A Suitable Vengeance

by Elizabeth George

  Fishing boats filled the harbour itself, bobbing rhythmically on the incoming tide and protected by two long crescent-shaped quays. Curiously shaped buildings perched on the harbour's edge - cottages, shops, inns and restaurants - and an uneven cobbled walkway running along the embankment gave their inhabitants access to the water below. Above, hundreds of seabirds cried from chimneys and slate roofs while hundreds more took to the air, circled the harbour, and flew from there into the bay where, in the distance, St Michael's Mount rose in the failing evening light.

  A considerable crowd had gathered in the primary school grounds in the lower part of Paul Lane. There, a humble open-air theatre had been created by the Reverend Mr Sweeney and his wife. It consisted of only three elements. A sturdily crafted platform served as stage. Accommodation for the audience comprised folding wooden chairs of prewar vintage. And at the far side of the grounds, next to the street, a refreshment booth was already doing a respectable business with libations supplied by the village's largest pub, the Anchor and Rose. Nancy Cambrey, Lynley saw, was working the taps.

  The rector himself met Lynley's party at the entrance to the school grounds, his portly face beaming with a rapturous smile of welcome. He wore a heavy layer of theatrical make-up through which he was perspiring heavily. In costume already, he was an incongruous sight in doublet and stockings, his bald head aglow under the strands of lights which criss-crossed the school yard.

  'I shall wear a wig for Benedick, of course,' Mr Sweeney mocked himself gently. He greeted St James and Lady Helen with the fondness of an old friend and then presented himself eagerly to be introduced to Deborah, a social nicety which he brushed aside almost as soon as he adopted it by bursting out with, 'My dear, we are so pleased to have you here tonight. Both of you. It's grand,' before Lynley could say a word. He might well have gone on to bow with a flourish had not the precarious position of his codpiece precluded any sudden movement. 'We've put you right in front so you won't miss a thing. Come, it's just this way.'

  Missing a thing, missing several things, missing the entire play would have been too much blessing to hope for since the Nanrunnel Players had long been known for the stentorian nature of their performances rather than for their histrionic flare. However, led by Mr Sweeney - with his wife as a short, plump Beatrice who managed to display a remarkably heaving bosom during speeches far more impassioned than required by the role - the drama proceeded with fiery enthusiasm to the interval. At this point, the audience rose to its feet as one and headed towards the refreshment booth to make the most of a respite filled with lager and ale.

  The sole advantage to being the guests of honour showed itself in the quick progress Lynley and his party made to the booth. The crowd, which moments before had been surging forward towards the blessed salvation of Watney's and Bass, parted in a co-operative fashion, giving Lynley and the others quick access to relief.

  The only other person to take advantage of this break in the mass of pushing and shoving humanity was a tall, middle-aged man who had managed to reach the refreshment booth first. He turned with a tray of glasses in his hands and presented it to Lynley.

  'Have these, Tommy,' he said.

  Incredulously, Lynley stared at Roderick Trenarrow and at the tray of glasses he held. His intention was both unmistakable and unavoidable, a public meeting, a display of good cheer. As always, Trenarrow had chosen his moment like a master.

  'Roderick,' Lynley said. 'How very good of you.'

  Trenarrow smiled. 'I have the advantage of a seat near the booth.'

  'Strange. I hardly thought Shakespeare would be in your line.'

  'Other than Hamlet, you mean?' Trenarrow asked pleasantly. He directed his attention to Lynley's party, clearly expecting to be introduced. Lynley did so, mustering the good grace to appear unaffected by this unexpected encounter.

  Trenarrow pushed his gold-rimmed spectacles up the bridge of his nose and directed his words to Lynley's friends. 'I'm afraid Mrs Sweeney caught me on the bus from Penzance, and before I knew it I'd purchased a ticket to tonight's performance and sworn I'd attend. But there's mercy involved. Since I'm near the drinks booth, if the production gets any more appalling I can swozzle down six or seven more lagers and pickle myself properly.'

  'Our very thought,' Lady Helen said.

  'One gets more experienced with the Nanrunnel productions every summer,' Trenarrow went on. 'I expect the rest of the audience will try sitting with me at the back next year. Eventually no-one will be willing to fill up the front seats and Mrs Sweeney will be forced to put on her play from inside the refreshment booth just to hold our attention.'

  The others laughed. Lynley did not. Instead he found himself annoyed at their willingness to succumb to Trenarrow, and he scrutinized the other man, as if an analysis of his physical properties would somehow reveal the source of his charm. As always, Lynley noticed not the whole but the details. Rich brown hair finally showing the signs of his age, weaving fine strands of silver back from his brow; a linen suit that was old but well tailored, spotlessly clean and fined to his figure; a jawline sharp and hard, carrying no spare flesh in spite of the fact that he was nearing fifty; warm laughter bursting out of him unrestrained; the webbing of flesh at his eyes; and the eyes themselves which were dark and quick to assess and understand.

  Lynley catalogued all this with no system for observation, just a series of fleeting impressions. There was no way to avoid them, not with Trenarrow so close, standing - as he always had - so much larger than life.

  'I see Nancy Cambrey's gone to work at the Anchor and Rose in addition to her other jobs,' Lynley said to Trenarrow.

  The other man looked over his shoulder to the refreshment booth. 'It looks that way. I'm surprised she'd take it on with the baby and all. It can't be easy for her.'

  'It'll do something to ease their money troubles, though, won't it?' Lynley took a gulp of his lager. It was too warm for his liking, and he would have preferred to dump it out on to the base of a palm nearby. But Trenarrow would have read animosity in that action, so he continued sipping the drink. 'Look, Roderick,' he said brusquely, 'I'm going to make good whatever money they owe you.'

  Both the statement and the manner of saying it put an end to conversation among the others. Lynley became aware of Lady Helen's hand coming to rest on St James' arm, of Deborah's uneasy stirring at his own side, of Trenarrow's look of perplexity as if he hadn't an idea in the world what Lynley was referring to.

  'Make good the money?' Trenarrow repeated.

  'I'm not about to let Nancy go begging. They can't afford a rise in rent at the moment and—'

  'Rent?'

  Lynley found his gentle repetitions aggravating. Trenarrow was manoeuvring him into the bully's role. 'She's afraid of losing Gull Cottage. I told her I'd make good the money. Now I'm telling you.'

  'The cottage. I see.' Trenarrow lifted his drink slowly and observed Lynley over the rim of the glass. He gazed reflectively at the drinks booth. 'Nancy doesn't need to worry about the cottage. Mick and I shall work it out. She needn't have bothered you for the money.'

  How absolutely like the man, Lynley thought. How insufferably noble he was. How far-sighted as well. He knew what he was doing. The entire conversation was the sort of parry and thrust that they had engaged in innumerable times over the years, filled with double-edged words and hidden meanings.

  'I said I'd take care of it and I will.' Lynley attempted to alter the tone if not the intention behind his words. 'There's absolutely no need for you to—'

  'Suffer?' Trenarrow regarded Lynley evenly for a moment before he offered a cool smile. He finished the rest of his drink. 'How very kind of you. If you'll excuse me now, I seem to have been dominating your time long enough. There appear to be others here who'd like to be introduced.' He nodded and left them.

  Lynley watched him go, recognizing as always Trenarrow's skill at seizing the moment. He'd done it again, leaving Lynley feeling like nothing more than a rough-edged lout. He was sev
enteen again. Over and over in Trenarrow's presence he would always be seventeen.

  Lady Helen's animated words filled the void created by Trenarrow's departure. 'Good heavens, what a gorgeous man he is, Tommy. Did you say he's a doctor? Every woman in the village must line up at his surgery on a daily basis.'

  'He's not that kind of doctor,' Lynley replied automatically. He poured out the rest of his lager along the trunk of a palm and watched the liquid pool onto the dry, unyielding earth. 'He does medical research in Penzance.'

  Which is why he'd come to Howenstow in the first place, a man only thirty years old, called upon as an act of desperation to see to the dying earl. It was hopeless. He'd explained in that earnest fashion of his that there was nothing more to be done besides adhering to the current chemotherapy. There was no cure in spite of what they read and wanted to believe in the tabloids, he said; there were dozens of different kinds of cancer; it was a catch-all term. The body was dying of its own inability to call a halt to the production of cells, and scientists didn't know enough; they were working and striving, but it would be years, decades . . . He spoke with quiet apologies. With profound understanding and compassion.

  And so the earl had lingered and dwindled and suffered and died. The family had mourned him. The region had mourned him. Everyone save Roderick Trenarrow.

  9

  Nancy Cambrey packed the last of the pint glasses into a carton for the short trip down the hill to the Anchor and Rose. She was extremely weary. In order to be at the school in time to do the setting-up that evening, she'd gone without her dinner, so she was feeling light-headed as well. She criss-crossed the carton flaps and secured the package, relieved that the evening's labour was done.

  Nearby, her employer - the formidable Mrs Swarm -fingered through the night's taking with her usual passion for things pecuniary. Her lips moved soundlessly as she counted the coins and notes, jotting figures into her dogeared red ledger. She nodded in satisfaction. The booth had done well.

  'I'm off then,' Nancy said with some hesitation. She never knew exactly what kind of reaction to expect from Mrs Swann, who was notorious for her mood-swings. No barmaid had ever lasted more than seven months in her employ. Nancy was determined to be the first. Money's the point, she whispered inwardly whenever she found herself on the receiving end of one of Mrs Swarm's violent outbursts. You can bear anything, so long as you're paid.

  'Fine, Nancy,' Mrs Swann muttered with a wave of her hand. 'Off with you, then.'

  'Sorry about the call box.'

  The woman snorted and poked at her scalp with the stub of a pencil. 'From now on, phone your dad in your own time, girl. Not in the pub's time. And not in mine.'

  'Yes. I will. I'll remember.' Placation was paramount. Nancy held tightly to the booth in order to manage un-ruffling Mrs Swann's feathers while betraying nothing of the aversion she actually felt for her employer. 'I learn quick, Mrs Swann. You'll see. People never do have to tell me anything twice.'

  Mrs Swann looked up sharply. Her rat's eyes glittered in evaluation. 'Learning things quick enough from that man of yours, girl? All sorts of new things, I expect. That right?'

  Nancy rubbed at a smudge on her faded pink blouse. ‘I’m off,' she said in answer and ducked under the booth.

  Although the lights were still on, the yard was empty of everyone save Lynley's party and the Nanrunnel Players. Nancy watched them at the front of the theatre. While St James and Lady Helen waited among the empty seats, Lynley posed with the cast as his fiancee took their picture. Each flash lit one delighted face after another, catching their antic posturing on film. Lynley bore it all with his usual good grace, chatting away with the rector and his wife, laughing at cheerful remarks made by Lady Helen Clyde.

  Life comes so easily to him, Nancy thought.

  'It's no different, my dear, being one of them. It only looks that way.'

  Nancy started at the words, at their stabbing acuity. She whirled to see Dr Trenarrow sitting in the shadows, against a wall of the school yard.

  Nancy had avoided him for the entire evening, always keeping out of his reach or his line of vision when he came to the booth for a drink. Now, however, she could not avoid the contact, for he got to his feet and walked into the light.

  'You're worried about the cottage,' he said. 'Don't. I shan't be putting you on the street. We'll work things out, Mick and I.'

  She felt sweat break out on the back of her neck in spite of his gentle declaration. It was the nightmare she feared, coming face to face with him, having to discuss the situation, having to create excuses. Worse, just ten feet away, Mrs Swann had raised her head from the money-box, her interest no doubt piqued by the mention of Mick's name.

  ‘I’ll have the money,' she stammered. ‘I’ll get it. I will.'

  'You're not to worry, Nancy,' Trenarrow said, more insistently. 'And you've no need at all to go begging Lord Asherton for help. You should have spoken to me.'

  'No. You see . . .' She couldn't explain without giving offence. He would not understand why she could go hat in hand to Lynley but not to him. He wouldn't realize that a loan from Lynley carried no burden of unwelcome charity because he gave without judgement, in friendship and concern. And nowhere else in Nancy's life could she expect that sort of help without a companion assessment of the failure of her marriage. Even now she could feel the manner in which Dr Trenarrow was evaluating her situation. Even now she could sense his pity.

  'Because a rise in the rent isn't—'

  'Please.' With a small cry, she brushed past him, hurrying out of the school yard and into the street. She heard Dr Trenarrow call her name once, but she kept going.

  Rubbing arms that were sore from heaving pint glasses and working the taps all night, she scurried down Paul Lane towards the mouth of Ivy Street which led into the twisting collection of alleys and passageways that comprised the heart of the village. These were narrow inclines, cobbled and tortuous little streets too cramped for cars. During the day, summer holiday makers came here to photograph the picturesque old buildings with their colourful front gardens and crooked slate roofs. At night, however, the entire area was illuminated only by oblongs of light from cottage windows. Darkly shadowed and inhabited by generations of cats who bred in the hillside above the village and fed by night in rubbish-bins, it was not a place for lingering.

  Gull Cottage was some distance into the maze of streets. It sat on the corner of Virgin Place, looking like a whitewashed matchbox, with bright blue trim on its windows and a lavishly blooming fuchsia growing next to its front door. Blood-red flowers blown from this plant covered the ground nearby.

  As Nancy approached the cottage, her steps faltered. She could hear the noise from three houses away. Molly was crying, screaming in fact.

  She looked at her watch. It was nearly midnight. Molly should have been fed, should have been fast asleep by now. Why on earth was Mick not seeing to the child?

  Exasperated that her husband could be so selfishly deaf to his own daughter's cries, Nancy ran the remaining distance to the cottage, threw open the garden gate, and hurried to the door.

  'Mick!' she called. Above her, in the only bedroom, she could hear Molly's screaming. She felt an edge of panic, picturing the baby's face red with rage, feeling her small body tense with fright. She shoved open the door.

  'Molly!'

  Inside, she ran for the stairs, took them two at a time. It was insufferably hot.

  'Molly-girl! Pet!' She flew to the baby's cot and picked her daughter up to find that she was wet to the skin, reeking of urine. Her body was feverish. Tendrils of auburn hair curled limply on her skull. 'Love, lovely girl. What's happened to you?' she murmured as she sponged her off and changed her and then cried out, 'Michael! Mick!'

  With Molly against her shoulder, Nancy went back down the stairs, her feet striking the bare wood noisily as she headed for the kitchen at the rear of the cottage.

  Feeding the baby was foremost on her mind. Still, she allowed herself to gi
ve vent to a small eruption of anger.

  'I want to speak with you,' she snapped at the closed sitting room door. 'Michael! D'you hear? I want a word. Now!'

  As she spoke, she saw that the door was neither latched nor locked. She pushed it open with her foot.

  'Michael, you can damn well answer me when—'

  She felt the hairs bristling along the length of her arms. He was lying on the floor. Or someone was lying there, for she could just see a leg. Only one. Not two. Which was curious unless he was sleeping with one leg drawn up and the other splayed out in complete abandon. Except how could he be asleep? It was hot. So hot. And the noise which Molly had been making . . .

  'Mick, are you playing some pawky joke on me?'

  There was no reply. Molly's crying had faded to an exhausted whimper, so Nancy took a step into the room.

  'That's you, isn't it, Mick?'

  Nothing. But she could see it was Mick. She recognized his shoe, a frivolous high-topped red plimsoll with a strip of metallic silver round the ankle. It was a new purchase of his, something that he didn't need. It costs too much money, she'd say to him. It bleeds off the chequebook. It takes away from the baby . . . Yes, it was Mick on the floor. And she knew what he was up to at the moment, pretending to be asleep so that she couldn't rant at him for ignoring the baby.

  Still, it didn't seem like him not to hop to his feet, laughing at his ability to frighten her with another one of his practical jokes. And she was frightened. Because something wasn't right. Papers blanketed the floor, far more than represented Mick's usual mess. The desk drawers were open. The curtains were drawn. A cat yowled outside, but in the cottage there was no sound, and the heavy, hot air was foul with the smell of faeces and sweat.

  'Mickey?'

  Her hands, her armpits, the back of her knees, the inside of her elbows. She was sticky and wet. Molly stirred in her arms. Nancy forced herself forward. An inch. Then another. Then an entire foot. Six inches after that. And then she saw why her husband had not heard Molly's cries.