A Suitable Vengeance (26 page)

“You know this already,” he said. “But I’d like to make it official tonight by saying that Deborah and I shall marry in December.” He touched her bright hair lightly as a murmur of congratulations rose and fell. “What you don’t know, however, because we only decided late this afternoon, is that we’ll be coming home permanently to Cornwall then. To make our life here—have our children grow up here—with you.”

It was an announcement which, considering the reaction, no one had been prepared to hear. Least of all had St. James expected it. He had an impression only of a general cry of surprise and then a series of images played quickly before him: Lady Asherton saying her son’s name and nothing more; Trenarrow turning abruptly to Lynley’s mother; Deborah pressing her cheek to Lynley’s hand in a movement so quick it might have gone unnoticed; and then Cotter studying St. James with an expression whose meaning was unmistakable. He’s expected this all along, St. James thought.

There was no time to dwell upon what it would mean—how it would feel—to have Deborah nearly three hundred miles away from the home she’d known all her life. For champagne glasses had been distributed, and Mr. Sweeney was enthusiastically seizing the moment. He got to his feet, eager to be the first to embrace such welcome news. Only the Second Coming could have given him more pleasure.

“Then I
must
say…” Clumsily, he reached for his glass. “Do let me toast you both. To have you with us again, to have you home, to have you…” He relinquished the attempt to find an appropriate sentiment and merely raised his glass and burbled, “Simply wonderful,” before he sat down.

Other congratulations followed, and with them were voiced the inevitable questions about engagement and wedding and future life. The meal could have disintegrated at that point into one large display of bonhomie, but Peter Lynley put an end to the promise of that happening.

He stood, holding his champagne glass at arm’s length towards his brother. He waved it unevenly. Only the shape of the glass prevented the wine from sloshing out. “Then a toast,” he said, drawing out the last word. He leaned one hand on Sasha’s shoulder for support. She glanced furtively at Lynley and then said something in a low voice which Peter disregarded. “To the perfect brother,” he announced. “Who has managed somehow after searching the world over—not to mention doing a fair degree of sampling the goods as he went. Right, Tommy?—to find the perfect woman with whom he can now have the perfect life. What a damned lucky fellow Lord Asherton is.” He gulped his drink noisily and fell back into his chair.

That cuts it, St. James thought. He looked to see how Lynley would handle the matter, but his eyes came to rest upon Deborah instead. Face pinched, she ducked her head. No matter that her humiliation was both unwarranted and unnecessary considering its source, the fact of it alone provided a spur. St. James pushed his own chair back and rose awkwardly.

“The issue of perfection is always open to debate,” he said. “I’m not eloquent enough to argue it here. I drink instead to Tommy—oldest of my friends—and to Deborah—dearest companion of my exile. My own life has been richer indeed for having had both of you part of it.”

A swell of general approbation followed his words, on the heels of which the Plymouth MP lifted his glass and managed to turn his own toast into a speech cataloguing his accomplishments and his steadfast, if highly unlikely, belief in the reincarnation of the Cornish mining industry, a topic upon which Lady Augusta waxed wildly enthusiastic for several more minutes. At the end of this time, it seemed clear that whatever damage Peter Lynley had attempted to do, the company seemed intent upon ignoring him altogether, a determination fortified by Lady Asherton, who announced with a resolute air of good cheer that coffee, port, and all the postprandial etceteras would be in the drawing room.

Unlike the dining room with its silver candelabra and unobtrusive wall sconces, the drawing room was brightly lit by its two chandeliers. Here, a serving table had been laid with a coffee service and another with brandy, balloon glasses, liqueurs. With his own coffee in hand, St. James made his way to a Hepplewhite settee which was centrally located in the room. He sat and placed his coffee on the side table. He didn’t really want it, couldn’t think why he had taken one in the first place.

“My dear”—Lady Augusta had buttonholed Deborah by the grand piano—“I want to hear about every change you’ve got planned for Howenstow.”

“Change?” Deborah asked her blankly.

“The nurseries need to be updated like mad. You’ll know that already.”

“Actually, I haven’t had a chance to think much about it.”

“I know you have this charming little hobby of photography—Daze told me all about it last week—but I’m glad to say you don’t look at all the type of a woman who’s going to put off having children in favour of a career.” As if seeking affirmation for her statement, she stepped back and looked Deborah over, like a breeder assessing the potential of a mare.

“I’m a professional photographer,” Deborah told her, stressing the adjective politely.

Lady Augusta waved that off like a fly. “You won’t let that get in the way of the children.”

Dr. Trenarrow, passing by, came to Deborah’s rescue. “Times have changed, Augusta. We no longer live in an age where merit is determined by one’s ability to reproduce. And thank God for that. Think of the limitless possibilities presented in eschewing procreation. No more thinning of familial gene pools. A future without bleeders. No Saint Vitus’ dance.”

“Oh, rubbish, you scientists,” was Lady Augusta’s riposte, but she was abashed enough to seek other conversational prey and headed in the direction of John Penellin, who was standing at the doorway to the Elizabethan gallery, brandy in hand.

St. James watched her close in on the estate manager, her fluttering scarf and ample posterior making her resemble nothing so much as the stern of a ship under sail. He heard her call out, “Those mines, Mr. Penellin,” before he turned away to find that Deborah had come to join him.

“Please don’t get up.” She sat beside him. She was taking neither coffee nor liqueur.

“You’ve survived.” He smiled. “Even with the silver. Not a single mistake, as far as I could tell.”

“Everyone’s been more than kind,” she said. “Well, nearly everyone. Peter was…” She looked round the room as if in search of Lynley’s brother, and she sighed, perhaps feeling relief that he and Sasha had left the party altogether. “Did I look petrified when I first came downstairs? I must have. Everyone was treating me like porcelain before dinner.”

“Not at all.” St. James reached for his coffee, but merely turned the cup aimlessly in its saucer. He wondered why Deborah had joined him like this. Her place was with Lynley who, along with Justin Brooke and Sidney, was steeped in conversation with the Plymouth MP. He heard their laughter, heard Brooke say, “Too right,” heard one of them comment on the Labour Party. Sidney said something about the Prime Minister’s hair. There was another burst of laughter.

Next to him, Deborah stirred, but didn’t speak. It was unlikely that she had joined him for the sake of companionship or a quick postmortem of the evening’s events. Yet this reticence was out of character as well. He looked up from his contemplation of her engagement ring—a heavy emerald set off with diamonds—and found her studying him with an intensity that brought the heat to his face. This sudden loss of his habitual detachment was as disconcerting as was her unnatural diffidence. We’re a fine pair, he thought.

“Why did you call me that, Simon? In the dining room.”

So much for diffidence. “It seemed the right thing. After all, it’s the truth. You were there through everything, both you and your father.”

“I see.” Her hand lay next to his. He had noticed this before but had chosen to ignore it, making a deliberate effort not to move away from her like a man afraid of the potential for contact. His fingers were relaxed. He willed them to be so. And although a single movement, wearing the guise of inadvertence, would have been sufficient to cover her hand with his own, he took care to maintain between them an appropriately discreet and utterly hypocritical four inches of beautifully upholstered Hepplewhite.

The gesture, when it came, was hers. She touched his hand lightly, an innocent contact that broke through his barriers. The movement meant nothing, it promised even less. He knew that quite well. But despite this, his fingers caught hers and held.

“I do want to know why you said it,” she repeated.

There was no point. It could only lead nowhere. Or worse, it could lead to an unbridled bout of suffering he’d prefer not to face.

“Simon—”

“How can I answer you? What can I possibly say that won’t make us both miserable and end up leading to another row? I don’t want that. And I can’t think you do.”

He told himself that he would adhere to every resolution he had made regarding Deborah. She was committed, he thought. Love and honour bound her to another. He would have to take solace in the fact that, in time, they might once again be the friends they had been in the past, taking pleasure in each other’s company and wanting nothing more. A dozen different lies rose in his mind about what was right and possible in their situation, about duty, responsibility, commitment, and love, about the anchors of ethics and morals that held each of them fast. And still he wanted to speak, because the reality was that anything—even anger and the risk of estrangement—was better than the void.

A sudden commotion at the drawing room door precluded the possibility of further conversation. Hodge was speaking urgently to Lady Asherton while Nancy Cambrey pulled upon his arm as if she would drag him back into the corridor. Lynley went to join them. St. James did likewise. In the hush that descended upon the company, Nancy’s voice rose.

“You can’t. Not now.”

“What is it?” Lynley asked.

“Inspector Boscowan, my lord,” Hodge replied in a low voice. “He’s down in the hall. Wanting to speak to John Penellin.”

Only part of Hodge’s statement proved true, for as he spoke, Boscowan stepped into the drawing room doorway as if he expected some sort of trouble. He looked the group over, his face apologetic, and his eyes came to rest upon John Penellin. It was clear that a duty which gave him no pleasure had brought him to interrupt the party.

The room was absolutely still. John Penellin walked towards them. He handed his brandy to Dr. Trenarrow.

“Edward,” he said to Boscowan with a nod. Nancy had faded into the corridor where she slumped against a mule chest and watched the encounter. “Perhaps we can go to the estate office.”

“There’s no need for that, John,” Boscowan said. “I’m sorry.”

The implication behind the apology was obvious. Boscowan would never have come to Howenstow in this manner unless he was certain that he had his man.

“Are you arresting me?” Penellin asked the question in a manner that sounded at once both resigned and curiously without panic, as if he’d been preparing himself for this eventuality all along.

Boscowan glanced around. Every eye was fastened on the little group. He said, “Out here please,” and walked into the corridor. Penellin, St. James, and Lynley followed. Another plainclothes policeman was waiting at the top of the stairs. He was bulky, with the physique of a boxer, and he watched them warily, arms crossed, hands balled into fists.

Boscowan faced Penellin, his back to the other officer. In speaking next, he crossed the line that divides police and civilian, breaking rules and regulations. But he didn’t seem to be fazed by this, his words having their roots in friendship rather than in duty.

“You need a solicitor, John. We’ve the first of the forensic reports. It doesn’t look good.” And then again and in a way that left no doubt as to Boscowan’s sincerity, “Truly I’m sorry.”

“Fingerprints, fibres, hairs? What have you?” Lynley asked.

“The lot.”

“Dad’s been inside the cottage in the past,” Nancy said.

Boscowan shook his head. St. James knew what that sign of negation meant. Penellin’s fingerprints in the cottage could indeed be argued away by the fact that he’d been there before. But if Boscowan had fibres and hairs in his possession, the probability was that they’d come from one source: Mick Cambrey’s corpse. If that was the case, the reality was that Penellin had indeed lied about his whereabouts the previous night.

“If you’ll come now,” Boscowan said in a more normal tone of voice. This appeared to be the signal for the other policeman. He walked to Penellin’s side and took his arm. In a moment it was over.

As their steps faded down the stairs, Nancy Cambrey fainted. Lynley caught her before she hit the floor.

“Get Helen,” he said to St. James and when Lady Helen was with them, they took Nancy down to Lady Asherton’s day room in the east wing of the house. It offered the double benefit of being both private and comfortable. A few minutes among its family memorabilia and friendly furniture would no doubt restore Nancy to herself, Lynley decided. And he allowed himself a moment of gratitude that his mother would carry on upstairs without him until such a time as she could deal with John Penellin’s arrest privately and face the turmoil that would arrive in its wake.

St. James had possessed the foresight to bring the whisky decanter from the drawing room. He pressed a glass upon Nancy. Lady Helen steadied her hand. She’d only taken a tiny sip when a tentative knock sounded on the door. It was followed, unaccountably, by Justin Brooke’s voice.