A Suitable Vengeance

Fear dominated him. It left him useless. Any action he chose could be the source of rejection. So he chose by not choosing, by letting time pass, by believing that conflicts, difficulties, and turmoil would sort themselves out on their own in the long run. And indeed they had done so. Loss was the result.

Too late he saw what he should have seen all along, that his life with Deborah had been a long-forming tapestry in which she had held the thread, had created the design, and had ultimately become the fabric itself. That she should leave him now was a form of dying, leaving him not death’s peace of the void but an infinite hellfire of recrimination, all of it the product of his contemptible fear. That the years had passed and he had not told her how he loved her. His heart soared in her presence but he would not say the words. Now, he could only thank God that she and Lynley planned to take up a new life in Cornwall after their marriage. If she was gone from his presence, what remained of life here would at least be bearable.

He turned his head on the pillow and looked at the glowing red numbers of the digital clock. It was ten past three. The effort to sleep was useless. He could at least admit that. He switched on the light.

The stack of photographs still lay on the table next to the bed where he had placed them over two hours ago. In what he knew quite well was an act of deliberate avoidance—more cowardice for which he would despise himself with the dawn—he picked them up. As if this action could eradicate Deborah’s words, as if the knowledge of how she had once wanted him were not tearing at his soul, he began to examine them, a study in detachment with his world in ruins.

Without emotion, he looked at the corpse, its mutilation, its position near the sofa. He observed the debris that lay in the room: the letters and envelopes; the pens and pencils; the notebooks and folders; the scraps of paper covered with writing; the poker and fire irons tumbled to the floor; the computer—switched on—with black floppy disks spread out on the desk. And then closer to the corpse, the glint of silver—perhaps a coin—half-hidden under his thigh; the five-pound note, a small wedge torn from it, lying disregarded near his hand on the floor; above him the mantel on which he had struck his head; to the right the hearth to which he had fallen. St. James flipped through the photographs again and again, looking for something he could not have identified even if he saw it. The computer, the disks, the folders, the notebooks, the money, the mantel. He thought only of Deborah.

Giving up the game, he admitted that there would be neither sleep, nor peace, nor even the possibility of a moment’s distraction. He could only make the hours till dawn slightly more liveable. He reached for his crutches and swung out of bed. Throwing on his dressing gown, belting it clumsily, he headed for the door. There was brandy in the study. It would not be the first time he had sought its oblivion. He made his way down the stairs.

The study door was partially closed, and it swung inward noiselessly upon his touch. A soft glow—dancing between gold and dusky rose—came from two candles that should have stood on the overmantel but had been placed side by side and lit upon the hearth. Hands clasped round her knees, Deborah sat on the ottoman and watched the candles’ flames. Seeing her, St. James wanted to retreat. He thought about doing so. He didn’t move.

She looked towards the door, looked away again quickly when she saw it was he. “Couldn’t sleep,” she said unnecessarily as if she thought she needed to explain her presence in his study—wearing dressing gown and slippers—after three in the morning. “I can’t think why. I ought to be exhausted. I feel exhausted. But I couldn’t sleep. Too much excitement these past few days.”

Her words were casual enough, well-chosen and indifferent. But there was something hesitant in her voice. It tried but failed to ring true. Hearing this, he made his way across the room and lowered himself onto the ottoman next to her. It was the sort of gesture he’d never made before. In the past, her place had been on the ottoman, while he sat above her, in the chair or on the sofa.

“I couldn’t sleep either,” he said, laying his crutches on the floor. “I thought I’d have a brandy.”

“I’ll get it for you.” She began to rise.

He caught her hand, stopped her. “No. It’s all right.” And when she kept her face averted, “Deborah.”

“Yes?”

The single word was calm. Her curly mass of hair hid her face from view. She made a quick movement, like a lifting of her body, and he thought it was prelude to rising and leaving. But instead of doing so, he heard her take a choked breath and realised with a swift dawning of surprise that she was struggling not to cry.

He touched her hair, so tentatively that he knew she couldn’t possibly feel that he had done so. “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Deborah—”