A Suitable Vengeance

Which is why he’d come to Howenstow in the first place, a man only thirty years old, called upon as an act of desperation to see to the dying earl. It was hopeless. He’d explained in that earnest fashion of his that there was nothing more to be done besides adhering to the current chemotherapy. There was no cure in spite of what they read and wanted to believe in the tabloids, he said there were dozens of different kinds of cancer, it was a catch-all term. The body was dying of its own inability to call a halt to the production of cells, and scientists didn’t know enough, that they were working and striving but it would be years, decades…He spoke with quiet apologies. With profound understanding and compassion.

And so the earl had lingered and dwindled and suffered and died. The family had mourned him. The region had mourned him. Everyone save Roderick Trenarrow.





CHAPTER 9


Nancy Cambrey packed the last of the pint glasses into a carton for the short trip down the hill to the Anchor and Rose. She was extremely weary. In order to be at the school in time to do the setting up that evening, she’d gone without her dinner, so she was feeling light-headed as well. She crisscrossed the carton flaps and secured the package, relieved that the evening’s labour was done.

Nearby, her employer—the formidable Mrs. Swann—fingered through the night’s taking with her usual passion for things pecuniary. Her lips moved soundlessly as she counted the coins and notes, jotting figures into her dog-eared red ledger. She nodded in satisfaction. The booth had done well.

“I’m off then,” Nancy said with some hesitation. She never knew exactly what kind of reaction to expect from Mrs. Swann, who was notorious for her mood swings. No barmaid had ever lasted more than seven months in her employ. Nancy was determined to be the first. Money’s the point, she whispered inwardly whenever she found herself on the receiving end of one of Mrs. Swann’s violent outbursts. You can bear anything, so long as you’re paid.

“Fine, Nance,” Mrs. Swann muttered with a wave of her hand. “Off with you, then.”

“Sorry about the call box.”

The woman snorted and poked at her scalp with the stub of a pencil. “From now on, phone your dad on your own time, girl. Not on the pub’s time. And not on mine.”

“Yes. I will. I’ll remember.” Placation was paramount. Nancy held tightly to the booth in order to manage unruffling Mrs. Swann’s feathers while betraying nothing of the aversion she actually felt for her employer. “I learn quick, Mrs. Swann. You’ll see. People never do have to tell me anything twice.”

Mrs. Swann looked up sharply. Her rat’s eyes glittered in evaluation. “Learning things quick enough from that man of yours, girl? All sorts of new things, I expect. That right?”

Nancy rubbed at a smudge on her faded pink blouse. “I’m off,” she said in answer and ducked under the booth.

Although the lights were still on, the yard was empty of everyone save Lynley’s party and the Nanrunnel Players. Nancy watched them at the front of the theatre. While St. James and Lady Helen waited among the empty seats, Lynley posed with the cast as his fiancée took their pictures. Each flash lit one delighted face after another, catching their antic posturing on film. Lynley bore it all with his usual good grace, chatting away with the rector and his wife, laughing at cheerful remarks made by Lady Helen Clyde.

Life comes so easily to him, Nancy thought.

“It’s no different, my dear, being one of them. It only looks that way.”

Nancy started at the words, at their stabbing acuity. She whirled to see Dr. Trenarrow sitting in the shadows, against a wall of the school yard.

Nancy had avoided him for the entire evening, always keeping out of his reach or his line of vision when he came to the booth for a drink. Now, however, she could not avoid the contact, for he got to his feet and walked into the light.

“You’re worried about the cottage,” he said. “Don’t. I shan’t be putting you out on the street. We’ll work things out, Mick and I.”

She felt sweat break out on the back of her neck in spite of his gentle declaration. It was the nightmare she feared, coming face to face with him, having to discuss the situation, having to create excuses. Worse, just ten feet away, Mrs. Swann had raised her head from the money box, her interest no doubt piqued by the mention of Mick’s name.

“I’ll have the money,” she stammered. “I’ll get it. I will.”

“You’re not to worry, Nancy,” Trenarrow said, more insistently. “And you’ve no need at all to go begging Lord Asherton for help. You should have spoken to me.”

“No. You see…” She couldn’t explain without giving offence. He would not understand why she could go hat in hand to Lynley but not to him. He wouldn’t realise that a loan from Lynley carried no burden of unwelcome charity because he gave without judgement, in friendship and concern. And nowhere else in Nancy’s life could she expect that sort of help without a companion assessment of the failure of her marriage. Even now she could feel the manner in which Dr. Trenarrow was evaluating her situation. Even now she could sense his pity.

“Because a rise in the rent isn’t—”