A Suitable Vengeance

by Elizabeth George

  She came into the lab. 'Surrey first. Then Southampton,' she replied as if they were the most logical destinations in the world. She dropped a mink jacket onto a stool. 'They've got me doing another line of furs. If I don't get a different assignment soon, I don't know what I'll do. Modelling the skins of dead animals lies somewhere between absolutely unsavoury and thoroughly disgusting. And they continue to insist I wear nothing underneath.' Leaning over the table, she examined the pyjama top. 'Blood again? How can you endure it so near to lunch-time? I haven't missed lunch, have I? It's hardly noon.'

  She opened her shoulder bag and began to dig through it. 'Now, where is it? Of course, I understand why they insist on some naked skin, but I've hardly the bosom for it. It's the suggestion of sensuality, they tell me. The promise, the fantasy. What rubbish. Ah, here it is.' She produced a tattered envelope which she handed to her brother.

  'What is it?'

  'What I've spent nearly ten days getting out of Mummy. I even had to trail along to David's for a week just so that she'd know I was determined to have it.'

  'You've been with Mother?' St James asked incredulously. 'Visiting David in Southampton? Helen, did you—?'

  'I phoned Surrey that once, but there was no reply. Then you said not to worry her. Remember?'

  'Worry Mummy?' Sidney asked. 'Worry Mummy about what?'

  'About you.'

  'Why would Mummy worry about me?' She didn't wait for an answer. 'Actually, she thought the idea was absurd, at first.'

  'What idea?'

  'Now I know where you get your general poopiness, Simon. But I wore her down over time. I knew I should. Go on, open it. Read it aloud. Helen shall hear it as well.'

  'Damn it, Sidney. I want to know—'

  She grabbed his wrist and shook his arm. 'Read.'

  He opened the envelope with ill-concealed irritation and began to read aloud.

  My dear Simon,

  It appears I shall have no rest from Sidney until I apologize, so let me do so at once. Not that a simple line of apology would ever satisfy your sister.

  'What is this Sid?'

  She laughed. 'Keep reading!'

  He went back to his mother's heavily embossed stationery.

  I always did think it was Sidney's idea to open the nursery windows, Simon. But, when you said nothing upon being accused of having done so, I felt obliged to direct all the punishment towards you. Punishing one's children is the hardest part of being a parent. It's even worse if one has the nagging little fear that one is punishing the wrong child. Sidney has cleared all this up, as only Sidney could do, and although she had begun to insist that I beat her soundly for having let you take her punishment all those years ago I do draw the line at paddling a twenty-five-year-old woman. So let me apologize to you for placing the blame on your little shoulders - were you ten years old? I've forgotten -and I shall henceforth direct it towards her in an appropriate fashion. We have had a rather nice visit, Sidney and I. We spent some time with David and the children as well. It's made me quite hopeful that I shall soon see you in Surrey. Bring Deborah with you if you come. Cotter telephoned Cook with the word about her. Poor child. It would be good of you to take her under your wing until she's back on her feet.

  Love to you, MOTHER

  Hands on her hips, Sidney threw back her head and laughed, clearly delighted with having brought off a coup. 'Isn't she grand? What a time I had getting her to write it, though. Had she not already wanted to speak to you about seeing to Deborah - you know how she is, always concerned that we'll become social heathens and not do the proper thing in these situations - I doubt if anything could have made her write it.'

  St James felt Lady Helen watching him. He knew what she expected him to ask. He didn't ask it. For the past ten days he had known something had happened between them. Cotter's behaviour alone would have told him as much, even if Deborah had not been gone from Howenstow when he'd returned from Penzance on the evening after Trenarrow's death. But, other than saying he'd flown her back to London, Lynley said nothing more. And Cotter's grim restraint had not been a thing which St James wanted to disturb. So even now he said nothing.

  Lady Helen, however, did not have his scruples. 'What's happened to Deborah?'

  'Tommy broke their engagement,' Sidney replied. 'Cotter hasn't told you, Simon? From the way Mummy's cook tells it, he was practically breathing fire on the phone. Quite in a rage. I half-expected to hear he'd duelled with Tommy for satisfaction. "Guns or knives," I can hear him shouting. "Speaker's Corner at dawn." Tommy hasn't told you, either? How decidedly odd. Unless, of course, he thinks you may demand satisfaction, Simon.' She laughed and then sobered thoughtfully. 'You don't think this is a class thing, do you? Considering Peter's choice of Sasha, class can hardly be an issue with the Lynleys.'

  As she spoke, St James realized that Sidney had no idea of anything that had happened since her bitter departure from Howenstow on that Sunday morning. He opened the bottom drawer beneath his work table and removed her perfume bottle.

  'You misplaced this,' he said.

  She grabbed it, delighted. 'Where did you find it? Don't tell me it was in the Howenstow wardrobe. I can accept that for shoes but for nothing else.'

  'Justin took it from your room, Sid.'

  Such a simple statement - seven words, no more. Their effect upon his sister was immediate. Her smile faded. She tried to hold on to the edges of it, but her lips quivered with the effort. Liveliness left her. The quick end to her insouciance told him how precarious a hold she had on her emotions. Her present madcap demeanour merely acted as a shield to fend off a mourning she had not begun.

  'Justin?' she said. 'Why?'

  There was no easy way for him to tell her. He knew that the knowledge would only add to her sorrow. Yet telling her seemed to be the only way that she might start the process of burying her dead.

  'To frame you for murder,' he said.

  'That's ridiculous.'

  'He wanted to murder Peter Lynley. He got Sasha Nifford instead.'

  'I don't understand.' She rolled the perfume bottle over and over in her hand. She bent her head. She brushed at her cheeks.

  'It was filled with a drug she mistook for heroin.' At that she looked up. St James saw the expression on her face. The use of a drug as a means of murder did indeed make the truth so unavoidable. 'I'm sorry, love.'

  'But Peter. Justin told me Peter was at Cambrey's. He said they had a row. And then Mick Cambrey died. He said that Peter wanted to kill him. I don't understand. Peter must have known Justin told you and Tommy about it. He knew. He did know.'

  'Peter didn't kill Justin, Sid. He wasn't even at Howenstow when Justin died.'

  'Then, why?'

  'Peter heard something he wasn't supposed to hear. He could have used it against Justin eventually, especially once Mick Cambrey was killed. Justin got nervous. He knew Peter was desperate about money and cocaine. He knew he was unstable. He couldn't predict his behaviour, so he needed to be rid of him.'

  Together, St James and Lady Helen told her the story. Islington, oncozyme, Trenarrow, Cambrey. The clinic and cancer. The substitution of a placebo that led to Mick's death.

  'Brooke was in jeopardy,' St James said. 'He took steps to eliminate it.'

  'What about me?' she asked. 'It's my bottle. Didn't he know that people would think I was involved?' Still she clutched the bottle. Her fingers turned white round it.

  'The day on the beach, Sidney,' Lady Helen said. 'He'd been humiliated rather badly.'

  'He wanted to punish you,' St James said.

  Sidney's lips barely moved as she said, 'He loved me. I know it. He loved me.'

  St James felt the terrible burden of her words and with it the need to reassure his sister of her intrinsic worth. He wanted to say something but couldn't think of the words that might comfort her.

  Lady Helen spoke. 'What Justin Brooke was makes no statement about who you are, Sidney. You don't take your definition of self from him. Or from what h
e felt. Or didn't feel, for that matter.'

  Sidney gave a choked sob. St James went to her. 'I'm sorry, love,' he said, putting his arm tighdy round her. 'I think I'd rather you hadn't known. But I can't lie to you, Sidney. I'm not sorry he's dead.'

  She coughed and looked up at him. She offered a shattered smile. 'Lord, how hungry I am,' she whispered. 'Shall we have lunch?'

  In Eaton Terrace, Lady Helen slammed the door of her Mini. She did it more to give herself courage - as if the action might attest to the fittingness of her behaviour -than to assure herself that the car door was securely locked. She looked up at the darkened front of Lynley's townhouse, then held up her wrist to the light of the street-lamp. It was nearly eleven, hardly the time for a social call. But the very unsuitability of the hour gave her an advantage which she wasn't willing to relinquish. She climbed the marble-tiled steps to his door.

  For the past two weeks she had been trying to contact him. Every effort had received a rebuff. Out on a job, working a double shift, caught at a meeting, testifying in court. From a series of unquestionably polite secretaries, assistants and junior officers, she had heard every permutation of a job-related excuse. The implicit message was always the same: he was unavailable, alone, and preferring it so.

  It would not be so tonight. She rang the bell. It sounded somewhere in the back of the house, resonating oddly towards the front door as if the building were empty. For a fleeting, mad moment, she actually harboured the thought that he had moved from London - ninning away from everything once and for all - but then the fanlight above the door showed a sudden illumination in the lower hallway. A bolt was drawn, the door opened, and Lynley's valet stood blinking owlishly out at her. He was wearing his bedroom slippers, Lady Helen noted, and a tartan flannel bathrobe over paisley pyjamas. Surprise and judgement played spontaneously across his face. He wiped them off quickly enough, but Lady Helen read their meaning. Well brought up daughters of peers were not supposed to go calling on gentlemen late at night, no matter which part of the twentieth century this was.

  'Thank you, Denton,' Lady Helen said decisively. She stepped into the hall every bit as if he'd asked her in with earnest protestations of welcome. 'Please tell Lord Asherton that I must see him at once.' She removed her light evening coat and placed it along with her bag on a chair in the foyer.

  Still standing by the open door, Denton looked from her to the street as if trying to recall whether he had actually asked her in. He kept his hand on the doorknob and shifted from foot to foot, appearing caught between a need to protest the solecism of this visit and the fear of someone's wrath should he do so.

  'His Lordship's asked—'

  'I know,' Lady Helen said. She felt a brief flicker of guilt to be bullying Denton, knowing that his determination to protect Lynley was motivated by a loyalty that spanned nearly a decade. 'I understand. He's asked not to be disturbed, not to be interrupted. He's not returned one of my calls these last two weeks, Denton, so I quite understand he wishes not to be bothered. Now that the issue is clear between us, please tell him I wish to see him.' 'But—'

  'I shall go directly up to his bedroom if I have to.' Denton signalled his surrender by closing the door. 'He's in the library. I'll fetch him for you.' 'No need. I know the way.'

  She left Denton gaping in the entry and went quickly up the stairs to the first floor of the house, down a thickly carpeted corridor, past an impressive collection of antique pewter, winked at by half a dozen Asherton ancestors long since dead. She heard Lynley's valet not far behind her, murmuring, 'My lady . . . Lady Helen . . .'

  The library door was closed. She knocked once, heard Lynley's voice, and entered.

  He was sitting at his desk, his head resting in one hand and several folders spread out in front of him. Lady Helen's first thought - with some considerable surprise as he looked up - was that she had no idea he'd begun wearing spectacles to read. He took them off as he got to his feet. He said nothing, merely glanced behind her to where Denton stood, looking monumentally apologetic.

  'Sorry,' Denton said. 'I tried.'

  'Don't blame him,' Lady Helen said. 'I bullied my way in.' She saw that Denton had moved one step into the room. With another he would be close enough to put his hand on her arm and escort her back down the stairs and out into the street. She couldn't imagine him doing so without Lynley's direction, but just in case he was considering the idea she headed him off. 'Thank you, Denton. Leave us, please. If you will.'

  Denton gawked at her. He looked at Lynley, who nodded sharply once. He left the room.

  'Why haven't you returned my calls, Tommy?' Lady Helen asked the moment they were alone. 'I've telephoned here and the Yard repeatedly. I've stopped by four times. I've been sick with worry about you.'

  'Sorry, old duck,' he said easily. 'There's been a mass of work lately. I'm up to my ears in it. Will you have a drink?' He walked to a rosewood table on which were arranged several decanters and a set of glasses.

  'Thank you, no.'

  He poured himself a whisky but did not drink it at once. 'Please sit down.' 'I think not.'

  'Whatever you'd like.' He offered her a lopsided smile and tossed back a large portion of his drink. And then, perhaps unwilling to keep up the pretence any longer, he looked away from her, saying, Tm sorry, Helen. I wanted to return your calls. But I couldn't do it. Sheer cowardice, I suppose.'

  Her anger melted immediately. 'I can't bear to see you like this. Walled up in your library. Incommunicado at work. I can't bear it, Tommy.'

  For a moment, the only response was his breathing. She could hear it, shallow and unevenly spaced. Then he said, 'The only time I seem to be able to drive her from my mind is when I'm working. So that's what I've been doing, that's all I've been doing. And when I haven't been on a case I've spent the time telling myself that I'll get over this eventually. A few more weeks, a few months.' Shakily, he laughed. 'It's a bit difficult to believe.'

  'I know. I understand.'

  'God, yes. Who on earth could know better than you?'

  'Then, why haven't you phoned me?'

  He moved restlessly across the room to the fireplace. No fire demanded his attention there, so he gave it instead to a collection of Meissen porcelain plates on the overmantel. He took one from its stand, turning it in his hands.

  Lady Helen wanted to tell him to have a care, the plate might well shatter under the strength with which he gripped it, but she said nothing. He put the plate back. She repeated her question.

  'You know I've wanted to talk to you. Why haven't you phoned me?'

  'I haven't been able to. It hurts too much, Helen. I can't hide that from you.'

  'Why on earth should you want to?'

  'I feel like a fool. I should be stronger than this. None of it should matter. I should be able just to slough it off and go on.'

  'Go on?' She felt all her anger return in a rush. Her blood heated in the presence of this stiff-upper-lip attitude which she'd always found so contemptible in the men she knew, as if schooling and breeding and generations of reserve condemned each of them to a life of feeling nothing. 'Do you actually mean to tell me that you've no right to your sorrow because you're a man? I don't believe that. I won't believe that.'

  'It's nothing at all to do with sorrow. I've just been trying to find my way back to the man I was three years ago. Before Deborah. If I can reclaim him, I'll be fine.'

  'That man was no different from the man you are now.'

  'Three years ago, I'd not have taken this so hard. What were women to me then? Bed partners. Nothing more.'

  'And that's what you want to be? A man drifting through life in a sexual fugue? Only thinking about his next performance in bed? Is that what you want?'

  'It's easier that way.'

  'Of course it's easy. That kind of life is always easy. People fade out of one another's bed with hardly a word of farewell, let alone one of commitment. And, if by chance they wake up one morning with someone whose name escapes them, it's all rig
ht, isn't it? It's part of the game.'

  'There was no pain involved in relationships then. There was nothing involved. Never for me.'

  'That may be what you'd like to remember, Tommy, but that's not the way it was. Because, if what you say is true, if life was nothing more than collecting and seducing a stableful of women, why did you never have me?'

  He reflected on the question. He went back to the decanters and poured himself a second drink. 'I don't know.'

  'Yes, you do. Tell me why.' 'I don't know.'

  'What a conquest I would have been. Thrown over by Simon, my life in a shambles. The last thing I wanted was an involvement with anyone. How on earth did you resist a challenge like that? What a chance it was to prove yourself to yourself. What incredible fodder for your self-esteem.'

  He placed his glass on the table, turned it beneath his fingers. She watched his profile and saw how fragile a thing was his veneer of control.

  'I expect you were different,' he said.

  'Not at all. I had the right equipment. I was just like the others - heat and pleasure, breasts and thighs.'

  'Don't be ridiculous.'

  'A woman, after all. Easily seduced, especially by an expert. But you never tried with me. Not even once. That sort of sexual reticence doesn't make sense in a man whose sole interest in women revolves round what they have to offer him in bed. And I had it to offer, didn't I, Tommy? Oh, I would have resisted at first. But I would have slept with you eventually, and you knew it. But you didn't try.'

  He turned to her. 'How could I have done that to you after what you'd been through with Simon?'

  'Compassion?' she demanded. 'From the man bent on pleasure? What difference did it make whose body provided it? Weren't we all the same?'

  He was quiet for so long that she wondered if he would answer. She could see the struggle for composure on his face. She willed him to speak, knowing only that he had to acknowledge his sorrow so that it could live and rage and then die.