A Suitable Vengeance

“Simon,” she said and waited until he had looked up from the plate of food which she knew he would not touch. “Tommy told me what you tried to do for Peter today. That was so kind of you.”


His expression clouded. “What I tried—”

She reached across the table, grasping his hand lightly. “He said that you were going to take the container so that it wouldn’t be there when the police arrived. Tommy was so moved by that act of friendship. He would have said something this afternoon in the study, but you left before he had the chance.”

She saw that his eyes were on her ring. The emerald shimmered like a translucent liquid in the light. His hand beneath hers was very cool. But as she waited for him to respond, it balled into a fist and then jerked away. She pulled her own hand back, feeling momentarily struck, feeling that any foolhardy lowering of her defences, any attempt to reach him in simple friendship, condemned her to failure again and again. Across from her, he swung to one side. The shadows deepened on the planes of his face.

“God,” he whispered.

At the word, at his expression, she saw that his pulling away had nothing to do with her. “What is it?” she asked.

He leaned into the light. Every line reappeared with every angle newly honed. Dominant bones seemed to draw the skin against his skull. “Deborah…how can I tell you? I’m not the hero that you think I am. I did nothing for Tommy. I didn’t think of Tommy. I didn’t care about Peter. I don’t care about Peter.”

“But—”

“The container belongs to Sidney.”

Deborah felt herself drawing back at this statement. Her lips parted, but for a moment she did nothing but stare incredulously at his face. Finally, she managed, “What are you saying?”

“She thinks Peter killed Justin Brooke. She wanted to even the score. But somehow, instead of Peter—”

“Ergotamine,” Deborah whispered. “You do take it, don’t you?”

He shoved the tray to one side. But that was the only reaction he appeared to be willing to allow himself. His words—if not their connotation—were perfectly cool. “I feel like an idiot. I can’t even think what to do to help my own sister. I can’t even find her. It’s pathetic. Obscene. I’m perfectly useless and this entire day has been nothing more than an illustration of that fact.”

“I don’t believe it,” Deborah said slowly. “Sidney wouldn’t…she didn’t…Simon, I can’t think you believe it yourself.”

“Helen’s looked everywhere, phoned everywhere. So have I. Nothing’s any good. And they’ll trace that container within twenty-four hours.”

“How could they? Even if her fingerprints are on it—”

“It has nothing to do with fingerprints. She’s used her perfume bottle. It’s from Jermyn Street. That’s not going to give the police any difficulty. They’ll be here by four o’clock tomorrow afternoon. You can bet on that.”

“Her perfume…Simon, it’s not Sidney!” Quickly, Deborah pushed off the lab stool, going round to join him. “It’s not Sidney. It can’t be. Don’t you remember? She came to my room the night of the dinner. She used my perfume. Hers was missing, she said. Someone had straightened her room. She couldn’t find anything. Don’t you remember?”

For an instant, he looked momentarily stunned. His vision was fixed upon her although he didn’t appear to be seeing her at all. “What?” he whispered and then went on in a voice that was stronger. “That was Saturday evening. That was before Brooke died. Someone was planning to kill Peter even then.”

“Or Sasha,” Deborah said.

“Someone’s trying to frame Sidney.” He pushed himself off the lab stool, walked to the end of the worktable, swung round, walked back. He did it a second time, more quickly and with growing agitation. “Someone got into her room. It could have been anyone. Peter—if Sasha was the intended victim—or Trenarrow or any one of the Penellins. Good God, even Daze.”

The truth was all of a piece in a moment. “No,” Deborah said. “It was Justin.”

“Justin?”

“It never made sense to me that he went to her bedroom Friday night. Not after what happened between them on the beach that afternoon. He had a grievance against Sidney. The cocaine, their fight, Peter and Sasha laughing at them both. Laughing at him.”

“So he went to her room,” St. James said slowly, “made love to her, and took the bottle then. He must have done. Damn him to hell.”

“And Saturday when Sid couldn’t find him for most of the day—remember, she told us that?—he must have got the ergotamine and quinine then. He made the mixture and passed it on to Sasha.”

“A chemist,” St. James said thoughtfully. “A biochemist. Who would know drugs better?”

“So who was he after? Peter or Sasha?”

“It was always Peter.”

“Because of the visit to Mick Cambrey?”