A Suitable Vengeance

by Elizabeth George

  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 realized 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 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 agree 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 a loose end 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 agonizing 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 emphasized 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 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 ribcage 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 on to the flat of his hand. He bent to it, hovered over it with such a passion to possess that even from the cliff-top 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 adrenalin 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.

  'Kill . . . you . . .' She was sobbing for breath. She aimed an ineffective blow at his face, attempted to smash her knee into his groin.

  He filled his hand with her short, wet hair, hauled her head back sharply, and punched her. The blow and those that followed it resounded hollowly against the cliff. In defence, she lashed out at him, succeeded in getting her hands round his throat. Her fingers dug into his knotted veins and twisted. He ripped her hands away, catching her arms once again. But she was too quick for him this time. She turned her head and sank her teeth into the side of his neck.

  'Jesus!' Brooke released her, stumbled back up on to the beach and sank into the sand. He held his hand to the spot where Sidney had bitten him. When he brought his hand away, it showed red with blood.

  Freed, Sidney struggled out of the water. Her dress hung on her body like a sodden second skin. She was coughing, wiping at her cheeks and her eyes. Her strength was spent.

  It was then that Brooke moved. With a ragged curse, he leaped to his feet, grabbed her, and threw her to the ground. He straddled her body. He filled his fist with sand and ground it into her hair and across her face. On the rock above, Peter and Sasha watched curiously.

  Sidney squirmed beneath him, coughing, crying, trying ineffectually to push him away.

  'You want physical,' he grunted, pressing one arm down against her neck. 'You really want physical. Let's have it, h'm?'

  He fumbled with his trousers. He began to tear at her clothes.

  'Simon!' Deborah cried. She turned to St James. She said nothing else.

  St James understood why. He was incapable of movement. Enraged. Unafraid. But most of all crippled.

  'It's the cliff,' he said. 'Helen. For the love of God. I can't manage the cliff.'

  7

  Lady Helen cast only one look at St James before she reached for Deborah's arm. 'Hurry!'

  Deborah didn't move. She stood with her eyes fixed powerlessly on St James' face. When he began to turn from them both, she put out her hand as if she would touch him.

  'Deborah!' Lady Helen grabbed Deborah's camera, dropped it to the ground. 'There's no time. Hurry!' 'But—' 'Now!'

  The panicked words sprung Deborah to action. She ran with Lady Helen for the path. They began the steep descent to the cove, mindless of the dirt and the dust that rose round them like smoke.

  Beneath them on the sand, Sidney fought off Justin Brooke with the kind of renewed strength that is born of terror. But he was getting the better of her, and his previous fury was fast developing into sexual arousal and sadistic pleasure. Clearly, in his mind, Sidney was about to get what she had wanted all along.

  Lady Helen and Deborah reached him simultaneously. He was a good-sized man but no match for the two of them. Especially since Lady Helen was driven by a fair amount of rage herself. They threw themselves upon him, and their confrontation was over in less than a minute, leaving Brooke splayed out on the ground, panting for breath and groaning from several furious kicks to his kidneys. Sidney, weeping, dragged herself away from him. She cursed and pulled at her shredded dress.

  'Whoa. Oh, wow,' Peter Lynley murmured. He took a new position with his head pillowed on Sasha's stomach. 'Some rescue. Huh, Sash? Just when things were getting good.'

  Lady Helen flung her head up. She was out of breath. She was streaked with dirt. Her entire body was trembling so badly she wasn't sure if she would be able to walk.

  'What's the matter with you, Peter?' she whispered hoarsely. 'What's happened to you? This is Sidney. Sidney!’

  Peter laughed. Sasha smiled. They settled themselves more comfortably to enjoy the sun.

  Lady Helen listened at the heavy panels of St James' bedroom door, hearing nothing. She wasn't quite certain what she had expected from him. Anything beyond brooding solitude would have been out of character, and St James was not a man who generally acted out of character. He wasn't doing so now. The stillness behind the door was so complete that, had she not seen him to this very room two hours before, Lady Helen would have sworn it was unoccupied. But she knew he was in there, damning himself to isolation.

  Well, she thought, he's had enough time to flagellate himself. Time to rout him out.

  She raised her hand to knock, but before she could do so Cotter opened the door, saw her, and stepped into the corridor. He gave a quick backward glance into the room - Lady Helen could see that the curtains had been drawn - and shut the door behind him. He folded his arms across his chest.

  Had she been given to mythological allusions, Lady Helen would have dubbed Cotter Cerberus then and there. Since this was not her bent, she merely squared her shoulders and promised herself that St James would not avoid her by posting Cotter to guard the gates.

  'He's up by now, isn't he?' She spoke casually, an enquiry from a friend, deliberately overlooking the fact that the room's darkness indicated St James was not up at all and had no intention of getting up any time soon. 'Tommy has a Nanrunnel adventure planned for us tonight. Simon won't want to miss it.'

  Cotter tightened his arms. 'He asked me to make 'is excuses. Bit of pain this afternoon. The 'eadaches. You know what it's like.'

  'No!'

  Cotter blinked. Taking his arm, Lady Helen pulled him away from the door, across the corridor to a line of quarry windows which overlooked the pantry court. 'Cotter, please. Don't let him do this.'

  'Lady Helen, we got to . . .' Cotter paused. His patient manner of address indicated that he wished to reason with her. Lady Helen wanted none of that.

  'You know what happened, don't you?'

  Cotter avoided answering by taking a handkerchief from his pocket, blowing his nose, and then studying the cobblestones and fountain in the courtyard below.

  'Cotter,' Lady Helen insisted. 'You do know what happened?'

  'I do. From Deb.'

  'Then, you know he can't be allowed to brood any longer.'

  'But 'is orders were—'

  'Damn his orders to hell. A thousand and one times you've ignored them and done exactly as you please, if it's for his own good. And you know this is for his own good now.' Lady Helen paused to consider a plan he'd accept. 'So. You're wanted in the drawing room. Everyone's meeting there for sherry. You haven't seen me the entire afternoon, so you weren't here to stop me from barging in on Air St James and taking charge of him after my own fashion. All right?'

  Although no smile touched Cotter's lips, his nod signalled approval. 'Right.'

  Lady Helen watched him walk off in the direction of the main body of the house before she returned to the door and entered the room. She could
see St James' form on the bed, but he stirred when she closed the door so she knew he wasn't asleep.

  'Simon, darling,' she announced, 'if you'll pardon the ghastly use of alliteration, we're to have our collective cultural consciousness raised with a Nanrunnel adventure tonight. God knows we'll have to fortify ourselves with seven or eight stiff sherries - can a sherry be stiff? - if we're going to survive. I think Tommy and Deborah are well ahead of us in their drinking, so you'll have to be quick if we're even to catch up. What will you wear?'

  She walked across the room as she was speaking, going to the windows to pull back the curtains. She arranged them neatly - more to stall for time than to see to their proper hanging - and when she could find no reason to continue fussing with them she turned to the bed to find St James observing her. He looked amused.

  'You're so obvious, Helen.'

  She sighed in relief. Pitying himself had never really been the question, of course. Hating himself was more likely. But she saw even that may have spent itself after their moments alone on the cliff when Deborah had taken Sidney back to the house.

  Would Brooke have killed her or just raped her, St James had demanded, while I watched from up here like a useless voyeur? Quite safe, uninvolved. No risk incurred, right? It sounds like my whole life.

  There had been no anger contained in his words, only humiliation, which was infinitely worse.

  She had shouted at him. No-one cares about it! No-one ever has but you!

  She spoke only the truth, but that truth did nothing to mitigate the fact that his own caring about it so unforgivingly was a permanent scar on the fragile surface of his self-esteem.

  'What is it?' he was asking her now. 'A darts tournament at the Anchor and Rose?'

  'No. Something better. A sure-to-be-dreadful performance of Much Ado About Nothing, put on by the village players in the grounds of the primary school. In fact it's a special performance tonight in honour of Tommy's engagement. Or so, according to Daze, the rector said when he came to call today, complimentary tickets in hand.'