A Suitable Vengeance

“Graphs and charts as well, I recall. I never had to feel contrite about the jumble of photographs I shed all over the house while you were in the lab, throwing darts at your own jumble in sheer frustration.”


“It was a scalpel, actually,” St. James said.

They laughed together, but it was only an instant of shared amusement from which silence grew, first on his part then on hers. In it the sound of a clock’s ticking seemed inordinately loud, as did the distant breaking of the sea.

“I’d no idea Helen’s been working with you in the lab,” Deborah said. “Dad never mentioned it in any of his letters. Isn’t that odd? Sidney told me this afternoon. She’s so good at everything, isn’t she? Even at the cottage. There I was, standing there like an idiot while Nancy fell apart and that poor baby screamed. With Helen all the time knowing just what to do.”

“Yes,” St. James replied. “She’s very helpful.”

Deborah said nothing else. He willed her to leave. He added more notations to the paper on the desk. He frowned at it, read it, pretended to study it. And then, when it could no longer be avoided, when to do so would openly declare him the craven he pretended not to be, he finally looked up.

It was the diffusion of light in the alcove that defeated him. In it, her eyes became darker and more luminescent. Her skin looked softer, her lips fuller. She was far too close to him, and he knew in an instant that his choices were plain: He could leave the room or take her into his arms. There was no middle ground. There never would be. And it was sheer delusion to believe a time might come when he would ever be safe from what he felt when he was with her. He gathered up his papers, murmured a conventional good night, and started to leave.

He was halfway across the drawing room when she spoke.

“Simon, I’ve seen that man.”

He turned, perplexed. She went on.

“That man tonight. Mick Cambrey. I’ve seen him. That’s what I’d come to tell Tommy.”

He walked back to her, placed his papers on the desk. “Where?”

“I’m not entirely sure if he is the same man. There’s a wedding picture of him and Nancy in their bedroom. I saw it when I took the baby up, and I’m almost certain he’s the same man I saw coming out of the flat next to mine this morning—I suppose yesterday morning now—in London. I didn’t want to say anything earlier because of Nancy.” Deborah fingered her hair. “Well, I waited to say something because the flat next to mine belongs to a woman. Tina Cogin. And she seems to be…of course, I couldn’t say for certain, but from the way she talks and dresses and makes allusions to her experiences with men…. The impression I got…”

“She’s a prostitute?”

Deborah told the story quickly: how Tina Cogin had overheard their row in London; how she had appeared with a drink for Deborah, one that she herself claimed to use after her sexual encounters with men. “But I didn’t have a chance to talk to her much because Sidney arrived and Tina left.”

“What about Cambrey?”

“It was the glass. I still had Tina’s glass and I hadn’t thought about returning it till this morning.”

She’d seen Cambrey as she approached Tina’s door, Deborah explained. He came out of the flat, and realising that she was actually in the presence of one of Tina’s “clients,” Deborah hesitated, unsure whether to give the glass over to the man and ask him to return it to Tina, whether to walk on by and pretend she didn’t notice him, whether to return to her own flat without a word. He had made the decision for her by saying good morning.

“He wasn’t embarrassed at all,” Deborah said ingenuously.

St. James reflected upon the fact that men are rarely embarrassed about their part in a sexual liaison, but he didn’t comment. “Did you talk to him?”

“I just asked him to give the glass to Tina and to tell her I was off to Cornwall. He asked should he fetch her, but I said no. I didn’t actually want to see her with him. It did seem so awkward, Simon. I wondered would he put his arm round her or kiss her goodbye? Would they shake hands?” Deborah shot him a fleeting smile. “I don’t handle that sort of thing well, do I? Anyway, he went back into the flat.”

“Was the door unlocked?”

Deborah glanced away, her expression thoughtful. “No, he had a key.”