Elizabeth George - A Suitable Vengeance

Lynley catalogued all this with no system for observation, just a series of fleeting impressions. There was no way to avoid them, not with Trenarrow so close, standing – as he always had – so much larger than life.

'I see Nancy Cambrey's gone to work at the Anchor and Rose in addition to her other jobs,' Lynley said to Trenarrow.

The other man looked over his shoulder to the refreshment booth. 'It looks that way. I'm surprised she'd take it on with the baby and all. It can't be easy for her.'

'It'll do something to ease their money troubles, though, won't it?' Lynley took a gulp of his lager. It was too warm for his liking, and he would have preferred to dump it out on to the base of a palm nearby. But Trenarrow would have read animosity in that action, so he continued sipping the drink. 'Look, Roderick,' he said brusquely, 'I'm going to make good whatever money they owe you.'

Both the statement and the manner of saying it put an end to conversation among the others. Lynley became aware of Lady Helen's hand coming to rest on St James' arm, of Deborah's uneasy stirring at his own side, of Trenarrow's look of perplexity as if he hadn't an idea in the world what Lynley was referring to.

'Make good the money?' Trenarrow repeated.

'I'm not about to let Nancy go begging. They can't afford a rise in rent at the moment and-'

'Rent?'

Lynley found his gentle repetitions aggravating. Trenarrow was manoeuvring him into the bully's role. 'She's afraid of losing Gull Cottage. I told her I'd make good the money. Now I'm telling you.'

'The cottage. I see.' Trenarrow lifted his drink slowly and observed Lynley over the rim of the glass. He gazed reflectively at the drinks booth. 'Nancy doesn't need to worry about the cottage. Mick and I shall work it out. She needn't have bothered you for the money.'

How absolutely like the man, Lynley thought. How insufferably noble he was. How far-sighted as well. He knew what he was doing. The entire conversation was the sort of parry and thrust that they had engaged in innumerable times over the years, filled with double-edged words and hidden meanings.

'I said I'd take care of it and I will.' Lynley attempted to alter the tone if not the intention behind his words. 'There's absolutely no need for you to-'

'Suffer?' Trenarrow regarded Lynley evenly for a moment before he offered a cool smile. He finished the rest of his drink. 'How very kind of you. If you'll excuse me now, I seem to have been dominating your time long enough. There appear to be others here who'd like to be introduced.' He nodded and left them.

Lynley watched him go, recognizing as always Trenarrow's skill at seizing the moment. He'd done it again, leaving Lynley feeling like nothing more than a rough-edged lout. He was seventeen again. Over and over in Trenarrow's presence he would always be seventeen.

Lady Helen's animated words filled the void created by Trenarrow's departure. 'Good heavens, what a gorgeous man he is, Tommy. Did you say he's a doctor? Every woman in the village must line up at his surgery on a daily basis.'

'He's not that kind of doctor,' Lynley replied automatically. He poured out the rest of his lager along the trunk of a palm and watched the liquid pool onto the dry, unyielding earth. 'He does medical research in Penzance.'

Which is why he'd come to Howenstow in the first place, a man only thirty years old, called upon as an act of desperation to see to the dying earl. It was hopeless. He'd explained in that earnest fashion of his that there was nothing more to be done besides adhering to the current chemotherapy. There was no cure in spite of what they read and wanted to believe in the tabloids, he said; there were dozens of different kinds of cancer; it was a catch-all term. The body was dying of its own inability to call a halt to the production of cells, and scientists didn't know enough; they were working and striving, but it would be years, decades… He spoke with quiet apologies. With profound understanding and compassion.

And so the earl had lingered and dwindled and suffered and died. The family had mourned him. The region had mourned him. Everyone save Roderick Trenarrow.

Nancy Cambrey packed the last of the pint glasses into a carton for the short trip down the hill to the Anchor and Rose. She was extremely weary. In order to be at the school in time to do the setting-up that evening, she'd gone without her dinner, so she was feeling light-headed as well. She criss-crossed the carton flaps and secured the package, relieved that the evening's labour was done.

Nearby, her employer – the formidable Mrs Swarm -fingered through the night's taking with her usual passion for things pecuniary. Her lips moved soundlessly as she counted the coins and notes, jotting figures into her dogeared red ledger. She nodded in satisfaction. The booth had done well.

'I'm off then,' Nancy said with some hesitation. She never knew exactly what kind of reaction to expect from Mrs Swann, who was notorious for her mood-swings. No barmaid had ever lasted more than seven months in her employ. Nancy was determined to be the first. Money's the point, she whispered inwardly whenever she found herself on the receiving end of one of Mrs Swarm's violent outbursts. You can bear anything, so long as you're paid.

'Fine, Nancy,' Mrs Swann muttered with a wave of her hand. 'Off with you, then.'

'Sorry about the call box.'

The woman snorted and poked at her scalp with the stub of a pencil. 'From now on, phone your dad in your own time, girl. Not in the pub's time. And not in mine.'

'Yes. I will. I'll remember.' Placation was paramount. Nancy held tightly to the booth in order to manage un-ruffling Mrs Swann's feathers while betraying nothing of the aversion she actually felt for her employer. 'I learn quick, Mrs Swann. You'll see. People never do have to tell me anything twice.'

Mrs Swann looked up sharply. Her rat's eyes glittered in evaluation. 'Learning things quick enough from that man of yours, girl? All sorts of new things, I expect. That right?'

Nancy rubbed at a smudge on her faded pink blouse. ‘I’m off,' she said in answer and ducked under the booth.

Although the lights were still on, the yard was empty of everyone save Lynley's party and the Nanrunnel Players. Nancy watched them at the front of the theatre. While St James and Lady Helen waited among the empty seats, Lynley posed with the cast as his fiancee took their picture. Each flash lit one delighted face after another, catching their antic posturing on film. Lynley bore it all with his usual good grace, chatting away with the rector and his wife, laughing at cheerful remarks made by Lady Helen Clyde.

Life comes so easily to him, Nancy thought.

'It's no different, my dear, being one of them. It only looks that way.'

Nancy started at the words, at their stabbing acuity. She whirled to see Dr Trenarrow sitting in the shadows, against a wall of the school yard.

Nancy had avoided him for the entire evening, always keeping out of his reach or his line of vision when he came to the booth for a drink. Now, however, she could not avoid the contact, for he got to his feet and walked into the light.

'You're worried about the cottage,' he said. 'Don't. I shan't be putting you on the street. We'll work things out, Mick and I.'

She felt sweat break out on the back of her neck in spite of his gentle declaration. It was the nightmare she feared, coming face to face with him, having to discuss the situation, having to create excuses. Worse, just ten feet away, Mrs Swann had raised her head from the money-box, her interest no doubt piqued by the mention of Mick's name.

‘I’ll have the money,' she stammered. ‘I’ll get it. I will.'

'You're not to worry, Nancy,' Trenarrow said, more insistently. 'And you've no need at all to go begging Lord Asherton for help. You should have spoken to me.'