A Suitable Vengeance (52 page)

Nancy looked as if she anticipated the worst from this unexpected visit. Her glance went among them skittishly.

“You’ve news of Mick,” she said.

Together, Lynley and St. James laid out both facts and conjectures. She listened to them without question or comment. Occasionally, she seemed struck by fleeting sorrow, but for the most part she seemed deadened to everything. It was as if, far in advance of their arrival, she had anaesthetised herself against the possibility of feeling anything more, not only about her husband’s death but also about some of the less-than-creditable aspects of his life.

“So he never mentioned Islington to you?” Lynley asked when they had concluded their story. “Or oncozyme? Or a biochemist, Justin Brooke?”

“Never. Not once.”

“Was that typical of him to be so secretive about a story?”

“Before we married, no. He talked of everything then. When we were lovers. Before the baby.”

“And after the baby?”

“He went away more and more. Always about some story.”

“To London?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know he kept a flat there?” St. James asked.

When she shook her head, Lynley said, “But when your father spoke about Mick keeping other women, did you never think he might be keeping one in London? That would be a reasonable enough assumption, wouldn’t it, considering how often he was travelling up there?”

“No. There were…” The decision she faced evidenced itself in her hesitation. It was a choice between loyalty or truth. And a question of whether truth in this case really constituted a betrayal. She appeared resolved. She lifted her head. “There were no other women. Dad only thought that. I let him believe Mickey was having other women. It was easier that way.”

“Easier than letting your father discover that his son-in-law liked to wear women’s clothes?”

Lynley’s question appeared to release the young woman from months of secrecy. If anything, she looked monumentally relieved. “No one knew,” Nancy murmured. “For ever so long, no one knew but me.” She sank into the armchair next to the pram. “Mickey,” she said. “Oh God, poor Mickey.”

“How did you find out?”

She pulled a crumpled tissue from the pocket of her housedress. “Right before Molly was born. There were things in his chest of drawers. I thought he was having an affair at first and I didn’t say anything because I was eight months gone and Mick and me couldn’t…so I thought…”

How reasonable it all was as she haltingly explained it. Pregnant, she couldn’t accommodate her husband so if he sought another woman she would have to accept it. She had, after all, entrapped him into marriage. She had only herself to blame if he hurt her as a result. So she wouldn’t confront him with the evidence of betrayal. She would put up with it and hope to win him back in the end.

“Then I came home one night, not long after I’d started serving behind bar at the Anchor and Rose. I found him. He was all dressed in my clothes. He’d put on makeup. He’d even got himself a wig. I thought it was my fault. See, I liked to buy things, new clothes. I wanted to be trendy. I wanted to look nice for him. I thought it would get him back. I thought at first he was making a scene to punish me for spending money. But I saw soon enough that…he got really…it made him excited.”

“What did you do after you found him?”

“Threw away my makeup. Every bit of it. Shredded my clothes. Went after them with a butcher knife in the back garden.”

Lynley remembered Jasper’s account of the scene. “Your father saw you doing it, didn’t he?”

“He thought I’d found things that someone left behind. So he believed Mick was having other women on the side. I let him believe it. How could I tell him the truth? Besides, Mick promised me that he’d never do it again. And I thought he could do it. I’d got rid of all my good clothes so he wouldn’t be tempted. And he tried to be good. He did try. But he couldn’t stop. He started bringing things home. I’d find them. I’d try to talk. We’d try to talk together. But nothing worked. He got worse. It was like he needed the dressing more and more. He even did it once at night in the newspaper office and his father caught him. Harry went mad.”

“So his father knew?”

“He beat him silly. Mick came home. He was bleeding and cursing. Crying as well. I thought then he’d stop.”

“But instead he took up a second life in London.”

“I thought he was better.” She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “I thought he was cured. I thought we had a chance to be happy. Like when we were lovers. We were happy then.”

“And no one else knew about Mick’s cross-dressing? Not Mark? Not someone from the village? Or from the newspaper office?”

“Just me and Harry. That’s all,” she said. “Jesus God, wasn’t that enough?”

“What do you think? Was it enough, St. James?”

Jasper had gone on ahead. They were on the drive, walking the final distance to the house. Above them, the sky had given up its last vestiges of blue, turning to the colour of ageing pewter. Deborah walked between them, her hand through Lynley’s arm. He looked over the top of her head to St. James.

“The killing itself has looked like a crime of passion all along,” St. James said. “A blow to his jaw that sent him crashing against the overmantel. No one premeditates a death like that. We’ve always agreed that some sort of argument took place.”

“But we’ve been trying to tie it into Mick’s profession. And who sent us in that direction in the first place?”

St. James nodded in rueful acceptance. “Harry Cambrey.”

“He had opportunity. He had motive.”

“Rage over his son’s cross-dressing?”

“They’d come to violence over it before.”

“And Harry Cambrey had other grievances,” Deborah said. “Wasn’t Mick supposed to be making improvements on the newspaper? Hadn’t he taken out a bank loan? Perhaps Harry wanted a full accounting of how the money was being spent. And when he found out it was being spent on what he hated most—Mick’s cross-dressing—he went over the edge.”

“Then how do you explain the condition of the sitting room?”

“A blind,” Lynley said. “Something he could use to support his contention that Mick was murdered because of a story.”

“But that leaves the other two deaths unaccounted for,” St. James said. “It also puts Peter into jeopardy again. If Brooke didn’t fall to his death, someone pushed him, Tommy.”

“It always comes back to Brooke.”

“Which should tell us how likely it is that he’s responsible, no matter what other wrinkles we find in Mick’s relationships with anyone else.”

“The cove and the newspaper office, then.”

“I expect that’s where we’ll dig up the truth.”

They walked through the Tudor gatehouse and crossed the drive. In the garden they paused to greet Lady Asherton’s retriever who came running to meet them, a tennis ball between his jaws. Lynley wrested it from him, hurled it in the direction of the west courtyard, and watched as the dog went yelping joyfully on his way. As if in response to her retriever’s barking, the front door was pulled open, and Lady Asherton came out of the house.

“I’ve lunch waiting,” she said by way of greeting and continued to speak, this time only to Lynley. “Peter phoned. The Yard’s released him for now, but they want him to stay in London. He asked to go to Eaton Terrace. Was it all right to say that would be fine with you, Tommy? I wasn’t quite sure if you’d want him at your house.”

“It’s fine.”

“He sounded quite different from the way he’s talked in the past. I wondered if this time he’s prepared for a change. For good.”

“He is. Yes, I think so. And I am as well.” Lynley felt a moment’s trepidation. He looked at St. James and Deborah. “If you’ll give us a few minutes,” he said and was grateful for their immediate understanding. They went into the house.

“What is it, Tommy?” Lady Asherton asked. “Is there something you’ve not told me? Is there more about Peter?”

“I’m going to tell Penzance CID about him today,” Lynley said. His mother’s face blanched. “He didn’t kill Mick. You and I know that. But he was in the cottage after John’s visit there on Friday. And Mick was still alive. That’s the truth of the matter. The police need to know it.”

“Does Peter know…” She didn’t appear to be willing to complete the thought. He did it for her.

“That I intend to tell the police? Yes, he knows. But St. James and I think we’ll be able to clear his name today. He trusts us to do that.”

Lady Asherton forced a smile. “Then I shall trust you to do that as well.” She turned and began to go into the house.

“Mother.” Even now he didn’t know how much it might cost him to speak. Nearly sixteen years of his bitterness had created a minefield between them. To attempt to cross it called upon resources of character he wasn’t sure he possessed.

She had hesitated, her hand flat on the door to push it open. She was waiting for him to speak.

“I’ve made a mess out of Peter. Out of everything else as well.”

Her head cocked. A quizzical smile touched her lips. “You’ve made a mess of him?” she said. “Peter’s my son, Tommy. He’s my responsibility. Don’t take the blame when there isn’t any need.”

“He didn’t have a father. I could have been more to him. I chose not to be. I would have had to come home to spend time with Peter, but I couldn’t bear that, so I left him to himself.”

He saw that she understood the intention behind his words. She dropped her hand from the door and came back to the drive where he was standing. He looked above her to the Asherton coat of arms that was mounted high on the front wall of the house. He had never considered the heraldic device anything more than an amusing anachronism, but now he saw it as a declaration of strength. The hound and the lion facing off in combat, the hound overpowered but showing no fear.

“I knew you loved Roderick,” he said. “I saw that you loved him. I wanted to punish you.”

“But I loved you as well. What I felt for Roddy had nothing to do with you.”

“It wasn’t a question of thinking you didn’t love me. It was more an unwillingness to see you and forgive you for being what you were.”

“For wanting someone besides your father?”

“For giving in to the wanting while Father was alive. I couldn’t deal with that. I couldn’t stand what it meant.”

She looked beyond him, towards the Tudor gatehouse. “I gave in,” she said. “Yes. I did that. I wish I’d had the nobility or the courage or whatever it would have taken to send Roddy away when I first realised how much I did love him. But I didn’t possess whatever strength it would have taken to do that, Tommy. Other women probably do. But I was weak. I was needy. I asked myself how evil it could be if Roddy and I truly loved each other. How great a wrong were we committing if we turned a blind eye to social condemnation and acted on that love? I wanted him. To have him and still live with myself, I made neat compartments out of my life—children in one, your father in another, Roddy in a third—and I was a different person for each part. What I didn’t expect was that you would burst out of the section I’d reserved for you and see the person who wanted Roddy. I didn’t think you’d ever see me for what I was.”

“What were you really, Mother? Nothing more or less than a human being. I couldn’t accept that.”

“It’s all right. I understand.”

“I had to make you suffer. I knew Roderick wanted to marry you. I swore it would never happen. Your primary loyalty was to the family and to Howenstow. I knew he wouldn’t marry you unless you’d promise to leave the estate. So I kept you here like a prisoner, all these years.”

“You don’t have that power. I chose to stay.”

He shook his head. “You would have left Howenstow the moment I married.” He saw in her face that this was the truth. She dropped her eyes. “I knew that, Mother. I used that knowledge as a weapon. If I married, you were free. So I didn’t marry.”

“You never met the right woman.”

“Why on earth won’t you let me take the blame I deserve?”

She looked up at that. “I don’t want you in pain, darling. I didn’t want it then. I don’t want it now.”

Nothing could have stirred him to greater remorse. No rebuke, no recrimination. He felt like a swine.

“You seem to think the burden is all on your shoulders,” his mother said. “Don’t you know a hundred thousand times I’ve wished that you hadn’t found us together, that I hadn’t struck out at you, that I had done something—said something, anything—to help you with your grief. Because it
was
grief you were feeling, Tommy. Your father was dying right here in the house, and I’d just destroyed your mother as well. But I was too proud to reach out to you. What a supercilious little monster, I thought. How dare he try to condemn me for something he can’t even understand. Let him simmer in his anger. Let him weep. Let him rage. What a prig he is. He’ll come round in the end. But you never did.” She touched his cheek lightly with the back of her hand, a tentative pressure that he barely felt. “There was no greater punishment than the distance between us. Marriage to Roddy would have done nothing to change that.”

“It would have given you something.”

“Yes. It still can.”