'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 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 another conversational prey and headed in the direction of John Penellin who was standing by 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 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 post-mortem 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 plain-clothes 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, 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.
'May I have a word?' He didn't wait for a response. Rather, he opened the door, popped his head inside, and said nothing until he fixed upon Lynley. 'May I have a word with you?'
'A word?' Lynley demanded incredulously, wondering what on earth Brooke could possibly want. 'What the devil—?'
'It's important,' Brooke said. He looked earnestly to the others as if for support and found it in the least likely quarter. Lady Helen spoke.
‘I’ll take Nancy back to the lodge, Tommy. It doesn't make sense to keep her here. She'll need to see to the baby, I'm sure.'
Lynley waited until both women were gone before he spoke to Brooke, who took a balloon-backed chair unbidden, straddled it backwards, and folded his arms along its top rail. Lynley leaned against his mother's desk. St James stood by the fireplace.
'What is it that you wanted?' Lynley said to Brooke. He was impatient with the interruption and too preoccupied to care much about hiding it.
'It's a private matter, concerning your family.' Brooke canted his head towards St James, an indication of his desire that this conference be held out of the other man's presence. St James made a move to go.
'No, it's fine,' Lynley said to him, finding himself perversely unwilling to allow Brooke the degree of control that would be implied by St James' departure. There was something about the man that he didn't like: an ease of manner contravened by a flicker of malice in his expression.
Brooke reached for the decanter of whisky and Nancy's glass that were standing on a circular table next to his chair. He poured himself some, saying, 'Very well, then. I could use a drink. You?' He held the decanter first to Lynley, then to St James. There were no other glasses in the room, so the invitation was meaningless, as Brooke no doubt knew. He drank appreciatively, said, 'Good stuff,' and poured himself more. 'Word came back to the drawing room fast enough that Penellin's been arrested. But Penellin couldn't have killed Mick Cambrey.'
It was certainly not the sort of pronouncement which Lynley had been expecting. 'If you know something about this affair, you need to tell the police. It's only indirectly my concern.'
Brooke said, 'It's more direct than you think.'
'What are you talking about?'
'Your brother.'
The clink of decanter upon glass seemed unnaturally grating and loud as Brooke took more whisky. Lynley refused to think the patently unthinkable or to draw the conclusion for which those two simple words asked.
'People in the drawing room just now were saying Penellin had an argument with Cambrey before his death. That was the main cause for suspicion, they said. Someone had heard about it in the village today.'
'I don't see what this has to do with my brother.'
'Everything, I'm afraid. Mick Cambrey didn't have an argument with Penellin. Or, if he did, it didn't compare with the row he had with Peter.'
Lynley stared at the man. He felt a sudden urge to throw him from the room and recognized how closely the desire was tied to an incipient dread and to the unwanted realization that somehow this piece of information was not a surprise to him.
'What are you talking about? How do you know?'
'I was with him,' Brooke replied. 'And it was after Penellin. Cambrey said that much.'
Lynley reached for a chair. 'The story, please,' he said with marked courtesy.
'Right.' Brooke nodded his approval. 'Sid and I had a bit of a blow-up yesterday. She didn't much want to see me last night. So I went into the village. With Peter.'
'Why?'
'For something to do, mainly. Peter was low on cash and he wanted to borrow some. He said he knew a bloke who'd be dealing with money that night, so we went to see him. It was Cambrey.'
Lynley's eyes narrowed. 'What did he need money for?'
Brooke tossed a look in St James' direction before he replied, as if he expected a reaction from that quarter. 'He wanted some coke.'
'And he took you with him? Wasn't that rather shortsighted?'
'It was safe enough. Peter knew he could trust me.' Brooke seemed to feel a more direct revelation was in order. 'Look, I'd a stash with me yesterday, and I'd given him some. It was gone. We wanted more. But I didn't have any more money than he did, so we were on the look for it. We wanted to get high.'
'I see. You've managed to get to know my brother with remarkable ease this weekend.'
'People get to know others when their interests are the same.'
'Quite. Yes.' Lynley ignored the need to clench his fist, to strike. 'Did Mick lend him money?'
'He wouldn't hear of it. That's what started the row. Peter could see it - I could see it - right there on his desk in six or ten stacks. But he wouldn't part with as much as two quid.'
'What happened then?'
Brooke grimaced. 'Hell, I didn't even know this bloke. When Mick and Peter started in, I just left the place. I would have liked the dope, yes. But I didn't want to get into a brawl.'
'What did you do when you left?'
'Wandered round a bit till I found the pub. Had a drink and hitched a ride back later.'
'Hitched a ride? With whom?'
'Farmer and his wife.' Brooke grinned and added unnecessarily, 'By the smell of them. Dairy, I'd guess.' 'And Peter?'
'I left him arguing with Cambrey.' 'Where was Sasha all this time?'
'Here. She and Peter'd gone round about a promise he'd made in London to get her some dope on his own. I think she was waiting for him to make good.'
'What time did you leave the cottage?' St James asked. His expression was stony.
Brooke looked at the room's white cornice, fixated upon its egg and dart pattern. Thinking, remembering, or playing at both. 'It was ten when I got to the pub. I remember that. I checked the time.'
'And did you see Peter again that night?'
'Didn't see him until this evening.' Again Brooke grinned. This time it was a just-between-us-boys sort of look, one that claimed camaraderie and understanding. 'I came back here, made it up with Sid, and spent the night occupied in her room. Fairly well occupied, as a matter of fact. Sid's that way.' He pushed himself to his feet and concluded by saying, 'I thought it best to tell you about your brother, rather than the police. It seemed to me that you'd know what to do. But if you think I should ring them . . .'
He let the statement slide. All of them knew it was meaningless. Nodding at them both, he left the room.
When the door closed behind him, Lynley felt in his pocket for his cigarette case. Once it was in his grasp, however, he looked at it curiously, saw how it winked in the light, and wondered how it had come to find its way into his hand. He didn't want to smoke.
'What shall. .. ?' The two words emerged hoarsely. He tried again. 'What shall I do, St James?'
'Talk to Boscowan. What else can you do?'
'He's my brother. Would you have me play Cain?'
'Shall I do it for you, then?'
At that, Lynley looked at his friend. He saw how implacable St James' features had beco
me. He knew that there was no reasonable alternative. He saw that even as he searched for one.
'Give me till the morning,' he said.
14
Deborah checked the room in a cursory fashion to make sure she hadn't forgotten anything. She locked her suitcase and pulled it from the bed, deciding, as she did so, that it was just as well they were leaving Cornwall. The weather had changed during the night, and yesterday's dazzling cobalt sky was the colour of slate this morning. Sharp gusts of wind coughed intermittently against the windows, and from one which she had left partially open came the unmistakable smell of rain-laden air. However, other than the occasional rattling of window panes and the creak of the heavy branches of a beech tree a short distance from the house, the morning brought no additional sounds, for instinctively recognizing the approach of a storm the clamorous gulls and cormorants had vanished, seeking shelter inland. 'Miss?'
At the doorway stood one of the Howenstow maids, a young woman with a cloud of dark hair that quite overwhelmed a triangular face. Her name was Caroline, Deborah recalled, and like the other daily help in the house she wore no uniform, merely a navy skirt, white blouse and flat-heeled shoes. She was snug and neat-looking, and she carried a tray which she used to gesture as she spoke.
'His lordship thought you'd want something before you leave for the train,' Caroline said, taking the food to a small tripod table that stood near the fireplace. 'He says you've just thirty minutes.'
'Does Lady Helen know that? Is she up?'
'Up, dressing, and having her breakfast as well.'
As if in affirmation of this, Lady Helen wandered into the room, simultaneously engaged in all three activities. She was in her stockinged feet, she was munching on a wedge of toast, and she was holding up two pairs of shoes at arm's length.
'I can't decide,' she said as she scrutinized them critically. 'The suede are more comfortable, but the green are rather sweet, aren't they? I've had them both on and off a dozen times this morning.'