A Suitable Vengeance

Lynley spun around. He saw her plunging blindly through the cars. She slipped once on the slick pavement but pulled herself to her feet, screaming his name.

She threw herself on the ambulance, pulling on the handle that would open its rear door. A policeman tried to restrain her, a second did likewise. But she fought them off. She kicked, she scratched. And all the time, she kept screaming his name. High and shrieking, it was a two-syllable monody that Lynley knew he would hear—when he least wanted to hear it—for the rest of his life. A third policeman joined the attempt to subdue her, but she writhed away.

Sick at heart, Lynley turned from the sight. He felt for the villa door. “St. James,” he said.

The other man was in the hall with Trenarrow’s housekeeper who was sobbing into the turban she’d taken from her head. He looked Lynley’s way and began to speak but hesitated, face clouded, as Deborah’s cries grew more profound. He touched Dora’s shoulder gently and joined Lynley at the door, stopping short at the sight of Deborah being dragged away from the ambulance and fighting every step that distanced her from it. He looked at Lynley.

Lynley looked away. “For Christ’s sake, go to her. She thinks it’s you.” He couldn’t face his friend. He didn’t want to see him. He only hoped St. James would take matters into his own hands without another word being spoken between them. It was not to be.

“No. She’s only—”

“Just go, damn you. Go.”

Seconds ticked by before St. James moved, but when he finally walked into the drive, Lynley found the expiation he had searched for so long. He forced himself to watch.

St. James skirted the police cars and approached the group. He walked quite slowly. He couldn’t move fast. His gait wouldn’t allow it, crippled and ugly, and halted by pain. The gait that Lynley himself had given him.

St. James reached the ambulance. He shouted Deborah’s name. He grabbed her, pulled her towards him. She fought back violently, weeping and shrieking, but only for a moment until she saw who it was. Then she was caught up in his arms, her body shaking with terrible sobs, his head bent to hers, his hands in her hair.

“It’s all right, Deborah,” Lynley heard St. James say. “I’m sorry you were frightened. I’m all right, my love.” Then be murmured needlessly, “My love. My love.”

The rain fell against them, the police began to move round them. But neither seemed cognizant of anything more than being held in the other’s arms.

Lynley turned and went into the house.



A stirring awakened her. She opened her eyes. They focussed on the distant, barrel ceiling. She gazed up at it, confused. Turning her head, she saw the lace-covered dressing table, its silver hair brushes, its old cheval mirror. Great-Grandmama Asherton’s bedroom, she thought. Recognition of the room brought almost everything back. Images of the cove, the newspaper office, the flight up the hill, the sight of the shrouded body all merged in her mind. At their centre was Tommy.

Another movement came from the other side of the room. The curtains were drawn, but a cord of daylight struck a chair by the fireplace. Lynley was sitting there, his legs stretched out in front of him. On the table next to him sat a tray of food. Breakfast, by the look of it. She could see the dim shape of a toast rack.

At first she didn’t speak, trying instead to remember the events that followed those horrifying moments at Trenarrow’s villa. She remembered a brandy being pressed upon her, the sound of voices, a telephone ringing, then a car. Somehow she’d got from Nanrunnel back to Howenstow where she’d made her way to a bed.

She wore a blue satin nightdress that she didn’t recognise. A matching dressing gown lay at the foot of the bed. She pushed herself into a sitting position.

“Tommy?”

“You’re awake.” He went to the windows and pushed the curtains back a bit so that the room had more light. The casements were already open a few inches, but he opened them further so that the crying of the gulls and cormorants made a background of sound.

“What time is it?”

“Just after ten.”

“Ten?”

“You’ve slept since yesterday afternoon. You don’t remember?”

“Just bits. Have you been waiting long?”

“A while.”

She saw then that he wore the same clothes he’d had on in Nanrunnel. His face was unshaven, and beneath his eyes his skin was dark and puckered with fatigue. “You’ve been with me all night.”

He didn’t reply. He remained at the window, far from the bed. Beyond his shoulder, she could see the sky. Against it, his hair was made gold by the sun.