A Suitable Vengeance

“One gets more experienced with the Nanrunnel productions every summer,” Trenarrow went on. “I expect the rest of the audience will try sitting with me at the back next year. Eventually no one will be willing to fill up the front seats and Mrs. Sweeney will be forced to put on her play from inside the refreshment booth just to hold our attention.”


The others laughed. Lynley did not. Instead he found himself annoyed at their willingness to succumb to Trenarrow, and he scrutinised the other man, as if an analysis of his physical properties would somehow reveal the source of his charm. As always, Lynley noticed not the whole but the details. Rich brown hair finally showing the signs of his age, weaving fine strands of silver back from his brow; a linen suit that was old but well-tailored, spotlessly clean and fitted to his figure; a jawline sharp and hard, carrying no spare flesh in spite of the fact that he was nearing fifty; warm laughter bursting out of him unrestrained; the webbing of flesh at his eyes; and the eyes themselves which were dark and quick to assess and understand.

Lynley catalogued all this with no system for observation, just a series of fleeting impressions. There was no way to avoid them, not with Trenarrow so close, standing—as he always had—so much larger than life.

“I see Nancy Cambrey’s gone to work at the Anchor and Rose in addition to her other jobs,” Lynley said to Trenarrow.

The other man looked over his shoulder to the refreshment booth. “It looks that way. I’m surprised she’d take it on with the baby and all. It can’t be easy for her.”

“It’ll do something to ease their money troubles, though, won’t it?” Lynley took a gulp of his lager. It was too warm for his liking and he would have preferred to dump it out onto the base of a convenient palm nearby. But Trenarrow would have read animosity in that action, so he continued sipping the drink. “Look, Roderick,” he said brusquely, “I’m going to make good whatever money they owe you.”

Both the statement and his manner of saying it put an end to conversation among the others. Lynley became aware of Lady Helen’s hand coming to rest on St. James’ arm, of Deborah’s uneasy stirring at his own side, of Trenarrow’s look of perplexity as if he hadn’t an idea in the world what Lynley was referring to.

“Make good the money?” Trenarrow repeated.

“I’m not about to let Nancy go begging. They can’t afford a rise in rent at the moment and—”

“Rent?”

Lynley found his gentle repetitions aggravating. Trenarrow was manoeuvring him into the bully’s role. “She’s afraid of losing Gull Cottage. I told her I’d make good the money. Now I’m telling you.”

“The cottage. I see.” Trenarrow lifted his drink slowly and observed Lynley over the rim of the glass. He gazed reflectively at the drinks booth. “Nancy doesn’t need to worry about the cottage. Mick and I shall work it out. She needn’t have bothered you for the money.”

How absolutely like the man, Lynley thought. How insufferably noble he was. How far-sighted as well. He knew what he was doing. The entire conversation was the sort of parry and thrust that they had engaged in innumerable times over the years, filled with double-edged words and hidden meanings.

“I said I’d take care of it and I will.” Lynley attempted to alter the tone if not the intention behind his words. “There’s absolutely no need for you to—”

“Suffer?” Trenarrow regarded Lynley evenly for a moment before he offered a cool smile. He finished the rest of his drink. “How very kind of you. If you’ll excuse me now, I seem to have been dominating your time long enough. There appear to be others here who’d like to be introduced.” He nodded and left them.

Lynley watched him go, recognising as always Trenarrow’s skill at seizing the moment. He’d done it again, leaving Lynley feeling like nothing more than a rough-edged lout. He was seventeen again. Over and over in Trenarrow’s presence, he would always be seventeen.

Lady Helen’s animated words filled the void created by Trenarrow’s departure. “Good heavens, what a gorgeous man he is, Tommy. Did you say he’s a doctor? Every woman in the village must line up at his surgery on a daily basis.”

“He’s not that kind of doctor,” Lynley replied automatically. He poured out the rest of his lager along the trunk of a palm and watched the liquid pool onto the dry, unyielding earth. “He does medical research in Penzance.”