Slate tiles from the roof lay shattered on the drive which entered the south courtyard over which his room looked. A twisted weathervane had fallen among them, no doubt blown there from the roof of one of the outbuildings that formed part of the courtyard wall. Crushed flowers created occasional mats of bright colour: purple Canterbury bells, pink begonias, entire spikes of larkspur, and everywhere the petals of ruined roses. Bits of broken glass made a jewel-like glitter on the cobblestones, and one small, curiously unbroken window pane covered a puddle of water like newly formed ice. Already the gardeners and groundsmen were taking steps to repair the damage, and St James could hear their voices from the park, drowned out by the intermittent roar of a power saw.
A sharp double rap on the door brought Cotter into the room. 'Got what you need,' he said. 'Bit of a surprise, that, as well.' He crossed the room and handed St James the envelope which he'd removed from the estate office
desk during his telephone conversation with Lady Helen Clyde. 'It's Dr Trenarrow's number.'
'Is it?' St James placed his tea cup on the cheveret. He took the envelope and moughtfully turned it in his hands.
'Didn't even need to ring it, Mr St James,' Cotter said. 'Hodge knew whose it was the moment I showed it to him. Seems 'e's rung it enough times over the years.'
'Did you phone the number anyway, to be certain?'
'I did. It's Dr Trenarrow's all right. And 'e knows we're coming.'
'Any word from Tommy?'
'Daze said 'e phoned from Pendeen.' Cotter shook his head. 'He's got nothing.'
St James frowned, wondering about the efficacy of Lynley's plan, one which stubbornly avoided the participation of either coastguard or police. He had headed out before dawn with six men from the surrounding farms to check the coastline from St Ives to Penzance. They were operating two launches, one setting sail from Penzance harbour and the other across the peninsula at St Ives Bay. The boats were small enough to give them fairly good visual access to the shore and fast enough to complete at least a cursory search in relatively few hours. But if that gleaned them nothing a second search would have to be conducted by land. That would take days. And, whether Lynley liked it or not, it could not be orchestrated without the inclusion of the local police.
'I feel done in by this whole flipping weekend,' Cotter commented as he replaced St James' tea cup on the tray that sat on the table next to the bed. 'I'm that glad Deb's gone back to London. Get 'er out o' this mess, is what I say.'
He sounded as if he hoped St James would make a response that would encourage furdier conversation along these lines. St James had no intention of doing so.
Cotter shook out St James' dressing gown and hung it in the wardrobe. He spent a moment straightening the neat row of his shoes. He banged a set of wooden coat hangers together and snapped the locks on the suitcase which sat on the top shelf. Then he burst out with, 'What's to become of the girl? There's no closeness 'mong them. Not a bit, an' you know it. It's not like with you, is it? It's not like your family. Oh, they're rich, bloody rich, but Deb's not drawn to money. You know that well as I do. You know what draws the girl.'
Beauty, contemplation, the colours of the sky, a sudden new idea, the sight of a swan. He knew, had always known. And he needed to forget. His bedroom door opened, promising escape. Sidney entered, but with the wardrobe door obstructing his vision Cotter didn't seem to notice that he and St James were no longer alone.
'You can't say you feel nothing,' Cotter asserted vigorously. 'I c'n see it all over you. I have done for ages, no matter what you say.'
'Am I interrupting something?' Sidney asked.
Cotter swung the wardrobe door home. He looked from St James to his sister, then back to St James.
'I'll see to the car,' he said abruptly, excused himself, and left them alone.
'What was that about?' Sidney asked.
'Nothing.'
'It didn't sound like nothing.' 'It was.' 'I see.'
She remained by the door, the knob beneath her hand. St James felt a stirring of concern at the sight of her. She looked caught somewhere between numb and ill, with blue-black crescents beneath her eyes providing the only colour on her face and her eyes themselves holding no expression, reflecting rather than absorbing the light. She wore a faded denim skirt and an oversized pullover. Her hair looked uncombed.
'I'm off,' she said. 'Daze's taking me to the station.'
What had seemed reasonable only last night seemed out of the question when he saw his sister in the light of day. 'Why don't you stay, Sid? I can take you home myself later on.'
'This is best. I really want to go. It's better this way.'
'But the station will be—'
'I'll take a cab home. I'll be all right.' She turned the knob of the door, as if experimentally. 'I understand Peter's missing,' she said.
'Yes.' St James told her what had happened since he'd taken her to her room the previous morning. She listened without looking at him. As he spoke, he could sense her increasing tension, and he knew that it took its definition from an anger growing out of her comment about Peter Lynley. After the docility which shock had produced in her yesterday, he wasn't prepared for the change even though he knew that her anger was natural, a need to strike out and wound so that someone, somehow, would feel some of her pain. The worst part of a death was always that moment of knowing beyond a doubt that no matter how many people share it - be they family, friends, or even an entire nation - no two people can ever feel it the same way. So it always seems as if one experiences it alone. How much worse for Sidney, who was experiencing it alone, who was the sole mourner for Justin Brooke.
'How convenient,' she said when he'd completed his story.
'What do you mean?' 'I mean he told me.' 'Told you?'
'Justin told me, Simon. Everything. About Peter's being at Mick Cambrey's cottage. About the row Mick and Peter had. He told me. He told me. All right? Am I being clear?' She didn't move beyond the door. Had she done so, had she flung herself into the room, had she begun to tear at curtains and bedclothes, had she dashed the single vase of flowers to the floor, St James would have felt less disturbed. All of those behaviours were decidedly Sidney. This was not. Only her voice gave testimony to the state of her spirit, and even that was only a fraction away from being perfectly controlled. 'I told him that he had to tell you or Tommy,' she went on. 'Once John Penellin was arrested, I told him he had to say something. He couldn't keep quiet. It was his duty, I said. He had to tell the truth. But he didn't want to get involved. He knew he'd be making things bad for Peter. But I insisted. I said, "If someone saw John Penellin at Gull Cottage, then someone probably saw you and Peter as well." Better come forward with the story, I told him, rather than let the police drag it out of some neighbour.' 'Sid—'
'But he was worried because he'd left Peter with Mick. He was worried because Peter was getting wild about the cocaine. He was worried because he didn't know what had happened after he left them. But I convinced him that he had to speak to Tommy. So he did. Now he's dead. And how perfectly convenient that Peter's disappeared just at a moment when we all have so many questions we'd like to put to him.'
St James crossed the room to her and shut the door. 'CID think Justin's death was an accident, Sid. They've nothing at all to suggest it was murder.'
'I don't believe that.'
'Why not?'
'I just don't.'
'Was he with you Saturday night?'
'Of course he was with me.' She flung her head back and stated it like a fine point of honour. 'We made love. He wanted to. He came to me. I didn't ask him. He came to me.'
'What excuse did he give for leaving you afterwards?'
Her nostrils flared. 'He loved me, Simon. He wanted me. We were good together. But you can't accept that, can you?'
'Sid, I don't want to argue about—'
'Can you? Can you?''
Somewhere in the corridor two women were talking, having a mild argument over who would vacuum
and who would clean the baths. Their voices grew louder for a moment, then faded away as they descended the stairs.
'What time did he leave you?'
'I don't know. I didn't notice.'
'Did he say anything?'
'He was restless. He said he couldn't sleep. He's like that sometimes. He's been like that before. We make love and he gets all wound up. Sometimes he wants to do it again right away.'
'But not Saturday night?'
'He said he thought he could sleep better in his own room.'
'Did he dress?'
'Did he ... ? Yes, he dressed.' She drew the conclusion herself. 'So he was meeting Peter. Because why would he have dressed when his own room was right across the hail? And he did dress, Simon. His shoes and socks, his trousers and shirt. Everything but his tie.' She clenched at the material of her skirt. 'Peter's bed wasn't slept in. I heard that this morning. Justin didn't fall. You know he didn't fall.'
St James didn't argue with her. He reflected upon the possibilities suggested by the simple act of donning clothes. If Peter Lynley had wanted to have an innocent conversation with Brooke, it would have been more sensible for them to have had it somewhere in the house. If, on the other hand, he had wanted to be rid of Brooke, far wiser to do it in a location where it would look like an accident. But, if that were the case, why on earth would Justin agree to meet Peter anywhere alone?
'Sid, it doesn't make sense. Justin wasn't a fool. Why would he agree to meet Peter at the cliff? And in the middle of the night? After his conversation with Tommy, for all he knew, Peter was out for his blood.' Then he thought about Friday afternoon's scene on the beach. 'Unless, of course, Peter got him down there on false pretences. With some sort of bait.'
'What?'
'Sasha?'
'That's absurd.'
'Then, cocaine. They'd gone to Nanrunnel looking for it. Perhaps that was the carrot Peter used.'
'It wouldn't have worked. Justin wasn't going to use any longer. Not after what happened between us on the beach. He apologized for that. He said he was off it. He wouldn't use again.'
St James could not keep the scepticism from his face. He saw the hard edge of his sister's features begin to disintegrate as she read his reaction.
'He promised, Simon. You didn't know him as I did. You wouldn't understand. But if he promised when we were making love . . . especially when . . . There were certain things he liked me to do.'
'My God, Sidney.'
She began to cry. 'Of course. My God, Sidney. What else can you say? Why should you of all people even begin to understand? You've never been close to feeling anything for anyone. Why on earth should you? After all, you've got science. You don't have to feel passion. You can feel busy instead. With projects and conferences and lectures and the guidance of all those future pathologists who come to worship at your knee.'
Here was the need to wound that he'd recognized before. Still, it came out of nowhere. He hadn't expected it. And, whether the attack was accurate or not, he found that he could not summon a response.
Sidney drew a hand across her eyes. 'I'm leaving. Just tell little Peter when you find him that I have lots to discuss with him. Believe me, I can hardly wait for the opportunity.'
Trenarrow's house was easy enough to find, for it sat just off the upper reaches of Paul Lane on the outskirts of the village, the largest structure within view. By the standards of Howenstow, it was a humble enough dwelling. But in comparison to the cottages that stacked one upon the other on the hillside beneath it the villa was very grand, with broad bay windows overlooking the harbour and a stand of poplar trees acting like a backdrop against which the house's ashlar walls and white woodwork were displayed to some considerable effect.
With Cotter at the wheel of the estate Austin, St James saw the villa at once as they came over the last rise of the coastal road and began their descent into Nanrunnel. They wound past the harbour, the village shops, the tourist flats. At the Anchor and Rose, they made the turn into Paul Lane. Here debris from yesterday's storm littered the pitted asphalt: rubbish from cottage dustbins, assorted food wrappers and tins, a wrecked sign that once had advertised cream teas. The road twisted on itself and climbed above the village where it was strewn with broken foliage from hedges and shrubs. Pools of rainwater reflected the sky.
A narrow drive branching north off Paul Lane was discreedy marked The Villa. Fuchsias lined it, drooping heavily over a drystone wall. Behind this, a terraced garden covered much of the hillside where a carefully plotted, meandering path led upwards to the house, through beds of phlox and nemesia, bellflowers and cyclamen.
The drive ended in a curve round a hawthorn tree, and Cotter parked beneath it, a few yards from the front door. A Doric-columned portico sheltered this, with two urns of vermilion pelargoniums standing on either side.
St James studied the front of the house. 'Does he live here alone?' he asked.
'Far's I know,' Cotter replied. 'But a woman answered the phone when I rang.'
'A woman?' St James thought of Tina Cogin and Trenarrow's telephone number in her flat. 'Let's see what the doctor can tell us.'
Their knock was not answered by Trenarrow. Rather, a young West Indian woman opened the door, and from the expression on Cotter's face when she first spoke, St James knew he could dismiss Tina Cogin as the woman who had answered the phone. The mystery of her whereabouts, it seemed, would not be solved through the expediency of her clandestine presence at Trenarrow's house.
'Doctor see nobodies here,' the woman said, looking from Cotter to St James. The words sounded rehearsed, perhaps frequently and not always patiendy said.
'Dr Trenarrow knows we're coming to see him,' St James said. 'It's not a medical call.'
'Ah.' She smiled, showing large white teeth which protruded like ivory against her coffee skin. She held wide the door. 'Then, in with you, man. He's looking at his flowers. Every morning in the garden before he goes off to work. Same thing. I'll fetch him for you.'
She showed them to the study where, with a meaningful look at St James, Cotter said, 'I could do with a walk round the garden myself,' and followed the woman from the room. Cotter would, St James knew, find out what he could about who she was and why she was there.
Alone, he turned to look at the room. It was the sort of study he particularly liked, with air faintly scented by the smell of the old leather chairs, bookcases filled to absolute capacity, a fireplace with coals newly laid and ready to be lit. A desk sat in the large bay window overlooking the harbour but, as if the view would be a distraction from work, it faced into the room, rather than outwards. An open magazine lay upon it with a pen left in the centre crease as if the reader had been interrupted in the middle of an article. Curious, St James went to examine it, flipping it closed for a moment.
Cancer Research, an American journal, with a photograph of a white-coated scientist on its cover. She leaned against a working area on which sat an immense electron microscope. Scripps Clinic, La Jolla was printed beneath the photograph, along with the phrase Testing the Limits of Bio-Research.
St James went back to the article, a technical treatise on an extra-cellular matrix protein called proteoglycans. Despite his own extensive background in science, it made little sense to him.
'Not quite what one would call light reading, is it?'
St James looked up. Dr Trenarrow stood in the doorway. He was wearing a well-tailored three-piece suit. He'd pinned a small rosebud to its lapel.
'It's certainly beyond me,' St James replied.
'Any word of Peter?'
'Nothing yet, I'm afraid.'
Trenarrow shut the door and gestured St James into one of the room's wing-back chairs.
'Coffee?' he asked. 'I've been discovering it's one of Dora's few specialities.'
'Thank you, no. She's your housekeeper?'
'Using the term in the loosest possible fashion.' He smiled briefly, without humour. The remark seemed largely an effort to be light-hearted, an effort
he dismissed with his very next words. 'Tommy told us last night. About Peter seeing Mick Cambrey the night he died.
About Brooke as well. I don't know where you stand in all this, but I've known that boy since he was six years old, and he's not a killer. He's incapable of violence, most especially the sort that was done to Mick Cambrey.' 'Did you know Mick well?'
'Not as well as others in the village. Just as his landlord. I let him Gull Cottage.' 'How long ago was that?'
Trenarrow began an automatic answer, but then his brow furrowed, as if he'd suddenly wondered about the nature of the question, 'About nine months.'
'Who lived there before him?'
'I did.' Trenarrow made a quick movement in his chair, an adjustment in position that betrayed irritation. 'You can't have come here on a social call at this time of the morning, Mr St James. Did Tommy send you?'
'Tommy?'
'No doubt you know the facts. We've years of bad blood between us. You're asking about Cambrey. You're asking about the cottage. Are these questions his idea or yours?'
'Mine. But he knows I've come to see you.' 'About Mick?'
'Actually no. Tina Cogin's disappeared. We think she may have come to Cornwall.' 'Who?'
'Tina Cogin. Shrewsbury Court Apartments. In Paddington. Your telephone number was among her things.'
'I haven't the slightest. . . Tina Cogin, you say?'
'She's not a patient of yours? Or a former patient?'
'I don't see patients. Oh, perhaps the occasional terminal case who volunteers for an experimental drug. But if Tina Cogin was one of them and she's disappeared . . . Excuse me for the levity, but there's only one place she'd be disappearing to and it wouldn't be Cornwall.'
'Then, you may well have seen her in a different light.' Trenarrow looked perplexed. 'Sony?' 'She may be a prostitute.'