A Suitable Vengeance

“A fall?” Lynley’s attention was on the inflamed teeth-marks on Brooke’s neck, barely obscured by the collar of his shirt. He looked at the others sharply. “Where’s Sidney?” he asked.

No one replied. A glass clinked against the top of a table. Someone coughed. Outside, at some distance from the house, an engine roared to life. Footsteps sounded in the hall and Cotter entered the drawing room. He stopped barely two feet inside the door, as if he’d taken a quick reading of the ambience and was having second thoughts about exposing himself to it. He looked at St. James, a reflex reaction that sought direction and found it in the other man’s detachment from the scene. He made no other move.

“Where’s Sidney?” Lynley repeated.

At her end of the room, Lady Asherton rose to her feet. “Has something—”

Deborah spoke quickly. “I saw her half an hour ago, Tommy.” Her face flushed. Its colour did battle with the fire of her hair. “She spent too much time in the sun this afternoon and thought…well, she’s asked for…a rest. Yes. She said she needed a bit of a rest. She did send her apologies and…you know Sidney. She goes at such a pace, doesn’t she? She wears herself out as if nothing at all…It’s no wonder to me she’s exhausted.” Her fingers wandered to her throat as she spoke, as if her hand wanted to cover her mouth to prevent the lie from becoming even more obvious.

In spite of himself, St. James smiled. He looked at Deborah’s father who shook his head weakly in affectionate recognition of a fact they both knew only too well. Helen might have been able to carry it off. Casual prevarication to smooth over troubled waters was more in her line. But Deborah was hopeless at this particular form of conversational legerdemain.

The rest of the party was saved from having to embellish upon Deborah’s story by the entrance of Peter Lynley. His feet bare and a clean gauze shirt his only bow to dressing for dinner, he was trailed by Sasha whose glaucous-hued dress made her complexion seem more sallow than ever. As if she would speak to them or attempt to intercede in what she saw as a coming conflict, Lady Asherton started to walk in their direction.

Peter gave no indication that he saw his mother or anyone else. He merely wiped his nose on the back of his hand and went to the drinks tray. He poured himself a whisky, which he gulped down quickly, then poured himself another and Sasha some of the same.

They stood, an isolated little unit apart from the others, with the spirit decanters within easy reach. As she took a sip of her drink, Sasha slipped her hand under Peter’s loose shirt and pulled him towards her.

“Nice stuff, Sash,” Peter murmured and kissed her.

Lynley set his glass down. Lady Asherton spoke quickly. “I saw Nancy Cambrey on the grounds this afternoon, Tommy. I’m rather concerned about her. She’s lost a great deal of weight. Did you happen to see her?”

“I saw her.” Lynley watched his brother and Sasha. His face was unreadable.

“She seems terribly worried about something. I think it’s to do with Mick. He’s working on a story that’s taken him away from home so much these last few months. Did she talk to you about it?”

“We talked.”

“And did she mention a story, Tommy? Because—”

“She mentioned it. Yes.”

Lady Helen attacked the issue of diversion from a new angle. “What a lovely dress that is, Sasha. I envy your ability to wear those wonderful Indian prints. I look like a cross between Jemima Puddleduck and a charwoman whenever I try them. Did Mark Penellin find the two of you? Simon and I saw him in the woods seeking you out.”

“Mark Penellin?” Peter reached out to caress a length of Sasha’s thin hair. “No, we never saw him.”

In some confusion, Lady Helen looked towards St. James. “But we saw him. He didn’t find you in the cove? This afternoon?”

Peter smiled a lazy, satisfied smile. “We weren’t in the cove this afternoon.”

“You weren’t…”

“I mean, I suppose we were, but we weren’t. So if he wanted to find us, he would have seen us but not seen us. Or maybe it was after we went in the water. And then he wouldn’t have seen us at all. Not where we were. And I don’t think I’d have wanted him to. What about you, Sash?”

He chuckled and traced the bridge of Sasha’s nose. He ran his fingers across her mouth. Catlike, she licked them.

Wonderful, St. James thought. It’s only Friday.