A Suitable Vengeance

St. James watched as Lynley joined him and inspected these items, his features becoming more settled as he reached his own inescapable conclusion.

“Mick’s been here more recently than last April, Tommy,” St. James said. “And I dare say his visits had nothing to do with the Spokesman.” He touched the postage scale lightly, watched the movement of the arrow that indicated weight. “Perhaps we have a better idea why he died.”

Lynley shook his head. His voice was dark. “This isn’t Mick,” he said.





CHAPTER 13


At half past seven that evening, St. James knocked on Deborah’s bedroom door and entered to find her stepping back from the dressing table, her forehead wrinkled as she studied her appearance.

“Well,” she said doubtfully, “I don’t know.” She touched the necklace at her throat—a double strand of pearls—and her hand fell to the neckline of her dress where she fingered the material experimentally. It appeared to be silk, and its colour was an odd combination of grey and green, like the ocean on an overcast day. Her hair and skin were a contrast to this, and the result was more striking than she appeared to realise.

“A success,” St. James said.

She smiled at his reflection in the mirror. “Lord, I’m nervous. I keep telling myself that it’s only a small dinner party with Tommy’s family and a few of their friends. I keep telling myself that it doesn’t matter in the least. But then I have visions of fumbling round with all this silverware. Simon, why on earth does it always come down to silverware?”

“The worst nightmare of a genteel society: Which fork do I use when I eat the shrimp? The rest of life’s problems seem inconsequential by comparison.”

“What shall I say to these people? Tommy did tell me there’d be a dinner tonight, but at the time I didn’t think much about it. If I were only like Helen, I could chat amusingly about a thousand and one different topics. I could talk to anyone. It wouldn’t even matter. But I’m not like Helen. Oh, I wish I were. Just for tonight. Perhaps she can pretend to be me and I can fade into the woodwork.”

“Hardly a plan to please Tommy.”

“I’ve managed to convince myself that I’ll trip on the stairs or spill a glass of wine down the front of my dress or get caught on the tablecloth and pull off half the dishes when I get out of my chair. Last night I had a nightmare that my face had broken out in blisters and hives and people were saying, ‘This is the fiancée?’ in funereal tones all round me.”

St. James laughed at that and joined her at the dressing table where he peered into the mirror and studied her face. “Not a blister anywhere. Not a hive in sight. As to those freckles, however…”

She laughed as well, such a pure sound, such a pleasure. It shot him back through time to memory. He stepped away.

“I’ve managed…” He reached in his jacket pocket for the photograph of Mick Cambrey which he handed to her. “If you’ll have a look at him.”

She did so, carrying the picture to the light. It was a moment before she answered.

“It’s the same man.”

“Are you certain?”

“Fairly. May I take this with me and show it to Tina?”

He thought about this. Last night it had seemed an innocent plan to have Deborah verify Mick Cambrey’s presence in London through the simple expedient of having Tina Cogin identify his photograph. But after today’s conversation with Harry Cambrey, after seeing the cryptographic paper from the Talisman Cafe, after considering the potential motives behind the crime and how Tina Cogin fit into any or all of them, he was not so sure about the role Deborah could play—or any role he wanted her to play—in investigating the crime and contacting those most closely caught up in it. Deborah seemed to sense his hesitation and presented him with a fait accompli.

“I’ve spoken to Tommy about it,” she said. “To Helen as well. We thought we’d take the train up in the morning—Helen and I—and go directly to the flat. So we should know something more about Mick Cambrey by the afternoon. Surely that shall be of help.”