A Suitable Vengeance

“It just doesn’t.”


They walked on, passing through the heavy birch gate, and entering the woodland of a combe that fell down to the sea. Sidney shouted unintelligibly up ahead, her words bubbling with laughter.

Deborah spoke again. “You’ve always hated the thought that someone might see you as a fine man, haven’t you? As if sensitivity were a sort of leprosy. If it isn’t thoughtfulness that brought you with Dad, what is it, then?”

“Loyalty.”

She gaped at him. “To a servant?”

His eyes became dark. How funny that she had completely forgotten the sudden changes their colour could take on when an emotion struck him. “To a cripple?” he replied.

His words defeated her, bringing them full circle to a beginning and an end that would never alter.



From her perch on a rock above the river, Lady Helen saw St. James coming slowly through the trees. She’d been watching for him since Deborah had come hurrying down the path a few minutes before. As he walked, he flung to one side a heavy-leafed stalk that he’d broken from one of the tropical plants that grew in profusion in the woodland.

Below her, Sidney gambolled in the water, her shoes hanging from one hand and the hem of her dress dangling, disregarded, in the river. Nearby with her camera poised, Deborah examined the disused mill wheel that stood motionless beneath a growth of ivy and lilies. She clambered among the rocks on the river bank, camera in one hand, the other outstretched to maintain her balance.

Although the photographic qualities of the old stone structure were apparent even to Lady Helen’s untutored eye, there was an unnecessary intensity to Deborah’s study of the building, as if she had made a deliberate decision to devote all her energy to the task of determining appropriate camera angles and depth of field. She was obviously angry.

When St. James joined her on the rock, Lady Helen observed him curiously. Shadowed by the trees, his face betrayed nothing, but his eyes followed Deborah along the bank of the river and every movement he made was abrupt. Of course, Lady Helen thought, and not for the first time she wondered what inner resources of fine breeding they would have to call upon to get them through the interminable weekend.



Their walk finally ended at an irregularly shaped clearing which rose to a promontory. Perhaps fifty feet below, gained by a steep path that wound through scrub foliage and boulders, the Howenstow cove glittered in the steamy sun, the perfect destination on a summer afternoon. Fine sand cast up visible waves of heat on the narrow beach. Limestone and granite at the water’s edge held tide pools animated by tiny crustaceans. The water itself was so perfectly crystalline that, had not the waves declared it otherwise, a sheet of glass might have been placed on its surface. It was a place not safe enough for boating—with its rocky bottom and its distant, reef-guarded outlet to the sea—but it was a fine location for sunbathing. Three people below them were using it for this purpose.

Sasha Nifford, Peter Lynley, and Justin Brooke sat on a crescent band of rocks at the water’s edge. Brooke was shirtless. The other two were nude. Peter was skin stretched over a rib cage with neither sinews nor fat as buffer between them. Sasha consisted of a bit more mass, but it hung upon her with neither tone nor definition, particularly her breasts, which dangled pendulously when she moved.

“Of course, it’s a lovely day for a lie in the sun,” Lady Helen said hesitantly.

St. James looked at his sister. “Perhaps we’d—”

“Wait,” Sidney said.

As they watched, Brooke handed Peter Lynley a small container from which Peter tapped powder onto the flat of his hand. He bent to it, hovered over it with such a passion to possess that even from the clifftop the others could see his chest heave with the effort to ingest every particle. He licked his hand, sucked it, and at the last, raised his face to the sky as if in thanksgiving to an unseen god. He handed the container back to Brooke.

At that, Sidney exploded. “You promised! Damn you to hell. You promised!”

“Sid!” St. James grabbed his sister’s arm. He felt the tensility of her insubstantial muscles as adrenaline shot through her body. “Sidney, don’t!”

“No!” Sidney tore herself away from him. She kicked off her shoes and began to descend the cliff, sliding in the dust, catching her frock against a rock, and all the time cursing Brooke foully with one imprecation after another.

“Oh, God,” Deborah murmured. “Sidney!”

At the cliff bottom, Sidney hurtled across the narrow strip of sand to the rock where the three sunbathers were watching her in dazed surprise. She threw herself on Brooke. Her momentum dragged him down off the rocks and onto the sand. She fell upon him, punching his face.