A Suitable Vengeance

He read the brief report, finding it all at once difficult to assimilate technical information that should have been like a natural second language. Lynley was continuing to speak, giving facts which St. James had himself possessed for years.

“A massive dose constricts all the arteries. Blood vessels rupture in the brain. Death is immediate. But we saw that, didn’t we? She still had the needle in her arm.”

“The police aren’t calling it an accident.”

“Quite. They were still questioning Peter when I left.”

“But if it wasn’t an accident,” Deborah said, “doesn’t that mean…”

“There’s a second killer,” Lynley concluded.

St. James went to his bookshelves once again. He was sure his movements, jerky and awkward, gave him away.

“Ergotamine,” he said. “I’m not entirely sure…” He let his voice drift off, hoping for a display of natural curiosity, the reaction typical to a man of science. But all the time, dread and knowledge were seeping through his skin. He pulled down a medical volume.

“It’s a prescription drug,” Lynley was saying.

St. James flipped through the pages. His hands were clumsy. He was at G and then H before he knew it. He aimlessly read without seeing a word.

“What’s it for?” Deborah asked.

“Migraine headaches mostly.”

“Really? Migraine headaches?” St. James felt Deborah turn towards him, willed her not to ask. Innocently, she did so. “Simon, do you take it for your migraines?”

Of course, of course. She had known he took it. Everyone knew. He never counted the tablets. And the bottle was large. So she had gone to his room. She’d taken what she needed. She’d crushed them. She’d mixed them. She’d created the poison. And she’d handed it over, intending it for Peter, but killing Sasha instead.

He had to say something to direct them back to Cambrey and Brooke. He read for another moment, nodded as if caught in heavy contemplation, then shut the book.

“We need to go back to Cornwall,” he said decisively. “The newspaper office should give us the definite connection between Brooke and Cambrey. Harry was looking for a story right after Mick’s death. But he was looking for something sensational: gunrunning into Northern Ireland, call girls visiting Cabinet ministers. That sort of thing. Something tells me he would have overlooked oncozyme.” He didn’t add the fact that leaving London by tomorrow would buy him time, making him unavailable to the police when they came calling to question him about a silver bottle from Jermyn Street.

“I can manage that,” Lynley said. “Webberly’s been good enough to extend my time off. And it’ll clear Peter’s name. Will you come as well, Deb?”

St. James saw that she was watching him closely. “Yes,” she said slowly. Then, “Simon, is there—”

He couldn’t allow the question. “If you’ll both excuse me, I’ve a number of reports to see to in the lab,” he said. “I’ve got to make at least some sort of start on them before tomorrow.”



He hadn’t come down for dinner. Deborah and her father had finally taken their meal alone after nine o’clock in the dining room. Dover sole, asparagus, new potatoes, green salad. A glass of wine with the food. A cup of coffee afterwards. They didn’t speak. But every few minutes, Deborah caught her father glancing her way.

A division had come into their relationship since her return from America. Where once they had spoken freely to each other, with great affection and trust, now they were wary. Entire subjects were taboo. She wanted it that way. She had been in such a rush to move from the Chelsea house in the first place to avoid a sharing of confidences with her father. For in the long run, he knew her better than anyone. And he was the most likely person to push back through the present to examine the past. He had, after all, the most at stake. He loved them both.

She pushed back her chair and began gathering their plates. Cotter stood as well. “Glad to have you here tonight, Deb,” he said. “Old times, seems like. The three of us.”

“The two of us.” She smiled in what she hoped would be affectionate and dismissive at once. “Simon didn’t come to dinner.”

“Three of us in the house, I meant,” Cotter said. He handed her the tray from the sideboard. She stacked the plates on it. “Works too much, does Mr. St. James. I worry the man’ll wear ’imself down to nothing.”

Cleverly, he’d moved to stand near the door. She couldn’t escape without making obvious her desire to do so. And surely, her father would pounce upon that. So she cooperated by saying, “He is thinner, Dad, isn’t he? I can see that.”

“That ’e is.” And then adroitly he took the opening. “These last three years didn’t go easy on Mr. St. James, Deb. You think they did, don’t you? But you’ve got it wrong.”