A Suitable Vengeance

“Do you think Roderick’s involved in this business?”


St. James took note not only of the dispassionate tone of Lynley’s question but also of the fact that he’d deliberately phrased it to leave out the word murder. At the same time, he saw the manner in which his friend attended to the driving as he spoke, both hands high on the steering wheel, eyes fixed straight ahead. He knew only the barest details of Lynley’s past relationship with Trenarrow, all of them circling round a general antipathy that had its roots in Lady Asherton’s enduring relationship with the man. Lynley would need something to compensate for that dislike if Trenarrow was even tangentially involved in the deaths in Cornwall, and it seemed that he’d chosen scrupulous impartiality as a means of counterbalancing the animosity that coloured his long association with the man.

“I suppose he could be, even if only unconsciously.” St. James told him about his meeting with Trenarrow, about the interview Mick Cambrey had done with him. “But if Mick was working on a story that led to his death, Trenarrow may have merely given him a lead, perhaps the name of someone at Islington-London with information Mick needed.”

“But if, as you say, there were no notes in the newspaper office from any story connected to Roderick…” Lynley braked at a traffic signal. It would have been natural to look at St. James. He did not do so. “What does that suggest to you?”

“I didn’t say there were no notes about him, Tommy. I said there was no story about him. Or about anything relating to cancer research. That’s a different matter than an absence of notes. There may be hundreds of notes for all we know. Harry Cambrey was the one who looked through Mick’s files. I had no chance to do so.”

“So the information may still be there, with Harry unable to recognise its importance.”

“Quite. But the story itself—whatever it was, if it’s even connected to Mick’s death—may have nothing to do with Trenarrow directly. He may just be a source.”

Lynley looked at him then. “You didn’t want to phone him, St. James. Why?”

St. James watched a woman push a pram across the street. A small child clung to the hem of her dress. The traffic signal changed. Cars and lorries began to move.

“Mick may have been on the trail of a story that caused his death. You know as well as I that it makes no sense to alert anyone to the fact that we may be on the trail as well.”

“So you do think Roderick’s involved.”

“Not necessarily. Probably not at all. But he could inadvertently give the word to someone who is. Why phone him and allow for that chance?”

Lynley spoke as if he hadn’t heard St. James’ words. “If he is, St. James, if he is…” He turned the Bentley right, onto the Fulham Road. They passed the dress shops and antique dealers, the bistros and restaurants of trendy London where the streets were peopled by fashionably dressed shoppers and trim-looking matrons on their way to rendezvous.

“We don’t have all the facts yet, Tommy. There’s no sense in tormenting yourself about it now.”

Again, St. James’ words seemed to make no difference. “It would destroy my mother,” Lynley said.

They drove on to Paddington. Deborah met them in the small lobby of the Shrewsbury Court Apartments where she had apparently been waiting for them, pacing back and forth across the black and white tiles. She pulled the door open before they’d had a chance to ring the bell.

“Dad phoned to tell me you were on your way. Tommy, are you all right? Dad said there’s still been no sign of Peter.”

Lynley’s response was to say her name like a sigh. He drew her to him. “What a mess this weekend’s been for you. I’m sorry, Deb.”

“It’s all right. It’s nothing.”

St. James looked past them. The sign concierge on a nearby door was done in calligraphy, he noted. But the hand was inexpert and the dot above the i had blurred and become a part of the second c. He examined this, considered this—each letter, each detail—keeping his eyes fastened to the sign until Deborah spoke.

“Helen’s waiting up above.” She moved with Lynley towards the lift.

They found Lady Helen on the telephone in Deborah’s flat. She was saying nothing, merely listening, and from her look in his direction and the expression on her face when she replaced the receiver, St. James realised whom she had been trying to reach.

“Sidney?” he asked her.

“I can’t find her, Simon. Her agency gave me a list of names, friends of hers. But no one’s heard a word. I just tried her flat again. Nothing. I’ve phoned your mother as well, but there’s no answer there. Shall I keep trying her?”

Cold prickling ran its way down St. James’ spine. “No. She’ll only worry.”