A Suitable Vengeance

They made the rest of the climb in silence. As they turned up the drive to the villa, lights went on in the ground floor as if they were expected visitors. Below them, village lights began to shine through the gloom as well, making an occasional nimbus glitter behind glass.

Dora answered the door. She was dressed for cooking, wrapped round by an enormous red apron that bore smudges of flour on both breasts and along the thighs. More flour powdered the creases of her blue turban, and an additional dusting had greyed one eyebrow.

“Doctor’s in his study,” she said when they asked for him. “Come in with you. Rain don’t do a bit o’ good for bodies out in it.” She led them to the study, rapped on the door, and opened it when Trenarrow answered. “I bring tea for these good mans,” she said, nodded sharply, and left them.

Dr. Trenarrow got to his feet. He’d been seated behind his desk, in the act of polishing his spectacles. He put them back on his nose. “Everything’s all right?” he asked Lynley.

“Peter’s at the house in London.”

“Thank God. Your mother?”

“I think she’d probably like to see you tonight.”

Behind his spectacles, Trenarrow blinked once. He obviously didn’t know what to make of Lynley’s remark. He said, “You’re both soaked.” He went to the fireplace and lit the fire, doing it the old-fashioned way by placing a stubby candle beneath the coals.

St. James waited for Lynley to speak. He wondered if this final interview between them would better be held without his presence. Although he’d given lip service to Lynley’s opportunity to make a free decision, he really had no doubt what that decision would be. Still, he knew it would not be easy for his friend to turn a blind eye to Trenarrow’s part in the illegal sale of oncozyme, no matter how noble the doctor’s motives had been. It would be easier for Lynley to do it alone, but St. James’ own need to put every detail to rest kept him where he was, listening and noting and prepared to say nothing.

The burning coal hissed. Dr. Trenarrow returned to his desk. St. James and Lynley sat in the wingchairs in front of it. Rain made a sound like delicate waves against the windows.

Dora returned with the tea which she poured, leaving with a gentle admonition to “mind that you take your med’cine when the time come,” which Trenarrow accepted with a dutiful nod.

When they were alone once again with the fire, the tea, and the rain, Lynley spoke. “We know about oncozyme, Roderick, and the clinic in St. Just. About the newspaper advertisement that brought you the patients. About Mick and Justin and the parts they played, Mick filtering the applicants to get those best able to pay for the treatment, Justin supplying the drug from London.”

Trenarrow pushed fractionally back from the desk. “Is this an official visit, Tommy?”

“No.”

“Then what—”

“Had you met Brooke before Saturday night at Howenstow?”

“I’d only spoken to him on the phone. But he came here Friday night.”

“When?”

“He was here when I got back from Gull Cottage.”

“Why?”

“The obvious reasons. He wanted to talk about Mick.”

“But you didn’t report him to the police?”

Trenarrow’s brow furrowed. He answered simply, “No.”

“Yet you knew he’d killed him. Did he tell you why?”

Trenarrow’s eyes moved between the other two men. He licked his lips, gripped the handle of his teacup, and studied its contents. “Mick wanted to raise the cost of treatment. I’d already opposed him. Evidently that evening, Justin had as well. They argued about it. Justin lost his temper.”

“And when you joined us at the cottage, did you know Justin Brooke had killed Mick?”

“I’d not seen Brooke yet. I’d no more idea than you who had done it.”

“What about the condition of the room and the missing money?”

“I didn’t put it together until I saw Brooke. He was looking for anything that could connect him to Cambrey.”

“And the money?”

“I don’t know. He may have taken it, but he didn’t admit to it.”

“To the killing, however?”

“Yes. To that.”

“And the mutilation?”

“To misdirect the police.”

“His cocaine use. Did you know about that?”

“No.”

“And that Mick dealt cocaine on the side?”

“Good God, no.”

St. James listened, feeling the vague discomfort of uncertainty. A tantalising fact danced on the edge of his consciousness, something not quite right that was asking to be noticed.

The other two men continued talking. Their voices were low, barely much more than a murmur with nothing more at stake than an exchange of information, a straightening out of details, and a plan for going on. Into the conversation, a sudden noise was interjected, a dim bleeping that came from Trenarrow’s wrist. He pressed a tiny button on the side of his watch.

“Medicine,” he said. “Blood pressure.”