A Suitable Vengeance

by Elizabeth George

  Only the most resolutely curious had completed the climb. Shaking her wet hair back from her face, Deborah saw them gathered in front of a drive where a police line was set up to keep them at a distance. There, the group had fallen into a speculative silence, one broken by the hot voice of Harry Cambrey who was arguing with an implacable constable, insisting upon entrance.

  Behind them on the hill, rain assailed Trenarrow's villa. Its every window was lit. Uniformed men swarmed about it. Lights flashed from the police cars parked on its circular drive.

  'Shot, I heard,' someone muttered.

  'Brought anyone out yet?'

  'Nope.'

  Deborah scanned the front of the villa, working through the men, looking for a sign. He was all right, he was fine, he had to be among them. She couldn't find him. She pushed her way through the onlookers to the police line. Childhood prayers rose to her lips and died unsaid. She made bargains with God. She asked to be punished in any other way. She asked for understanding. She admitted her faults.

  She ducked under the line.

  'No, you don't, miss!' The constable who had been arguing with Cambrey barked out the command from ten feet away.

  'But it's—'

  'Stay back!' he shouted. 'This isn't a bloody sideshow.'

  Unmindful, Deborah started forward. The need to know and to be there overshadowed everything else.

  'Here, you!' The constable moved towards her, readying himself to thrust her back into the crowd. As he did so, Harry Cambrey darted past him, scrambling up the drive. 'Damn!' the constable shouted. 'You! Cambrey!'

  Having lost the one, he was not about to lose the other, and he gripped Deborah's arm, waving to a panda car that had pulled onto the verge. 'Take this one,' he called to the officers inside. 'The other got past me.'

  'No!' Deborah struggled to free herself, feeling a rising sense of outrage at her own complete impotence. She couldn't even break the constable's grip. The more she fought him, the stronger he became.

  'Miss Cotter?'

  She swung around. No angel could have been more blessed a sight than the Reverend Mr Sweeney. Garbed in black, he stood beneath a tent-like umbrella, blinking solemnly at her through the rain.

  'Tommy's at the villa,' she said. 'Mr Sweeney, please.''

  The cleric frowned. He squinted up the drive. 'Oh dear.' His right hand flexed open and closed upon the handle of his umbrella as he appeared to consider his options. 'Oh dear. Yes. I see.' This final statement seemed to indicate that an action had been decided upon. Mr Sweeney drew himself up to his fullest height of not quite five and a half feet and spoke to the constable who still held Deborah in a determined grip. 'You know Lord Asherton, of course,' he said authoritatively. It was a tone that would have surprised any of his parishioners who had never seen him in blackface among the Nanrunnel Players, ordering Cassio and Montano to put up their swords. 'This is his fiancee. Let her by.'

  The constable eyed Deborah's bedraggled appearance. His expression made it perfecdy clear that he could hardly give credence to a relationship between her and any one of the Lynleys.

  'Let her by,' Mr Sweeney repeated. ‘I’ll accompany her myself. Perhaps you ought to be more concerned with the newspaperman than with this young lady.'

  The constable gave Deborah another sceptical look. She waited in torment while he made his decision. 'All right. Go on. Stay out of the way.'

  Deborah's lips formed the words 'Thank you', but nothing came out. She took a few stumbling steps.

  'It's all right, my dear,' Mr Sweeney said. 'Let's go up.

  Take my arm. The drive's a bit slippery, isn't it?'

  She did as he said, although only a part of her brain registered his words. The rest was caught up in speculation and fear. 'Please, not Tommy,' she whispered. 'Not like this. Please. I could bear anything else.'

  'Now, it will be all right,' Mr Sweeney murmured in a distracted fashion. 'Indeed. You shall see.'

  They slipped and slid among the crushed corollas of fuchsias as they wound their way up the narrow drive towards the front of the villa. The rain was beginning to fall less heavily, but Deborah was already soaked, so the protection of Mr Sweeney's umbrella meant very little. She shivered as she clung to his arm.

  'It's a dreadful business, this,' Mr Sweeney said as if in response to her shudder. 'But it shall be all right. You'll see in a moment.'

  Deborah heard the words but knew enough to dismiss them. There was no chance for all right any longer. A mocking form of justice always swept through life when one was least prepared to see justice meted out. Her time had come.

  In spite of the number of men who were on the grounds, it was unnaturally quiet as they approached the villa. The crackle of a police radio was the only noise, a female dispatcher giving direction to police not far from the scene. On the circular drive beneath the hawthorn tree, three police cars sat at odd, hurried angles, as if their drivers had flung themselves out without bothering to worry about where or how they parked. In the rear seat of one of them, Harry Cambrey was engaged in a muffled shouting match with an angry constable who appeared to have handcuffed him to the interior of the car. When he saw Deborah, Cambrey forced his face to the officer's window.

  'Dead!' he shouted before the constable pushed him back inside the car.

  The worst was realized. Deborah saw the ambulance pulled near the front door - not as close as the police cars, for there was no need of that. Wordlessly, she clutched at Mr Sweeney's arm, but as if he read her fears he pointed to the portico.

  'Look,' he urged her.

  Deborah forced herself to look towards the front door. She saw him. Her eyes flew wildly over every part of his body, looking for wounds. But, other than the fact that his jacket was wet, he was quite intact - although terribly pale - talking gravely to Inspector Boscowan.

  'Thank God,' she whispered.

  The front door opened even as she spoke. Lynley and Boscowan stepped to one side to allow two men to carry a stretcher into the rain, a body upon it. Sheeting covered it from head to toe, strapped down as if to shield it from the rain and to protect it from the stares of the curious. Only when she saw it, only when she heard the front door close with a sound of hollow finality, did Deborah understand. Still she looked frantically at the grounds of the villa, at the brightly lit windows, at the cars, at the door. Again and again - as if the action could change an immutable reality - she sought him.

  Mr Sweeney said something, but she didn't hear it. She only heard her own bargain: / could bear anything else.

  Her childhood, her life, flashed before her in an instant, leaving behind for the very first time neither anger nor pain, but instead understanding, complete and too late. She bit her lip so hard that she could taste the blood, but it was not enough to quell her cry of anguish.

  'Simon!' She threw herself towards the ambulance where already the body had been loaded inside.

  Lynley spun around. He saw her plunging blindly through the cars. She slipped once on the slick pavement but pulled herself to her feet, screaming his name.

  She threw herself on the ambulance, pulling on the handle that would open its rear door. A policeman tried to restrain her, a second did likewise. But she fought them off. She kicked, she scratched. And all the time, she kept screaming his name. High and shrieking, it was a two-syllable monody that Lynley knew he would hear - when he least wanted to hear it - for the rest of his life. A third policeman joined the attempt to subdue her, but she writhed away.

  Sick at heart, Lynley turned from the sight. He felt for the villa door. 'St James,' he said.

  The other man was in the hall with Trenarrow's housekeeper who was sobbing into the turban she'd taken from her head. He looked Lynley's way and began to speak but hesitated, face clouded, as Deborah's cries grew more profound. He touched Dora's shoulder gently and joined Lynley at the door, stopping short at the sight of Deborah being dragged away from the ambulance and fighting every step that distanced her from it. He looked at Lynley.<
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  Lynley looked away. 'For Christ's sake, go to her. She thinks it's you.' He couldn't face his friend. He didn't want to see him. He only hoped St James would take matters into his own hands without another word being spoken between them. It was not to be.

  'No. She's only—'

  'Just go, damn you. Go.'

  Seconds ticked by before St James moved, but when he finally walked into the drive Lynley found the expiation he had searched for so long. He forced himself to watch.

  St James skirted the police cars and approached the group. He walked quite slowly. He couldn't move fast. His gait wouldn't allow it, crippled and ugly, and halted by pain.

  St James reached the ambulance. He shouted Deborah's name. He grabbed her, pulled her towards him. She fought back violently, weeping and shrieking, but only for a moment until she saw who it was. Then she was caught up in his arms, her body shaking with terrible sobs, his head bent to hers, his hands in her hair.

  'It's all right, Deborah,' Lynley heard St James say. 'I'm sorry you were frightened. I'm all right, my love.' Then he murmured needlessly, 'My love. My love.'

  The rain fell against them, the police began to move round them. But neither seemed cognizant of anything more than being held in the other's arms.

  Lynley turned and went into the house.

  A stirring awakened her. She opened her eyes. They focused on the distant barrel ceiling. She gazed up at it, confused. Turning her head, she saw the lace-covered dressing table, its silver hairbrushes, its old cheval mirror. Great-grandmamma Asherton's bedroom, she thought. Recognition of the room brought almost everything back. Images of the cove, the newspaper office, the flight up the hill, the sight of the shrouded body all merged in her mind. At their centre was Tommy.

  Another movement came from the other side of the room. The curtains were drawn, but a cord of daylight struck a chair by the fireplace. Lynley was sitting there, his legs stretched out in front of him. On the table next to him sat a tray of food. Breakfast, by the look of it. She could see the dim shape of a toast rack.

  At first she didn't speak, trying instead to remember the events that followed those horrifying moments at Trenarrow's villa. She remembered a brandy being pressed upon her, the sound of voices, a telephone ringing, then a car. Somehow she'd got from Nanrunnel back to Howenstow where she'd made her way to a bed.

  She wore a blue satin nightdress that she didn't recognize. A matching dressing gown lay at the foot of the bed. She pushed herself into a sitting position.

  'Tommy?'

  'You're awake.' He went to the windows and pushed the curtains back a bit so that the room had more light. The casements were already open a few inches, but he opened them further so that the crying of the gulls and cormorants made a background of sound.

  'What time is it?'

  'Just after ten.'

  'Ten?

  'You've slept since yesterday afternoon. You don't remember?'

  'Just bits. Have you been waiting long?' 'A while.'

  She saw then that he wore the same clothes he'd had on in Nanrunnel. His face was unshaven, and beneath his eyes his skin was dark and puckered. 'You've been with me all night.'

  He didn't reply. He remained at the window, far from the bed. Beyond his shoulder, she could see the sky. Against it, his hair was made gold by the sun.

  'I thought I'd fly you back to London this morning. Whenever you're ready.' He indicated the tray. 'This has been sitting here since half past eight. Shall I see about getting you something else?'

  'Tommy,' she said. 'Would you ... ? Is there . .. ?' She tried to search his face, but he kept it averted and it showed no response, so she let her words die.

  He put his hands in his pockets and looked out of the window again. 'They've brought John Penellin home.'

  She followed his head. 'What about Mark?'

  'Boscowan knows he took the Daze. As to the cocaine . . .' He sighed. 'That's John's decision as far as I'm concerned. I won't make it for him. I don't know what he'll do. He may not be ready to draw the line on Mark yet. I just don't know.'

  'You could report him.'

  'I could.'

  'But you won't.'

  'I think it best that it come from John.' He continued gazing out of the window, his head lifted to the sky. 'It's a beautiful day. A good day for flying.'

  'What about Peter?' she asked. 'Is he cleared now? Is Sidney?'

  'St James thinks Brooke must have got the ergotamine from a chemist in Penzance. It's a prescription drug, but it wouldn't be the first time a chemist slipped something to a customer on the sly. It would have seemed harmless enough. A complaint about a migraine. Aspirin not working. No doctor's surgery open on Saturday.'

  'He doesn't think Justin took some of his own pills?'

  'He can't think of a reason Brooke would have known he had them. I told him it doesn't really matter at this point, but he wants to clear Sidney thoroughly, Peter as well. He's gone to Penzance.' His voice died off. His recitation was finished.

  Deborah felt her throat aching. There was so much tension in his posture. 'Tommy,' she said, 'I saw you on the porch. I knew you were safe. But when I saw the body—'

  'The worst part was Mother,' he cut in, 'having to tell Mother. Watching her face and knowing every word I said was destroying her. But she wouldn't cry. Not in front of me. Because both of us know I'm at fault at the heart of this.'

  'No!'

  'If they'd married years ago, if I'd allowed them to marry—'

  'Tommy, no.'

  'So she won't grieve in front of me. She won't let me help.'

  'Tommy, darling—'

  'It was horrible.' He ran his fingers along the window's transom. 'For a moment, I thought he might actually shoot St James. But he put the gun in his mouth.' He cleared his throat. 'Why is it that nothing ever prepares one for a sight like that?'

  'Tommy, I've known him all my life. He's like my family. When I thought he was dead—'

  'The blood. The brain tissue splattered back against the windows. I think I'll see it for the rest of my life. That and everything else. Like a blasted motion picture, playing into eternity against the back of my eyelids whenever I close my eyes.'

  'Oh, Tommy, please,' she said brokenly. 'Please. Come here.'

  At that, his brown eyes met hers directly. 'It's not enough, Deb.'

  He made the statement so carefully. She heard it, frightened. 'What's not enough?'

  'That I love you. That I want you. I used to think that St James was thirty different ways a fool for not having married Helen in all these years. I could never understand it. I suppose I really knew why all along, but I didn't want to face it.'

  She ignored his words. 'Shall we use the church in the village, Tommy? Or is London better? What do you think?'

  'The church?'

  'For the wedding, darling. What do you think?'

  He shook his head. 'Not on sufferance, Deborah. I won't have you that way.'

  'But I want you,' she whispered. 'I love you, Tommy.'

  'I know you want to believe that. God knows I want to believe it myself. Had you stayed in America, had you never come home, had I joined you there, we might have had a fighting chance. But as it is . . .'

  Still he stayed across the room. She couldn't bear the distance. She held out her hand. 'Tommy. Tommy. Please.'

  'Your whole life's with Simon. You know it. We both do.'

  'No, I...' She couldn't finish the sentence. She wanted to rail and fight against what he had said, but he had pierced through to a truth she had long avoided.

  He watched her face for a moment before speaking again. 'Shall I give you an hour until we leave?'

  She opened her mouth to pledge, to deny, but at this final moment she could not do so. 'Yes. An hour,' she said.

  Part Seven

  AFTERWARDS

  28

  Lady Helen sighed. 'This moves the definition of tedium beyond my wildest dreams. Tell me again what it's going to prove?'


  St James made a third careful fold in the thin pyjama top, lining up the last point of the icepick's entry. 'The defendant claims he was assaulted as he slept. He had only one wound in his side, but we've got three holes, each one stained with his blood. How do you suppose that happened?'

  She bent over the garment. It was oddly folded to accommodate the three holes. 'He was a contortionist in his sleep?'

  St James chuckled. 'Better yet a liar awake. He stabbed himself and made the holes later.' He caught her yawning. 'Am I boring you, Helen?'

  'Not at all.'

  'Late night in the company of a charming man?'

  'If only that were true. I'm afraid it was the company of my grandparents, darling. Grandfather blissfully snoring away during the triumphal march in Aida. I should have joined him. No doubt he's quite spry this morning.'

  'An occasional bow to culture is good for the soul.'

  'I loathe opera. If they'd only sing in English. Is it too much to ask? But it's always Italian or French. Or German. German's the worst. And when they run about the stage in those funny helmets with the horns . . .'

  'You're a Philistine, Helen.'

  'Card carrying.'

  'Well, if you'll behave yourself for another half hour, I'll take you to lunch. There's a new brasserie I've found in the Brompton Road.'

  Her face came to life. 'Darling Simon, the very thing! What shall I do next?' She looked round the lab as if seeking new employment, an intention that St James ignored when the front door slammed and a voice called his name.

  He shoved away from the work table. 'Sidney,' he said and walked to the door as his sister came dashing up the stairs. 'Where the hell have you been?'