove!”

“For heaven’s sake—”

Jasper straightened, looked around, and pointed an arthritic finger at the front door where Sidney stood, apparently seeking the source of the disturbance.

“’Er man,” he gasped. “He be dead down the cove.”

CHAPTER

15

W
hen St. James finally caught up with her, his sister had already reached the cove, far in advance of everyone else. Somewhere in her desperate flight through the park and the woodland, she had fallen, and blood streaked in a furcate pattern down one arm and along one leg. From the cliff top, he saw her fling herself at Brooke’s body, snatching him up as if by that action she could infuse him with life. She was speaking in an incoherent fashion—inarticulate words, not sentences—as she held his body to hers. Brooke’s head hung in an impossible position, testimony to the manner in which he had died.

Sidney lowered him to the ground. She opened his mouth, covering it with her own in a useless attempt at resuscitation. Even from the cliff top, St. James could hear her small, frantic cries as each breath she gave him produced no response. She pounded on his chest. She pulled open his shirt. She threw herself the length of his body and pressed against him as if to arouse him in death as she had done in life. It was a mindless, grim mimicry of seduction. St. James grew cold as he watched. He said her name, then called to her, to no avail.

Finally, she looked up the face of the cliff and saw him. She stretched out one hand as if in supplication, and at last she began to cry. It was a horrible ululation, part despair and part grief, a weeping the source of which was as primordial as it was timeless. She covered Brooke’s bruised face with kisses before she lowered her head and rested it on his chest. And she wept, in sorrow, in anger, in rage. She grabbed the body by the shoulders, lifted and shook it as she shouted Brooke’s name. In reply the lifeless head bobbed ghoulishly on its splintered neck in a danse macabre.

St. James stood motionless, forcing himself to keep his eyes on his sister, making himself a witness to the worst part of her grief, accepting the watching as punishment, just and true, for the sin of possessing a body so ruined that it would not allow him to go to her aid. Immobilised and inwardly cursing with a rising ferocity that was fast approaching panic, he listened to Sidney’s keening wail. He swung round viciously at the touch of a hand on his arm. Lady Asherton stood there, behind her the gardener and half a dozen others from the house.

“Get her
away
from him.” He barely managed the words. But his speaking released the rest of them into action.

With a final, worried look at his face, Lady Asherton began a nimble descent of the cliff. The others followed, carrying blankets, a makeshift stretcher, a thermos, a coil of rope. Although they all climbed down quickly, it seemed to St. James that they moved in slow motion in the manner of mimes.

Three of them reached Sidney simultaneously, and Lady Asherton pulled her away from the body which she continued to shake with a wild futility. As Sidney fought to go back to it, beginning to scream, Lady Asherton shouted something over her shoulder which St. James could not distinguish. In answer, one of the men handed her an open vial. She pulled Sidney to her, grabbed her by the hair, and thrust the vial under her nose. Sidney’s head flew back. Her hand went to her mouth. She spoke brokenly to Lady Asherton, who in answer pointed up the cliff.

Sidney began to climb. The gardener helped her. Then the others from the house. All of them saw that she neither stumbled nor fell. And within a few moments, St. James was pulling her fiercely into his arms. He held her, pressing his cheek to the top of her head and fighting back an emotional reaction of his own that promised to overwhelm him if he gave it free rein. When the worst of her weeping had subsided, he began to lead her in the direction of the house, both his arms round her, somehow afraid that if he released her, he would be giving her back to hysteria, back to the body of her lover on the beach.

They passed under the trees of the woodland. St. James was hardly aware of the progress they made. Nor was he aware of the rushing sound of the river, the rich scent of vegetation, the springy feel of the loamy ground beneath their feet. If his clothing was caught or snagged by the bushes that encroached upon the narrow path, he took no notice.

The air had grown quite heavy with an approaching storm by the time they reached the Howenstow wall and went through the gate. The tree leaves susurrated as the swelling wind tossed them, and up the trunk of one ash a grey squirrel scampered, disappearing into its branches for shelter. Sidney raised her head from her brother’s chest.

“It’ll rain,” she said. “Simon, he’ll get wet.”

St. James tightened his arms. He kissed the top of her head. “No, it’s all right.” He attempted to sound more like the older brother she knew, the one who had taken care of her nighttime monsters, the one who could make bad dreams go away.
But not this one, Sid
. “They’ll take care of him. You’ll see.”

Large, heavy drops splattered noisily on the leaves. In his arms, Sidney shivered.

“How Mummy shouted at us!” she whispered.

“Shouted? When?”

“You opened all the nursery windows to see how much rain would come into the room. She shouted and shouted. She hit you as well.” Her body heaved with a sob. “I never could bear to see Mummy hit you.”

“The carpet was ruined. No doubt I deserved it.”

“But it was my idea. And I let you take the punishment.” She brought her hand to her face. Blood had streaked between her fingers. She began to weep again. “I’m sorry.”

He stroked her hair. “It’s all right, love. I’d quite forgotten. Believe me.”

“How could I do that to you, Simon? You were my favourite brother. I loved you best. Nanny told me how bad it was to love you more than Andrew or David, but I couldn’t help it. I loved you best. Then I let you take a beating and it was my fault and I never said a word.” Her raised face was wet with tears that, St. James knew, in reality had nothing to do with their childhood disputes.

“Let me tell you something, Sid,” he confided, “but you must promise never to say anything to David or Andrew. You were my favourite as well. You still are, in fact.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely.”

They came to the gatehouse and entered the garden as the wind picked up, tearing at the heads of roses, sending a shower of petals into their path. Although the rain began to beat against them aggressively, they didn’t hurry their pace. By the time they reached the doorway, they were both quite wet.

“Mummy will shout at us now,” Sidney said as St. James closed the door behind them. “Shall we hide?”

“We’ll be safe enough for now.”

“I’ll not let her beat you.”

“I know that, Sid.” St. James led his sister towards the stairway, taking her hand when she hesitated and gazed around, clearly confused. “It’s just this way,” he urged her.

At the top of the stairs, he saw Cotter coming towards him, a small tray in his hands. At the sight of him, St. James gave a moment of thanksgiving over to Cotter’s ability to read his mind.

“Saw you comin’,” Cotter explained and nodded at the tray. “It’s brandy. Is she…” He jerked his head towards Sidney, his brow furrowing at the sight of her.

“She’ll be all right in a bit. If you’ll help me, Cotter. Her room’s this way.”

Unlike Deborah’s room, Sidney’s was neither cavelike nor sepulchral. Overlooking a small, walled garden at the rear of the house, it was painted and papered in a combination of yellow and white, with a floral carpet of pastels on the floor. St. James sat his sister on the bed and went to draw the curtains while Cotter poured brandy and held it to her lips. “A bit o’ this, Miss Sidney,” Cotter said solicitously. “It’ll warm you up nice.”

She drank cooperatively. “Does Mummy know?” she asked.