Elizabeth George - A Suitable Vengeance

Lynley nodded sharply in acquiescence and longed for liquor to soothe his nerves. As if in answer, the schoolroom doors opened and his mother entered, pushing a drinks trolley on which she'd assembled two urns, three full decanters of spirits, and several plates of biscuits. Her blue jeans and shoes were stained with mud, her white shirt torn, her hair dishevelled. But, as if her appearance were the least of her concerns, when she spoke she took command of the situation.

'I don't pretend to know your regulations, Inspector,' she told Boscowan. 'But it does seem reasonable that you might be allowed something to take the edge off the chill. Coffee, tea, brandy, whisky. Whatever you'd like. Please help yourselves.'

Boscowan nodded his thanks and, having received this much permission, his officers occupied themselves at the trolley. Boscowan strolled over to Lynley and St James.

'Was he a drinker, my lord?'

'I didn't know him that well. But he was drinking last night. We all were.' 'Drunk?'

'He didn't appear to be. Not when I last saw him.' 'And when was that?'

'When the party broke up. Round midnight. Perhaps a bit later.' 'Where?'

'In the drawing room.'

'Drinking?'

'Yes.'

'But not drunk?'

'He could have been. I don't know. He wasn't acting drunk.' Lynley recognized the intention behind the questions. If Brooke had been drunk, he fell to his death. If he had been sober, he was pushed. But Lynley felt the need to excuse the death as an accident, whatever Brooke's condition last night. 'Drunk or sober, he'd never been here before. He wasn't familiar with the lie of the land.'

Boscowan nodded, but nothing in his manner suggested conviction. 'No doubt the post-mortem will tell the tale.'

'It was dark. The cliffs high.'

'Dark if the man went out in the night,' Boscowan said. 'He could have done so this morning.' 'How was he dressed?'

Boscowan's shoulders lifted, a partial acknowledgement of the accuracy of Lynley's question. 'In his evening clothes. But no-one's to say he wasn't up until dawn with one member of the party or another. Until we have a time of death, we can be certain of nothing. Except the fact that he's dead. And we're certain of that.' He nodded and joined his men by the trolley.

'A thousand and one questions he's not asking, St James,' Lynley said.

The other man listed them. 'Who saw him last? Has anyone else gone missing from the estate? Who was here at the party? Who else was in the grounds? Is there any reason why someone might want to harm him?'

'Why isn't he asking?'

'He's waiting for the post-mortem, I should guess. It's to his advantage that this be an accident.' 'Why?'

'Because he's got his man for Cambrey's murder. And John Penellin couldn't have killed Brooke.'

'You're implying there's a connection.'

'There is. There must be.' A blur of movement on the drive outside caught their attention. 'Jasper,' St James noted.

The old man was trudging through puddles, heading towards the west wing of the house.

'Let's see what he has to say,' Lynley said.

They found him just outside the servants' hall where he was shaking the rain off a battered sou'wester. He did the same to an antique mackintosh and hung both on a wall peg before he struggled out of dark green gumboots that were caked with mud. He nodded curdy at Lynley and St James, and when he was quite ready followed them back to the smoking room where he accepted a whisky to ward off the cold.

'Nowheres to be found,' he told Lynley. 'But 'r boat's gone from Lamorna Cove.'

'It's what?' Lynley said. 'Jasper are you certain?'

"Course I be certain. 'Tain't there.'

Lynley stared at the fox on the overmantel and tried to understand, but all that came to mind were details. They refused to coalesce. The family's thirty-five-foot sloop was docked at Lamorna. Peter had been sailing since he was five years old. The weather had been promising a storm all day. No-one with any sense or experience would have taken a boat out. 'It must have broken loose of its mooring somehow.'

Jasper made a sound of derision, but his face was blank when Lynley swung towards him again. 'Where else did you check?'

'Ever'place. 'Tween Nanrunnel and Treen.'

'Trewoofe? St Buryan? Did you go inland?'

'Aye. A bit. No need t' go far, m'lord. If the lad be on foot, someone's like to see him. But no-one makes the claim.' Jasper pulled on his jaw, rubbing his fingers through the stubble of his beard. 'Way I see, either him and the lady's in hiding round here or they got a ride direct soon's they left Howenstow. Or they took the boat.'

'He wouldn't have done it. He knows better than that. He's not entirely…' Lynley stopped. There was no need for Jasper to hear the worst of his fears. No doubt the man knew every one of them already. 'Thank you, Jasper. Make sure you get something to eat.'

The old man nodded and headed straight for the door. He paused at the threshold, however. 'John Penellin got took last night, I hear.'

'Yes. He did.'

Jasper's mouth worked, as if he wished to say more but was hesitant to do so.

'What is it?' Lynley asked.

'He oughtn't take blame for nobody, you ask me,' Jasper said and left them.

'What more does Jasper know?' St James asked when they were alone.

Lynley was staring at the carpet, lost in thought. He roused himself to say, 'Nothing, I should guess. It's just what he feels.'

'About John?'

'Yes. Peter as well. If there's guilt to be assessed, Jasper knows where it should lie.' Lynley had never felt so incapable of either action or decision. It seemed as if his life were spinning out of control and all he could do was watch the various pieces fly haphazardly into space. All he could say was, 'He wouldn't take the boat. Not in this weather. Where would he go? And why?'

He heard St James move and looked up to see the compassion on his face. 'Perhaps he's still somewhere on the estate, Tommy. Perhaps he doesn't even know what's happened and his disappearance is altogether unconnected to Justin Brooke.'

'And to the cameras?'

'To those as well.'

Lynley looked away, to the pictures on the wall, all those generations of Lynleys who fitted the mould, did their crewing at Oxford, and took their places at Howenstow without a single howl of protest.

'I don't believe that St James. Not for a moment. Do you?'

His friend sighed. 'Frankly? No.'

'Heavens, to what depths have we managed to slither?' Lady Helen said. She dropped her suitcase, sighed, and let her handbag dangle forlornly from her fingertips. 'Lunching at Paddington Station. Behaviour so utterly reprehensible that I can hardly believe I allowed myself to engage in it.'

'It was your suggestion after all, Helen,' Deborah set her own luggage on the floor and looked round the bed-sitting room with a smile of contentment. It felt unaccountably good to be home, even if home was only a single room in Paddington. At least it was her own.

'I plead utter guilt. But when one is in the absolute throes of starvation, when demise is the probable consequence of even a moment's epicurean snobbery, what is one to do but rush madly towards the first cafeteria that comes into sight?' She shuddered, as if stricken by the recollection of what she'd found heaped upon her luncheon plate 'Can you imagine a more despicable thing to do to a sausage?'

Deborah laughed. 'Would you like a restorative? A cup of tea? I've even got a recipe for a health drink you might like. Tina gave it to me. A pick-me-up, she called it.'

'No doubt "picked up" is just what she needed after an encounter with Mick Cambrey, if his father's to be believed,' Lady Helen said. 'But I'll forgo that pleasure for now, if I may. Shall we pop next door with his picture?'